South Dakota Showdown (Badlands Cops Series Book 1)

by Nicole Helm

The sounds of the fight had stopped, and Liza knew she had to keep talking, had to keep Claybourne’s attention on her. If Jamison had won, he could surprise-attack Claybourne. If the other guy had won, well, Liza was screwed either way. She couldn’t fight off two men and cart a hurt Jamison off somewhere safe.

  God, he had to be safe.

  “Don’t get yourself too excited. I’ll go with you willingly.”

  Claybourne snorted. “Sure you will.” He pointed the gun at her leg. “Didn’t take too good care of that, did you?”

  “So, you were the bad shot back in Bonesteel.”

  He sneered at the insult. “I shot and hit exactly where I intended.”

  And so will I.

  Peripherally, she saw Jamison edge just barely into the beam of light. He was a few feet behind Claybourne and completely out of sight as long as Claybourne kept his gaze on her.

  Jamison edged in and out of the light and she noted his mouth was bloody and he looked angrier than a taunted mountain lion. She didn’t see the other man, but she didn’t dare take her main gaze away from Claybourne.

  If they acted together, they could maybe bring down Claybourne without making too much noise. He wouldn’t want to shoot and hurt them—though he might shoot just to make enough noise to be detected.

  Liza moved her gaze to the gun he held, then back to Jamison standing in the very corner of where her beam of light reached. She ignored the sharp stab of pain at the stamp of injuries already blooming across his face.

  She moved her gaze to the gun and back to Jamison again, hoping he understood her signal. And Claybourne didn’t.

  “What? You think you can fight me for it, little girl?” Claybourne laughed and both she and Jamison took that as the signal to move. Liza kicked out for the gun and Jamison wrapped something around Claybourne’s face.

  The gun clattered to the ground and whatever piece of cloth Jamison had on Claybourne muffled his screams.

  Liza lunged for the gun, fumbling with it a little bit as she picked it up. She scanned the area, saw the other man tied up with rope Jamison must have gotten out of his pack. He was gagged and completely still. Dead or not, Liza wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.

  “Light, Liza,” Jamison ordered through clenched teeth.

  Liza immediately whipped her head back so the headlamp shone over Jamison and a struggling Claybourne.

  His fighting back was growing weaker as Jamison’s arm held around his neck and choked him.

  “I could shoot him,” Liza said, noting the way blood was dripping from Jamison’s mouth and his temple.

  “And we’d have how many men on our tail immediately?” Jamison returned, his breathing labored as he wrestled Claybourne to the ground. “They’ll be on us soon enough. You should have some rope in your pack. Get it out.”

  Liza did as she was told, and only when she handed it to Jamison did he release his grip from Claybourne’s neck. The man gasped and wriggled, but Jamison kept him in place and quickly hogtied him just as he had the other man.

  Jamison got to his feet, ripped a strip off his already torn sweatshirt and used it to create a gag.

  “You’re hurt,” Liza said lamely as he turned to her.

  “We’ll deal with that later,” he returned, striding quickly to where his pack was lying half-strewed-out by the other man. Quickly and carelessly he shoved the spilled contents back into his pack and shouldered it—as if he wasn’t bleeding all over. He nodded toward where Claybourne had jumped from. “We move. Now.”

  She gave one last look at the men lying and groaning on the rocky ground—then over to where the firelight flickered. She could see shadows, but nothing concrete. Still, when these two didn’t return or respond to the walkie within a certain period of time they’d come looking.

  And they’d know just what happened.

  So, she moved, just as Jamison instructed.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’re still bleeding, Jamison.”

  He was, and his face hurt like hell, thanks to that pissant minion and his penchant for grabbing rocks and smashing them into Jamison’s face. But there was only so much nightfall left.

  “It’ll keep.”

  “Yes, I hear that’s what all doctors say about head injuries. They’ll ‘keep,’ especially if you’re hiking through the dark without any light or bandages.”

  “What do you suggest, Liza? Sit around and rest while you bandage me up as the Sons realize we took out two of their scouts?” He eyed the eastern horizon. There was a faint glow there. Dawn. He sighed. They didn’t have much time. “We need to find a cave.”

  “A cave?”

  Since he knew very well Liza was, or had been, somewhat claustrophobic and no fan of wildlife, he knew why she was questioning him. But that didn’t change their reality. “They’re going to be looking for us come daylight.”

  “Caves are full of bats and mountain lions and bears and snakes.” She made a disgusted noise. “I am not finding a cave.”

  “Well, I am,” he replied, the pulsing pain in his face making him far too irritable to be kind, and threatening to make him far too irritable to think calmly and rationally.

  “This wasn’t the plan,” Liza muttered, trudging behind him. She’d fallen more than once as they’d attempted to hike in the dark without their lamps. Everything was working against them—but he reminded himself they hadn’t been captured by the Sons’ scouts, so it wasn’t the worst that could happen.

  “No. It wasn’t the plan. But plans change.”

  “You’re alarmingly calm about all this. They could be following us. You’re hurt. I’m hurt. They know for a fact we’re out here and probably where we’re going. And you’re just... Plans change.”

