by Pam Godwin
All I can do is watch. I endure every cheated moment with her, but I can’t feel her pain. Not the physical agony. I can’t take that from her. Can’t protect her from it. And I’ll never be able to return the glow of innocence to her heart. It’s been permanently stolen from her, from all four of us.
But we’re still alive. If Jarret cuts through that damn rope, we’ll stay that way.
Both shotguns lean against the rock wall. I trust Lorne to go for them the moment he’s free. The men are too preoccupied with Conor to pay us any attention. One paces a circle around her. The other groans and bucks against her bleeding backside. But I don’t look at them.
I stare directly at her. Not at her nude body or the knot around her wrists or the gag in her mouth. I stare at her eyes. I stare so hard she finally senses me, stirring just enough to lift her lashes and find me across the ravine.
I harden my expression with the words I can’t voice.
I have you.
You’re my girl.
I’m sorry I restrained you.
I’m sorry I can’t take your pain.
You’ll survive this.
That works for a while. The furrows of agony on her face smooth beneath the sheen of love in her eyes. But eventually, the cruelty pushes its way in, suffocating the space between us with an ugly truth.
I don’t know how we’ll come back from this. It’s worse than the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Worse than the stillbirth from our prize-winning cow. Worse than the fire that destroyed our thirty-stall mare barn. Worse than the rattlesnake bite that almost killed me. Maybe worse than the car accident that took our mothers. But none of us remember that.
Each second that passes leaves an immutable, catastrophic mark. Every thrust into her precious body baptizes my soul in darkness. I feel it slithering in, the oily, toxic, oppressive tendrils of rancor. It hooks malignant roots into muscle and bone, claims blood cells, and rewires neurons.
I won’t walk away from this the same.
But I will walk away, directly onto a warpath. I’ll take whatever road that leads to vengeance and bloodshed. Fuck the law. These fucking bastards stole something from me. Something priceless and dear. They hurt my girl from the inside out, extinguished her glow, and made her bleed.
They’ll die for that.
At the edge of my vision, the pacing man veers to the creek and takes a leak. As his piss splashes water, a scuffing sound disturbs the ground behind me.
I don’t take my eyes off Conor, but I see it in her face. The spark of alarm. Tension. Hope.
My muscles stiffen, and my lungs swell with readiness as a silhouette blurs past me.
Lorne is on the move.
A firestorm incinerates my guts and burns deep between my legs. Constant pain weakens me beyond exhaustion, and the inconsolable look on Jake’s face shreds my heart. There have been moments, pitch-black tunnels of time, when I was certain I would die.
But not anymore.
Lorne just escaped his restraints.
My pulse explodes as he sprints toward the shotguns with a knife in his hand and determination in his raving, bloodshot eyes.
“Shit!” The man near the creek spins around, yanks up his fly, and gives chase.
Fucking fuck! Run faster, Lorne! Faster! If he reaches those guns first, he’ll slaughter the men who hurt me.
“Get him!” The one on top of me slams to a stop, stretching my bottom with intolerable pressure.
At some point, I shut off the part of my mind attached to what’s happening to me. I’ll have to deal with it eventually, but right now, the instinct to live overrides all emotion.
In a blink, I go from liquid bones to rigid muscle. Pushing down on my elbows, I arch my spine and ram my head back with the last of my strength. I tried this when they first attacked me, but this time my skull connects with cartilage.
He falls back with a yelp, cupping his nose through the mask. The absence of him in my body brings overwhelming relief, but as I move to my knees, the ground shudders.
The blast of a shotgun.
It reverberates through the ravine, and my tormentor collapses beside me. Blood saturates his shirt, spilling from a hole in his chest. Glassy eyes fixate on nothing, unseeing.
Racing footsteps retreat to the trail. The frantic sounds of a monster on the run.
“You’re dead, motherfucker!” Lorne drops his gag and trains the gun after the second man. But he doesn’t fire.
The man’s already out of sight, concealed by the bend in the trail.
