The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  Clay turns and walks toward me, reaching for my hand. I slip my fingers into his. I love the feel of his calloused palm in mine. But his eyes are so anguished. Will I be able to forgive him if he chooses his mother? I chose mine. I feel like I’m swallowing a throat full of cotton as I think about what I’ve set into motion.

  “Riley,” he says, leaning in until I can smell his aftershave, “could you be happy here? Your family would be here.”

  Dr. Vandewater leans over his shoulder. “We could even bring your Auntie in. She’d make an excellent nanny.”

  He ignores her and stares into my eyes. Emotions zap through me like lightning. I don’t want to be a prisoner here, but what’s the alternative? Death? Being put back in Plan B? And if it will keep Mama and Ethan safe and give Clay what he wants? I can give up my freedom for them. A tear wells in my eye, blurring Clay’s features for a moment. Can’t I?

  I try a smile. “If they were safe and you were happy, I’d be happy.”

  He steps closer. My eyes trace over the hollow at his throat, the stubble on his chin. “You’d do that for them?” He cups his hand on my cheek. “For me?”

  A tear traces down my nose as I rest my cheek in his palm. “All I really wanted,” I say looking deep into his eyes, “was to be with the people I love.”

  He pulls me to his chest and wraps his arms around me. I throw my arms around his shoulders and press into the warmth of his chest. His heart thuds against mine. I have wanted this so long. Now it’s so bittersweet.

  His arms drop from around me as he twirls around.

  His guns are silver blurs. Before anyone can move, Clay points both revolvers at his parents. Clay’s blue eyes narrow. All emotion is gone. Only the gunslinger remains. “We all walk or none do. Your deal may sound sweet as candy, lady, but I’ve made deals with your kind before. They turn sour real quick.”

  His mother steps toward him. “Clay, I—”

  He gives her a hard look. “You may a birthed me, but you weren’t never a mother to me. No sense in starting now.”

  Dr. Vandewater starts a shrill protest, but the Sheriff’s chuckle cuts in. His belly shakes as he strides around the doctor and stands in front of Clay.

  “You was never a one to make a good choice, was ya, boy? Shoulda taken your ma’s deal. My deal won’t be so sweet.” His nasty grin widens to reveal missing teeth. “Not sweet at all.”

  Clay doesn’t waiver. “One more step and you’ll be leakin’. I ain’t afraid of you no more, pa.”

  The Sheriff grins and clomps forward. “You don’t really think I’d leave bullets in them shooters, do ya?”

  Confusion darkens Clay’s face. He looks at his guns. “You’re bluffing.”

  The Sheriff laughs, his belly jiggling. “I’ll just give you a minute to check.”

  “Marlin, stop it,” Dr. Vandewater says shrilly.

  “Shut up, woman,” the Sheriff snaps, pointing a finger at her. “I did what you said and look where it got us. Now we do this my way. He’s grown too big fer his britches and I’m ’bout to shrink him down.” The Sheriff takes another big step forward.

  Clay holsters his guns and steps in front of me. He juts his chin, his fists tightening at his sides. “I don’t need guns to take you on, old man.”

  The Sheriff cackles again. He brings his fists up to his chin. “Try me, boy.”

  At first, they circle around, fists up, eyes cold. I grab Ethan and Betsy and take a step back.

  Dr. Vandewater claws the Sheriff’s arm as he steps past her. “Boys, that is enough!”

  The Sheriff shrugs her off, never taking his eyes from Clay.

  “Throw the first punch, Pa.” Clay waves him forward with four fingers of his raised hand. “Or you afraid to get knocked ass-over-tea-kettle by your boy.”

  The Sheriff snorts and takes a practiced jab at Clay. “‘Fraid of a little pisser like you? You think you’re an awful big bug, huh. Well, let’s see.”

  The Sheriff steps forward and throws a solid right cross. His meaty arm snaps out as the blow grazes off the side of Clay’s head. Clay bobs back, shuffles around and jabs twice into the Sheriff’s ribs. There’s a dull crunch. The Sheriff hunches, moaning. He stumbles back, rubs his ribs. Then he straightens and chuckles darkly.

  “Big bug, alright. Who taught you to box, boy?”

  Clay narrows his eyes, his fists hovering in front of his chin. “You did.”