  “What would you prefer? Some yelling? A rending of garments? A tantrum?”

  “Actually I would love to see a Jamison Wyatt mantrum. Would make my entire life, I’m almost sure.”

  “Ha ha.” He stumbled a bit on a dip in the ground, swore. He’d just about kill for a break. A nap. And yes, to clean up his bloody and hopefully not broken face. “If either of us are going to get any rest, we need a cave.”

  “So, we’re going to crawl into a cave, risk mountain lion attack, and what?”

  “Take turns sleeping during the day when it’s harder to avoid people seeing us. Eat. Clean me up. Look at the map. Let them scour the whole damn place for us. They aren’t going to find us. If we find a deep enough cave. Then we move again at night. Even if they figure out what we’re doing, it won’t be until it’s too late to find us today.” He hoped.

  “I hate that that’s a good idea,” she muttered. “How are we going to find a cave without our lights?”

  “If we’re in the area I think we’re in, we just have to keep moving due west.”

  “You know where we are?”

  “Hopefully.” He didn’t know if being familiar with this area was lucky or a terrible omen of things to come, but these canyons and caves outside Flynn had been his childhood playground—and hell—all wrapped up into one.

  Dad had considered the age of seven to be a great turning point for a boy, and each passing year more of one. Every summer he’d be left for as many days as years he had been on this earth to toughen him up. Learn to be a man.

  The first summer had been sheer terror and torture, but he’d lasted seven days and earned his father’s praise. There had been something magical in watching Ace Wyatt find pride in him.

  Five years later, when his father had done the same thing to Dev, everything had changed for Jamison.

  He’d known then and there he had to get them out. He’d spent the rest of his childhood doing just that—and surviving every one of his father’s punishments or beatings when one of his brothers disappeared.

  Ace had never given Jamison enough credit to think he orchestrated the escape
s, but he’d blamed Jamison’s lack of courage, strength and attention to detail for them happening. Jamison had always gotten a perverse thrill out of the fact that it was Ace’s lack of attention to detail when it came to his sons that had made each escape possible.

  By the time Jamison had gotten Dev out—the last one—the beating from his father had almost killed him. He knew his father had considered it in that moment.

  Jamison had been resigned to that. He’d saved his brothers, and he could die knowing he’d done all he could. He’d felt a little bad about his friend Liza, but such was life.

  Instead, Ace had pulled back. There’d been something terrible in his gaze in that moment, but he hadn’t explained it. He’d only smiled and left Jamison alone in that cave to deal with his injuries and find his way back to camp.

  Here he was, nearly twenty years later, in slightly better shape—and a man with a gun—looking for that same cave. It all felt a little too circular, but it was the only thing to do.

  So, he kept moving to where he thought the caves from his youth should be. Walking and ignoring all the pain in his body until he saw the first signs of large rock faces they could climb in order to find the caves.

  “We’ll try to go by penlight first. I’m going to look for the cave. You’re going to watch and listen for anyone else.”

  He worked in silence, trusting Liza to keep an eye and ear out for anything that might be a danger to them. It took time, but Liza kept close. A few times she placed a hand on his shoulder and they both paused, listening to the whistling wind as daylight flirted with the horizon.

  Finally, he found one of the caves he’d had in mind. He no longer needed the penlight in the hazy dawn. He nodded toward the opening, watching Liza’s face recoil.

  But her body didn’t.

  “What if something’s inside?”

  Jamison picked up a few rocks from the ground and threw them as far into the cave as he could, even though it made the pain in his arm sing.

  He listened intently for the sounds of life but didn’t hear any. With a shrug, he climbed for the opening. When he reached it, he flipped on his headlamp, which he’d retrieved back when they’d fought off the scouts. Then he unholstered his gun and pulled it into his hand. He used the other hand to give him balance as he began to move inside.

  He used the beam of his lamp to sweep the area, looking for any sign of a serious threat—bones or scat. A few bats fluttered by his head, deeper into the cave, but there was no sign of a big predator that might attack.

  “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this,” Liza chanted, over and over, the farther they crept into the cave. But that was the thing about Liza. She might chant that for the next twenty-four hours straight, but here she was. Doing it anyway.

  “Jamison. They could surround us. They could... There are so many possibilities.”

  “There are, but I have a bit of an ace in the hole, so to speak.” Satisfied they’d moved deep enough into the cave, he eased himself to the rocky ground, grateful for the rest even if it was cold and damp. He pulled the item he’d lifted off the man he’d fought.

  “You have their walkie!” She reached out to grab it, but he kept it out of reach.

  “Palmed it off the guy I fought. We should be able to hear everything they’re doing out there.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now? Why haven’t we been listening to it this whole time?” She hadn’t sat, was stooped over, but still managed to look imperious and demanding, with her hands on her hips in this dim little cave.

  “We couldn’t use it until we were for sure out of hearing range,” he said, rubbing at the ache in his chest that swept over him. An ache that had nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with her.