I clench my hands around the rope. We don’t carry phones, because there’s no cell service out here. Lorne can either run for help or pursue our attacker.
I know my brother. He won’t chance the man getting away, and he’s a damn good hunter.
As he launches toward the trail, Jake kicks out a leg, shouting behind the gag and bucking against his restraints. I don’t blame him for not wanting to be left behind and tied up. He probably wants to shoot the man himself. But I don’t want that.
I jump into the wordless argument with muffled objections. I can’t bear the thought of either of them running headlong into danger and getting themselves hurt. Or worse.
Lorne glances at me, eyes wild. Then his gaze shifts, sailing over my body. His entire demeanor darkens, stiffens. He goes terrifyingly still.
Knife in one hand and the gun in the other, he drops his head back and unleashes a guttural scream at the sky. The sound of his grief fractures things inside me. I pull my knees to my chest, huddling, hurting, and sparing him the sight of my nudity.
Jake continues to thrash like a feral animal, and Lorne’s head makes a sharp turn. A millisecond of indecision swings his gaze between Jake and the trail.
“Fuck!” He doubles back and crouches between Jake and Jarret. “Stay here and wait for me.” Urgency tightens his posture as he cuts Jake loose and thrusts his chin in my direction. “She needs you.”
He’s going hunting.
I frantically shake my head, yelling against the gag. Don’t do this! Call the cops! Get help!
Dammit, I want that man as dead as the other one, but not at the risk of losing my brother.
He shoots me a look infused with regret. I don’t like it. There’s too much pain aging his eyes. And fury. It seeps in at the edges, black and sour.
Jake yanks away his gag and unties Jarret, shouting at him, “Get the other gun.”
Lorne pivots toward the trail. Then, armed to kill, he takes off and fades into the trees.
With a sinking heart, I let my head fall to the ground and close my eyes. The humid night air wraps me in worry, hanging on the retreating sounds of booted feet, whispering, It’s not over.
That’s when the tremors creep in. Maybe I’ve been shaking the whole time, but now I feel every vicious quake. The stress on my body, the throbbing pain in my gut, the shattering shock of it…
“Shh.” Jake pulls the rag from my mouth and traces my face with trembling fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
I work my jaw and lick cracked lips. “Not your fault.”
“Fuck if it’s not!” Shirtless and breathing hard, he tackles the rope on my wrists. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t say it.” I’m too wrung out for this conversation, but I form the words I need him to hear. “You couldn’t have stopped this. Even if I hadn’t been tied up, I wouldn’t have run. I wouldn’t have left you.”
The severe line of his mouth says he wants to argue, but he remains quiet and rigid, pulling on the knot. When the rope finally falls away, he wrangles his shirt from beneath me and drags it over my head, stretching it to my thighs.
His beautiful face twists with tortured emotion. His eyebrows gather in a sharp V over bleak brown eyes. Blood-wet strands of hair stick to a swollen gash on his forehead.
I reach for the wound. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine.” His voice clips as he catches my arm in a too-tight grip and releases me immediately.
He won’t meet my gaze
and instead focuses on the rope as he twines it into a loop and drapes it over his shoulder. Jarret hovers behind him, holding the shotgun and staring at the trail like he wants to fill it with lead.
I shift to my knees in front of Jake. “Look at me.”
When his lashes lift, he doesn’t just look. He examines every scratch, every smudge, every tear on my face. But he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t regard me with his usual pining affection. I don’t think he can. Every muscle in his torso contracts, and the rapid blinks of his eyes play out violent plans of vengeance. He’s fit to be tied.
He snatches his Stetson, dusts it off, and sets it on his head. “Jarret?”
“I’ll stay with her.” Jarret hands him the gun. “Go.”
“No.” I grab Jake’s free hand.
He pulls away, and rejection smacks my chest.
He must see it on my face, because his eyes soften. His arm hooks behind me and pulls me into a stiff embrace, vibrating with tension.
