by Dahlia West
Jack had kept the lamp on in the corner and wasn’t about to extinguish it now. With his luck he’d nod off and she’d bean him over the head with it.
She sat ramrod straight in the center of the bed.
Jack wasn’t sure if her deep intake of breath was her trying to calm down or gearing up to speak. “Shut up,” he snapped, in case it was the latter.
She clamped her lips together tightly.
Minutes ticked past, marked by the pendulum of the clock on the wall. Another flash of lightning hit and the lamp flickered, then went out. The room plunged into darkness.
Erin gasped.
“Christ,” Jack muttered angrily.
The clock on the wall didn’t stop, though. Must’ve been battery powered.
In the dark, Jack could hear her breathing. The competing cadences seemed to make him more tired. Eventually, he heard the creak of the mattress and could make out her shape, leaning cautiously back onto the pillows.
Part of him wished he could share her bed. But he’d had his ass kicked one too many times tonight.
The clock on the wall was like water dripping, a soft heartbeat. Jack fought to keep his eyes open. But the real water was outside, still pounding against the pane of the window. Jack had first been baptized in the Missouri, not in South Dakota but on the Nebraska/Iowa border.
Scratch had held him under.
The first time had been scary, muffled cries, burning lungs, similar to the way he felt now. But after that, it had gotten easier. Scratch had dunked him several times. Not because Jack needed cleansing (not in those days) but because it was a good show for the lookie-loos, to encourage them to get in line to be saved.
Or maybe Jack had needed to be saved, over and over, in those days. Because after a while, he’d grown tired of hearing Scratch’s voice, the same sermons, the same gospel. Under the water, if only for a moment, he was free of it all, disconnected.
Sitting in the chair now, muffled rain outside, clock ticking like his heartbeat under the water, Jack closed his eyes.
“His thunder announces the coming storm; even the cattle make known its approach.”
Outside, though, it was horses, not cattle.
“Who among you feels the coming storm of His presence?”
Jack closed his eyes and imagined himself under the water’s cool surface.
* * *
Thunder crashed, but it wasn’t what woke him. It was another sound, closer, softer. Jack raised his head (and the gun) and opened his eyes. A thin, shadowed figure stood in front of him, just a few feet away, a figure with long dark hair. “Fucking bitch,” he growled as his finger danced on the trigger.
But lightning flashed, illuminating the room through the window, and he saw that it wasn’t Diamond in front of him, but another woman altogether.
He struggled to remember her name.
Or where he was.
Or why he was holding a gun.
The mental fog cleared the same way the next peal of thunder fizzled and died out. Erin. Her name was Erin. And Jack had taken over her house.
She gasped and took a step back, away from him, hands up as if to ward him off. “I…I wasn’t—”
“Shut up,” Jack told her, hauling himself up out of the chair. He bit down on the inside of his lip to avoid showing her how much it hurt him to move that fast.
She took another step back until she bumped up against the bed behind her.
Jack shoved the revolver into the waistband of his jeans and strode toward her.
She dove out of reach, across the bed to get away from him.
Jack didn’t care. She couldn’t make it toward the door anyway. He reached out, not for her, but for the landline on the nightstand and yanked it away from the wall.
There was a snap of cracking plastic as it tore free and Jack ripped the other end of the line out of the phone’s base. Then he turned to her, the woman—Erin, not Diamond, he reminded himself as he rounded the corner of the bed.
This woman had to be dealt with, because she’d clearly been trying to escape. Or go for the gun. She had to be dealt with but she wasn’t Diamond, and so Jack took a deep breath to still the shaking in his hands as he neared her.
“Oh, please, God,” she whispered as she pressed herself against the far wall.
Jack reached down, ribs screaming in protest, and grabbed her by the upper arm. He hauled her up and pushed her onto the bed. She fought him then, fear finally motivating her to try and do something, anything. Jack didn’t blame her, couldn’t fault her for trying. She was something else, he’d give her that.
He did grab her by the throat, though, felt a shuddering pulse in his bare hand. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t need to, just held her there, held her still. She was like a tiny bird, so small and delicate—the sparrow to his Buzzard. His rough callouses rasped across her smooth skin. “Stop,” he said evenly.
He could feel her flinch as he spoke, could see her eyes half-wild with trying to decide whether she should obey or continue to fight. Jack didn’t give her much time. He let go of her throat and wrapped the phone cord around one of her wrists, then threaded it through the spindles of the headboard and secured the other one.
She was crying now, though trying not to show it. Her eyes squeezed shut, but Jack could see one single tear escape the long-lashed prison and slide down her face. He could hear her whispering as he tightened the cord. “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?”
He hesitated and looked down at her curiously. Her dark hair fanned out around her head and shoulders, a brunette halo of sorts, and something niggled deep in the recesses of his sleep-deprived brain as her soft voice rang in his ears.
Chapter Ten
‡
Erin hesitated, mid-prayer. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel him pause above her. His hands suddenly stopped moving. Heart pounding, she carefully opened her eyes and looked up at him.