  “That’s right.” The Sheriff charges, arms spread wide and tackles Clay around the waist. Clay folds as his wind is knocked away. Their boots scrape on the floor as they struggle and stagger around, a raging monster with four legs. The Sheriff locks his hands around Clay’s chest and squeezes. Clay gasps for air, clawing at the Sheriff’s arms, trying to wrench free. Pow pow. The Sheriff lands two punches into Clay’s kidneys. Clay’s head drops forward like a broken doll’s.

  “Stop!” I step forward. Ethan tugs me back and shakes his head. I stand stiffly, my hands clenched at my sides.

  Clay’s up and scrambling. Slowly he wiggles out of the Sheriff’s straining fingers and then he pushes his father off. Both men stagger back. They puff and spit. Is it over?

  The Sheriff digs into his pocket for something, his eyes dark. Clay’s face drops in alarm as if he knows what the Sheriff will pull out. He runs, winds up and smashes his fist into the Sheriff’s jaw.

  There’s a snap as teeth shatter. A crack as the Sheriff’s head jerks back. A trail of blood arches from his mouth and the splatters on the floor. The Sheriff’s legs unhinge. He goes down on the tile like a sack of bones.

  I stare at the Sheriff slumped on the ground. Clay pants hard, his fists now at his sides. His knuckles are bleeding, his jaw swelling. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and takes big breaths.

  Slowly the Sheriff props himself up on his elbows and shakes his head drunkenly.

  Clay stands over him, panting. “You done, old man?”

  There’s a long pause. Slowly the Sheriff pushes himself onto his feet and licks blood from the corner of his mouth. As his grimace turns into a sneer, his hand digs into his pocket. This time Clay’s too slow to stop him. He draws out a slim black pipe like a narrow flashlight. What’s he doing?

  “No,” he says, popping his spine into place. “Not done.”

  The Sheriff snaps his wrist. Smaller sections slide out of the handle until the Sheriff’s holding a two-foot baton, shiny and lethal.

  Dr. Vandewater screams, “Marlin, stop!”

  He draws it back and smashes it into Clay’s knee.

  The crack is sickening, like snapping a dry tree branch. Clay screams and tumbles onto the tile, reaching for his smashed kneecap.

  “No!” That’s it. I’m not watching anymore. I run forward.

  The Sheriff raises the baton.

  I spring on the Sheriff and claw for the baton. He shrugs me off. I stumble back and he turns. His smile’s gone, replaced by one of the angriest sneers I’ve ever seen. I grab again for the baton, my fingers slipping over the smooth surface. The Sheriff swings his free hand. There’s a blur in my periphery and then his fist cracks into my cheekbone.

  There’s an awful pop deep in my head. Stars explode across my vision. Then I’m falling. Falling. Falling.

  Next thing I know I’m face down on the tile. Heat spreads across my cheek. I can’t focus my eyes. Someone’s crying. The Sheriff’s face bobs before me. My eyes lock on the puckered C-shaped scar that keeps dancing in front of my eyes.

  “No meddlesome piece of trash tells me what to do.”

  The pain throbs through my cheek, but I glare into the Sheriff’s eyes. “Looks like a woman’s been telling you what to do all along.”

  The Sheriff raises the baton. He’ll crack my skull with it. I try to cover my head with my hands.

  Nothing. No blow. Just some grunting, like someone’s struggling. I look up.

  Clay and the Sheriff struggle over the baton. Clay’s fingers grip the end. The Sheriff yanks on the handle.
Clay spins and suddenly he’s at his father’s side. He draws a revolver from his father’s holster. There’s familiar click of the safety as Clay thumbs it down.

  “Knock it off or I’ll shoot.” Clay digs his father’s revolver into his back.

  The nasty smile creeps slowly over the Sheriff’s face. He turns around, his hands up. “You won’t shoot yer pa.” He reaches for the revolver.

  When the gun explodes, I don’t know who’s more surprised, me or the Sheriff staring at the bloody hole in his chest.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “That is enough!” a voice screams from behind us.

  I blink and see Dr. Vandewater striding to the doors. “Get out of the way, you idiot!” she says as she pushes past Dr. Rayburn. The doors slide open.