“Conor…” He touches his lips to my hair, but the rest of him coils tightly, thrumming to make a break for it.
“Stay. Please.”
The cords in his neck stretch taut, and he releases me. “I have to do this.”
He stands, casts a withering glare at the dead body, and bolts toward Barnabe.
I wobble to my feet, aided by Jarret’s grip on my arm. “We don’t know if that man has another gun—”
“He doesn’t.” Jake mounts the saddle, shirtless and rigid as steel with the rope looped around his shoulder.
“What if there are more of them?”
“They were alone when they jumped us.” Jarret snags my shorts from the ground.
“Jake, wait.” I take a step, and a wave of pain stitches through my gut. “Listen to me.”
“She can’t walk and shouldn’t be on her feet,” he says to Jarret, slinging the shotgun across his back. “Take care of her.”
My molars crash together. “It’s not his job to take care of me.”
It’s yours.
Muscles twitch beneath his scowl, telling me he heard the unspoken accusation.
“My job”—his voice erupts in a thunderous roar—“is to make sure that son of a bitch never hurts you again!”
With the squeeze of his legs, he drives Barnabe onto the trail and kicks into a gallop.
“I’m not helpless,” I say quietly, but he’s already gone.
I know he’s not trying to make me feel weak. It’s just the way he is with me. Possessive. Protective. Unbending.
If I was curled up in a ball and bawling my eyes out, then yeah, I wouldn’t be able to walk. Maybe that will come later, when I return to the house, when the cops leave, when I’m in my room, alone with my thoughts.
But I’m not there yet. I’m not ready to examine the heavy thing pressing at the back of my mind. I’m not helpless.
“I don’t know what to do.” Jarret squats at my feet and holds out the shorts, his voice brittle with shock. “Lift your foot.”
“I can do this.” I take the cutoffs and pull them on, flinching at the soreness between my legs. “Wish I would’ve worn a skirt.”
“Conor… I…” He rubs the back of his neck, uncharacteristically awkward and unsure. “We should head to the house.” He glances at the trail and returns to me. “I’ll carry you to the ridge. The horses are—”
“We’re waiting for Jake and Lorne.” My gaze latches onto the dead body, and my stomach roils. “Where did they come from? Who are they?”
“Don’t know.” He bends down and yanks off the mask.
Blond hair, dull blue eyes, and a mid-twenties face, he’s no one I’ve ever seen before.
In our rural town of Sandbank, Oklahoma, population 415, there are no strangers. Everyone knows everyone, up close and personal.
“He’s not from around here.” Jarret drops the mask, covering the disgusting frozen expression. “I thought I caught a northern accent from the other one.”
“Northern? Like Minnesota? Canada?”
“Fuck if I know.”
We’ve never been out of Oklahoma and wouldn’t know the difference between a northern accent and a southern one. Regardless, no one just passes through Sandbank. There are no freeways around here. No attractions. Nothing to see but farmland. An out-of-towner needs a reason to stumble onto our ranch.
“They were going to kill me.” I wrap my arms around my waist. “They…did…” Did things to me. “They…”
A crack runs through the wall around my mind, and my defenses start to crumble.
“Dammit.” A sob climbs up my throat, and I swallow. Swallow again. I can’t fall apart. Not in front of Jarret. He’s already traumatized.
I limp to the other side of the ravine, holding up a hand as he tries to intercept. At the rock wall, I lower to the ground, rest my forehead on my knees, and heed the silence beyond the gurgling creek. Jake and Lorne are out there, chasing down evil when they should be running in the other direction.
“If they kill him…” Panic rises, and I lift my head. “Will they get in trouble?”
“They’ll bring him back here.” Jarret sits beside me and slides his palm beneath mine, weaving our fingers together. “They’ll make it look like self-defense.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do.”
I nod, staring at our laced hands. “This is going to change us.”
“We won’t let it.”
“You believe that?”