Expecting to see an enraged face, or at least one that was cold and calculating like before, she was surprised to see that he was surprised. He was holding her wrists together with one hand, but he wasn’t moving. His own voice wasn’t a whisper but a low timbre that seemed to rumble the very bed she was lying on. “When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh, when my enemies and my foes attack me, they will stumble and fall. Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then will I be confident.”
It took a moment for Erin to realize she was holding her breath.
He looked down at her again, a puzzled look on his face that probably mirrored her own. “I remember that one,” he said puzzlingly.
He tugged at the phone line he’d tied around her wrists, testing it, then hesitated again. Erin watched wordlessly as he loosened it slowly, not enough to get away, unfortunately, but it was more comfortable now. His movements were slower, less jerky, less anger-fueled, and it was obvious he was taking care not to hurt her.
She had been trying to run away, grab the gun on his lap, do what she had to with it, and make it to the Twisted W as fast as she could. She was relieved that he didn’t seem furious about it.
He checked the knot one final time and then returned to his chair. He lowered himself into it, never taking his eyes off her.
Erin turned her head and looked away, because for some reason it felt as though he saw more than she wanted him to, and she didn’t like that.
The storm was still raging outside and she was worried about Bee and King. They must be nervous, especially after the fight in the barn. Erin vowed to weather both the storm and this man who’d come into her life, just wait it out until things returned to normal.
She had faith that it would. It was all she had to hold on to.
She laid her head back on the pillow and, though she didn’t want to, closed her eyes and felt herself sinking into a restless sleep. Halfway between awake and unconscious, the images behind h
er eyes weren’t pretty. When she opened them again, soft gray light filtered in through the bedroom’s large picture window.
Julio didn’t crow, though. He must have been too ruffled from the storm.
The man on the other side of the room was up and out of his chair, heading toward her.
Erin forced herself not to cringe away as he tugged off the make-shift restraint and tossed it aside.
He let her get up out of the bed on her own and gave her exactly three minutes, no more, no less, in the bathroom with the door cracked. If the window hadn’t been smaller than her ass, Erin might’ve made a try for it. But there was no way she’d make it. Besides, he had the keys to the truck, and she doubted she could outrun him on the road.
In the kitchen, he pointed to one of the chairs and Erin sank down into it. He rummaged through the fridge, taking a piece of coffeecake, some cheese, a few odds and ends.
Erin couldn’t help but glance at the phone on the wall and she wondered if the line had been fixed by now. It might be. Might not be. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t just going to stand there while she dialed.
As he leaned against the counter, her line of sight skipped past him to the knife block. She could get close to it. She could say she needed to wash her hands, or that she was hungry, too. She could get one, she was sure of it. But then what?
Aside from Hank, and Connor Paulson in fifth grade, Erin had never been in a fight before. The man looming above her might be injured, but that was no guarantee she’d win. What if he got the blade from her? Would he use it on her, then? Probably. Maybe. It wasn’t worth the risk.
He turned to the coffee pot and she followed his gaze. She could offer to make some, bash the hell out of him with the carafe once she got her hands on it.
Taking a deep breath, she slowly stood up, pressing her palms into her thighs to keep them from shaking. She only had one shot. She had to make it count. Hit him and run like hell. Straight down the road toward the Twisted W. There might be someone driving. She could flag them down.
The gun was tucked into the back of the waistband of his jeans. If she could get far enough away, put enough distance between them, he would probably miss and she would be a moving target.
“Do you want some?” she asked, taking a step forward. “Coffee?” She prayed her voice was steady and even.
His eyes narrowed at her as she slowly moved closer. Out of the corner of her eye though, a twig replete with fresh, green leaves tumbled past the side door. Beyond it was the barn and Erin chewed her lower lip as she hoped Bee and King were okay.
The man grabbed her by the arm, shocking her out of her reverie. And preventing her from getting any closer to the kitchen counter.
“Why were you in the barn last night?” he asked.
“The roof,” she replied immediately, because it was true. “I wanted to check to see if the tarp had held. I wanted to check on the horses.” She looked away, out the door again, wishing she could just shake him loose and run out there now.
Miraculously, he let her go at that point, grunted and nodded toward the side door.
For a moment, Erin wasn’t sure he was actually giving her the okay. She hesitated, unable to put one foot in front of the other. He reached out for her again, though, and she jumped, making a beeline toward the door so he wouldn’t actually touch her.
She wasn’t running, but she was walking fast and he was keeping up with her as they strode through the tall, uncut, wet grass.
Chapter Eleven
‡
Jack didn’t trust her. Not one bit. But the house…the house was dangerous. He’d caught the way she’d been eyeballing the phone and the knives on the counter—hell, even the coffee pot. If she went for one of them, there would be nothing he could do. He’d have to hit her, hard, in the face. And right now he just wasn’t certain that if he started to hit anyone, even a woman, that he’d be able to stop himself.
He might beat her bloody—or worse—and so distracting them both from the possibility seemed like the best course of action.
He was singularly unused to spending so much time around civilians.