  The Sheriff staggers back. He pokes one fat finger at the three-inch hole in his shirt. The wound beneath is ragged, red and pulsing blood. “Nessa.” He looks at her pleadingly. “Help.”

  She gives him a cold stare. “You made your own bed, Marlin.” Then she stomps out the door, Rayburn scuttling in her wake.

  The room is still. Then both Betsy and Ethan erupt in chatter that I can’t hear since there’s a buzzing in my ears, but I’m striding to Clay and putting my hands on him before I realize it. He shivers a little as if coming out of a dream and blinks at me.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He looks at me, his face drained of color. He limps to face me and puts his hand delicately on my bruised cheek. “You?”

  I nod, ignoring the pain flaring in my cheek and the dull ringing in my ears. Our eyes flick back to the Sheriff who staggers back to the wall and slumps against it. One hand leaves a red smear against the white paint. The man who used to terrify me looks small and helpless as he stares at his bloody hand in amazement. His shirt is sticky red. Blood puddles on the floor around him.

  “Boy,” he says, his voice trembling. “Help … me.” He reaches his hand out.

  Clay drops his father’s revolvers into his holsters as if they weigh a hundred pounds. He stares at the hole he’s made in his father’s chest. “She can save you.”

  The Sheriff shakes his head. A trail of blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, down his neck and spreads into the collar of his shirt. He slumps to a sitting position with his back against the wall. “Your ma …” he draws a gurgling breath, “is a spiteful bitch. You … gotta help me.”

  Clay opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. When he forces words out, his voice is flat. “That’s done. I can’t help you no more.”

  Clay reaches for me. I take his hand and lace our fingers together. We watch the Sheriff take a few straggling breaths. Finally, Clay speaks, soft and low. “I been standin’ here trying to think of what to say before ya die. Most would tell their pa they loved ’em, but I just can’t. Would be a lie and I can’t lie with you like this.” He gestures to his father’s slumped body. “Best I can say is thanks for not throwing me to the coyotes when you found out I was a boy. Other than that, well …” He sniffs. “Not much else I can thank you for.”

  The Sheriff’s head bobs up and down. He forces his head up and looks into Clay’s eyes. “I gave you everythin’.”

  Clay shakes his head. He squats down on his haunches. His hands tremble as he grasps his knees. “You used me for your own gain. That’s all you ever did, Pa. Use people. And you taught me to use people. I’ve been trying to unlearn that lesson for a while.”

  “I …” The Sheriff’s voice is thick with fluid. Blood pools at the corners of his mouth. His breathing sounds like a clogged pipe.

  Clay shakes his head. Tears wet the corners of his eyes. “It’s done, Pa. Let it go.”

  The Sheriff keeps his eyes locked on Clay. His mouth forms words, but no sound follows. He gurgles a few times, more blood spilling from his mouth and pooling under this chin. A couple of wet breaths and then his head rolls to his chest.

  Clay crouches, letting his lean shadow cover his father’s body like a shroud. Finally, he puts his palm softly on his father’s chest just above where the gunshot wound still dribbles blood. Then he stands up and wipes his hands on his jeans.

  I can’t believe the Sheriff is dead. I want to comfort Clay, tell him it’ll be all right, but my throat is dry. I reach my hand out. Clay takes my hand and pulls me away. “Come on,” he says. “We gotta go.”

  Clay leads me to Mama’s bed. I help him push it to the door. The bed’s bulky, but with all those cords and wires I don’t want to risk unhooking her. Betsy and Ethan gather beside us. I put my hand on Betsy’s arm. “What’re you going to do? Go or stay?”

  She gives a little frown but then plasters on her chipper smile. “Course I’m going, puddin’ head. Can’t really stay here now, can I?” Her curls bob back and forth lightly.

  By helping me, she cut herself off from this life forever. I owe her big time. I give her hand a pat. “Glad you’re coming.”

  “Let’s save the happy reunion for later,” Clay says, drawing his father’s revolvers. He hands me one of his father’s guns. “You can shoot?”

  I nod, looking over the revolver.

  “Good,” he says. He holds up a box of shells he’s dug out of his father’s pants pockets and starts loading his two guns.

  The four of us exchange our last looks. Ethan puts his hand on my arm. “Let’s get the hell out of dodge,” he says. It’s a perfect imitation of my stepfather. I almost smile. We walk to the door and it slides open.