“No.” He blows out a breath. “But you’re still my future sister-in-law. Jake’s still my brother. Lorne’s still my best friend.” He wraps an arm around my back, tucking me against his side. “The important stuff won’t change.”
My throat constricts. “Okay.”
“Are you?” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Okay?”
“I don’t think so.”
“God, Conor.” He stares at the body across the ravine, flexing his hand against mine. “What they did to you…”
The muscles between my legs spasm, aggravating the hurt. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I don’t want to think about it or dwell on it or inspect it in any way.
“You’ll have to,” he says softly. “When we get to the house.”
“Yeah.” Torment pushes down my shoulders.
There will be interrogations. Probing, humiliating, personal questions. I don’t want to relive what happened here.
“Did you and Jake…?” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Did we have sex?” My chest aches so badly I can’t look at him. Can’t let him see the devastation in my eyes.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
Since when is any topic off limits? We share everything without embarrassment or discomfort.
Until now.
Things are already changing between us.
“They’ll ask.” My chin quivers. The cops, the doctors, my dad—they’ll ask all the questions. “The answer’s no. Jake and I… We didn’t get that far.”
“Jesus.” He pulls his hand from mine and rubs his face. “Jake is… Fuck, he’s not going to get over that.”
Jake was supposed to be my first. My one and only.
“I know.” More torment. My shoulders weigh a ton with it.
Jarret hugs me tighter, and his hand strokes a restless path up and down my arm. He’s built like Jake, his chest wide and muscled and his jaw a square slab of stone. I love him dearly and am glad he stayed with me. But I need Jake.
The minutes that follow feel like hours, the wait unbearable. Just as I open my mouth to break the silence, the distant boom of a shotgun shivers the air.
Jarret jumps up, wildly scanning the perimeter as he thrusts a finger at me. “Stay there.”
I hug my knees to my chest, too rattled to move. “Which direction?”
Spinning away from the ridge, he faces south. “The back road.” He tilts his head, listening. “Makes sense he would run that way. Th
ey probably left a car there. No one around to see them come and go.”
Who fired the shot? Jake and Lorne both have guns, but so does every man on the ranch.
Something crashes down the trail. I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, pulse racing and palms sweaty. Jarret rushes toward the commotion and stops as Barnabe bursts into the ravine with Jake in the saddle.
He drags a running, stumbling, barefoot man behind him, connected by a rope—one end in Jake’s fist, the other around the man’s neck. A familiar black mask gags the man’s mouth, his hands tied behind his back with shoestrings.
Jake caught him.
And he’s still alive?
I step forward, aching for Jake’s arms around me. “The gunshot?”
“Wasn’t me.” He pulls Barnabe to a halt and dismounts, his eyes ablaze with manic rage.
My limbs shake as I close the distance. “Where’s Lorne?”
“Don’t know.” He grabs the rope and jerks it, causing the man to crash face-first on the ground. “He’s probably on his way back.” As distracted as he is with his prisoner, he takes a second to find and hold my gaze. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Why is he breathing?” Jarret moves in and presses a boot down on the man’s head, pinning him to the dirt.
“I want to kill him slow and painful like.” Jake turns toward the dead body, and his gaze lands on the knife they held against my throat.
No. I can’t let him do this. How would he explain a dismembered body to the cops? And the restraint marks on the wrists? What if they don’t believe his self-defense plea and charge him for murder?
I’m half the distance to the knife and beat him to it. I clutch it, yank it behind my back and out of view. “Just hang on for—”
“Hand it over.” Nostrils flaring, he tries to grab around me.
I spin, dodging him. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“Conor,” he growls in a patronizing tone, clenching his hands at his sides. “Give me the goddamn knife.”
“We need to find Lorne. The gunshot—”
The sound of an approaching horse stomps down the trail. We all turn, fixed on the noise, as Lorne appears in the ravine. His face is white as a sheet, his shoulders stiff and eyes harried.
“What happened?” I run toward him, powering through the pain in my groin as I inspect him for bullet wounds.