The barn seemed safer and so they trudged to it now. The post-storm haze had settled all around them, not dingy gray but sparkling silver as sunlight reflected off each drop of rain that hung all around them. On the blades of grass, on the leaves of the trees. They even seemed to be suspended in midair until the viewing angle changed slightly, revealing spider webs carefully constructed.
There was debris, too, with branches, entire limbs that had split and were hanging drunkenly off the trunk, teetering toward the ground.
Jack thought his choice to get inside and out of it last night had probably been a good one. The truck was still there. He’d take it and any money she had stashed around the place. They hadn’t talked about that yet, but he was certain she’d tell him. Not because he’d beat it out of her but most likely because she’d just rather him be gone.
Jack preferred that, too.
They entered the barn with the horses nickering at them before the door was even fully open. The dirt in the corner, underneath the exposed roof, was muddy and soft, but the rain had erased all traces of Jack’s digging. He went straight for the pitchfork and picked it up, eyeing her meaningfully as he held on to it.
Erin took armfuls of hay from the corner and slid them into the racks of the stalls. Her horses seemed grateful. Even in the limited time he’d been in her life, Jack could see that Erin was not just a civilian, but possibly a genuinely good person.
As she worked, he inspected the barn, the tools and equipment that hung on the walls, the saddles placed onto wooden racks on one side. He stopped in front of a steel and glass cabinet and peered in through the narrow strip of glass. He reached out and tugged on the small doors of the hutch. When they didn’t open, he fished out the keys he’d taken from her last night and tried each one until the lock turned easily.
“Don’t!” Erin cried, coming toward him.
Jack ignored her and snatched up the bottle, examining the label. Pain meds. Jackpot. He could get good and fucked up with these.
“Those are King’s!” she argued and actually tried to take them from him.
He gripped them tightly in his palm and glared at her.
She stopped herself, obviously realizing her situation was precarious. She took slow, steady breaths even though she was clearly upset.
Jack admired her efforts to stay calm. Getting pissed off wouldn’t help anything.
She sighed then. Resigned to the fact that she didn’t have the upper hand. “Just…take the whole bottle,” she snapped. “Take it and go!”
Jack was about to oblige her, about to take the pills and her truck and disappear altogether, when the sound of another vehicle approaching made both of them freeze. But just for a second.
He sprang forward, grabbed Erin by the upper arm and shoved her toward the open barn door, keeping them both out of the line of sight of whoever was coming up the drive.
Pressing her against the wall, Jack peered out cautiously and saw an old Ford rumbling toward the circular drive, not bothering to avoid the mud holes. “Who is that?” he demanded, letting her peek out for a split second.
Pushing her against the wall again, he pinned her with a look as well as his body.
She gasped. “The foreman,” she breathed. “I told you he might come.”
Jack inspected her face. She seemed frightened, but perhaps not frightened enough. He reached behind himself, drew out the gun, and put his hand over her mouth to muffle her startled cry. He just flashed it in her face, though. He didn’t point it at her.
Then he left her, spun away, and headed not out the door but farther into the barn. He stopped at the stall of the blond horse, the one she’d comforted when she’d first come in. She liked that one. He could see why. It ambled up to the gate, stuck its head out, and rubbed up against his shoulder, all friendly-like.
Jack aimed the barrel right at the hors
e’s head.
“No!” she shouted, then looked fearfully at the open door. “No,” she begged again, quietly this time. She held her hands up, trying to calm Jack down. But Jack wasn’t upset. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please!”
“Get him out of here.”
She nodded and licked her lips. “Okay. Okay.” She started to take a step, but paused and turned back. “That’s…that’s his stuff in there,” she said, indicating the door behind him.
Jack shrugged.
“He’s going to want it back.”
“Piss on him,” Jack growled. “It’s a few ratty shirts and some biohazard skivvies. Tell him to fuck off.”
Jack watched as tears welled in her eyes. “Make him leave, Erin.”
“I will,” she whispered. “I will. Just…just don’t hurt them.”
As she slipped out the door, Jack finally lowered the gun. His stiff arm throbbed relentlessly and he sagged against the wall. The blond horse nickered, as if to chide him, and he grimaced.
“I wouldn’t do it,” he said quietly and thumbed the trigger guard thoughtfully. And it was true. It was probably the only empty threat he’d ever make.
If the woman panicked, blabbed to the man outside, Jack wouldn’t go to the trouble of shooting her horses just to make good on his threat. He’d simply raise the gun, put it in his own mouth, and squeeze.
He was in no shape to get taken in by the police, broken and battered, with nothing left in the world anyway. Death seemed preferable. He waited in the shadows, peering out at the circular drive a few dozen feet away. It was an odd feeling to know you might be living your very last moments on Earth.
Over the years, Jack had, for some reason, developed an odd kind of optimism, he supposed he’d call it, for lack of a better word. Through all the scrapes, all the deals that had threatened to go sideways, all the times he’d found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol, he’d never once thought those moments were the end. He’d always assumed that somehow, some way, he’d come through it. And until now, he always had.