  I’m the first to step into the hallway. I skid to a stop. The hospital bed crashes into my back. Ten yards down the hall, Dr. Vandewater stands with her arms folded across her chest. Her long red fingernails look like bloody talons. Behind her, guards line the corridor, guns slung across their arms, bullet-proof vests strapped on their chests. My mouth drops open. Betsy lets out a little squeal.

  “No more deals,” the doctor says, her face a cold emotionless mask. “Come with me, Clay, or die with them. You have one minute to decide.”

  I stare for a moment, unable to move. This? This is what we’ve come down to?

  Clay turns and pushes us back into the room. We fall in. Ethan’s hand gropes for mine. Silent tears trace Betsy’s face. My eyes flick from the open doorway to Clay’s face. He stares back in shock.

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  Clay looks to the door, then back at me. He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t … I don’t know.”

  A sob breaks from Betsy. Ethan’s whole body begins to tremble. I pull him to me. I squeeze him hard, trying to hold back my own tears.

  “This is all my fault,” I say, pressing my face into Ethan’s hair. “We can’t go against that many guards. We’re done.” My eyes flick up to Clay’s stunned face. “I should’ve listened when you said not to be reckless. I had to run here with no thought, no plan.” I wrap my arms around Ethan. My hand finds my mother’s arm on the bed. “It’s all my fault.”

  Clay grabs me by the shoulders. I press my face into his chest, my angry tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt. Is this my last moment with him? I try to memorize the smell of his neck, the flex of his arms, the touch of his hand on my cheek. This can’t be the end. He lifts my face to his. His sky blue eyes stare deep into my own.

  “No,” he whispers, brushing his fingers against my cheek, “you were right. Sometimes you have to be reckless for someone you love.”

  He draws me to him, his lips pressing into mine, first soft, then harder. Passion rips through me, heating up my chest, my arms, my hands. I fold into him, drinking up this moment of sweetness. Our first kiss. Our last.

  When he pulls away, I’m light-headed and breathless. “Clay.”

  He gives me one more longing look. Then he draws his gun, strides through the doorway and opens fire.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “No!” I shout.

  My voice is drowned out by the rattle of gunfire.

  In the hallway bullets ping off the walls, lights shatter. A smoke grenade plinks
off the tile and begins spewing gas into the air. Betsy and Ethan cower. I can’t take my eyes off the spot where Clay was a moment ago. He sacrificed himself for me.

  I can’t let him die.

  I grab his father’s revolver and spin toward Betsy. “Get my mother and Ethan out. Clay and I will cover you.” Her eyes are round, cow-like. I grip her arm hard. “Find a way, Betsy. Tell me you will.”

  She blinks and nods, her curls bobbing slightly. There’s no perky smile now. “Okay,” she says.

  Ethan’s hand snakes around my arm. “No, Riley!” He pulls me away from the door and the gunshots that crackle every few seconds. There’s no time.

  “I love you!” I hoist the revolver and run into the smoke-filled hallway.

  I skid to a stop next to Clay, my eyes burning. He looks at me and frowns, but his attention turns to a bullet cutting through the smoke like an angry hornet. It zings past close enough to blow my hair back. Behind us, a light shatters. I hear the whine of the gurney wheels as Betsy and Ethan push my mother down the hallway.

  Everyone I love is in peril at this moment.

  A guard rushes through the smoke, gray tendrils curling around him. I see the whites of his teeth before the barrel of his gun aims at my chest. Clay fires and the guard staggers into the wall, but not before he gets a shot off. There’s a thunk and a spray of blood from Clay’s thigh. He lets out a snarl of pain, but aims and drops the guard with a bullet to the brain. Clumps of red and gray splatter the pristine hospital walls.

  A moment of silence. My eyes are streaming, but I lock them forward and peer into the smoke. Beside me, Clay’s fingers fly as he reloads. The silver chamber spins as the bullets drop in with quiet clicks.

  Fifteen feet away, a face appears from behind a doorway, then a gun. A guard rattles off a few wild shots. I duck. Plaster sprays into my already streaming eyes, patters against my face. Clay stands stock-still, raises his gun and fires. His bullet buries itself into the guard’s shoulder. He disappears, screaming.