  Because fifteen years could sweep between them, but it didn’t seem to change this. A wave of affection, mixed with desire and something like awe. He could be mad at her, he could think she’d betrayed him—chosen the Sons over him—but she was still here and standing. Anyone who survived that long in the Sons and still wanted to do something good and right had to be nearly superhuman.

  Thoughts like that would get him into trouble—betrayed again, dead possibly—and yet he was getting worse and worse at fighting them away.

  “We might be out of walkie range,” she said, frowning at the device.

  “We might be, but I doubt the Sons use these if they don’t have good range.” He switched it on. “Here goes nothing.”

  * * *

  LIZA HELD HER BREATH. There was nothing but the low hum of static. She closed her eyes. Worthless.

  But when she opened her eyes, her beam of light shone on Jamison’s battered face. More to worry about in the here and now.

  She dropped her pack and rummaged through it. She pulled out a windbreaker, hoping it was waterproof, and kneeled on it. Then she got out any first aid supplies she could find, along with a bottle of water.

  “Drink that. Don’t waste it on me.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” It was true they didn’t know how long they’d be out here, and water would become a commodity they simply couldn’t take for granted. But neither could infection—and his face was dirty and cut to pieces.

  She found a cotton T-shirt in his pack and ripped it in half before wetting one half to use as a washcloth to clean his face.

  He scowled at her and he didn’t look the same as he had fifteen years ago. He was harder, and not as lean as he’d been at twenty-two. Time and age had packed muscles on. The sun had dug faint lines around his eyes and mouth—just a hint of age.

  She supposed she had a few lines of her own that hadn’t been there when she’d been twenty. She wasn’t as lean, either—but instead of firm muscle, there were spots of softness to her.

  Of course, going hungry more often than not hadn’t exactly packed on the pounds Carlee had always been so worried about.

  Carlee. Just thinking about her hurt. Reminded Liza of the last time she’d seen Gigi.

  Mommy’s gone. The bad men hurt her. She couldn’t see. Her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see.

  Liza blew out a breath and stared at the man before her. He eyed her warily, but there was something more than caution in that gaze. She was reminded of that moment when she’d told him he’d only hate himself.

  Because he might still feel the echoes of those old...emotions between them, but he wasn’t about to wade down that same path. Save her. Love her. Promise to protect her always.

  No, she’d blown that chance to pieces.

  She swallowed at everything that whirled around inside her and leaned forward and began to wash the dirt off his face, trying to be gentle with his injuries. He didn’t hiss out in pain, but she could feel the tension in his body as he fought off those responses to pain.

  Without fully realizing it, she murmured encouraging words as she used the disinfectant in the kit, then bandaged up what cuts she could, touching his rough skin, the bristle of his whiskers, the bridge of his sharp nose she’d always thought was noble.

  When had she ever been foolish enough to think about the shape of someone’s nose and ascribe it to nobility?

  She finished, still studying him. His complexion had grayed, but his eyes were alert and not so wary anymore. No, heat all but cracked from them. An awareness. Because they’d been skin to skin and were too close, breathing too much of the same air.

  Time couldn’t erase what their bodies had once found in each other.

  She tried to remind herself he would have loved other women over the course of fifteen years. Probably forgotten what it was like to press his lips to hers. To fill her with that ridiculous desperation only teenagers ever truly felt. Because even in the harsh world they’d grown up in, they’d still just been teenagers. Hormones and recklessness and a belief—if not in their own immortality—in their ability to outwit and survive
anything thrown at them.

  Because for a few short, sweet years they had survived all this. Escaped and had their whole lives of freedom ahead of them.

  She was older now, had seen too much, lost too much, to have that simple, joyous belief anymore.

  It settled in her, a heavy weight. The loss, not just of him but of that feeling, and all she could do was lean forward and press her forehead to his shoulder.

  When his arm came around her, a silent, strong comfort, she gave in to the sobs she’d been fighting for weeks.

  “Sleep,” he whispered, pulling her head down, until she was somehow cradled in his lap, curled up in a ball. He stroked her hair as her sobs subsided. Dried her cheeks. Exhaustion cloaked her like a blanket and she fell into a deep sleep.

  Where she dreamed of the dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jamison hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he could hardly beat himself up over it. They’d hiked all night and exhaustion could only be fought for so long.

  He opened his eyes, frowning at the fact Liza wasn’t still curled up against him and sleeping as though she felt completely safe with him.

  Something inside him had cracked open into a million pieces or something, and when he’d fallen into a sleep he’d tried to fight off, he’d dreamed of something he couldn’t ever remember dreaming about or even feeling.

  True peace.

  Which was crazy. As long as the Sons existed, and his father was alive, there was no peace to be found. Jamison was practical enough not to believe in perfect worlds where he defeated both.

  But maybe he could defeat one and slow down the other—at best.

  He looked up to find Liza on the other side of the narrow cave not a few feet from him, watching him. All traces of vulnerability were gone and she chewed on a protein bar.

  It irritated him that she’d woken up first and moved off him without him waking up. He should be more in tune with his surroundings. But he couldn’t lean into that anger because they had more important things to deal with.