by Nicole Helm
“I need you, Jamison. You know the Sons and you know the law. If you’re too busy guarding all this—” she waved a hand to take in the darkened small town, where, at worst, he was taking care of petty crimes “—I’d take the help of one of your brothers. Dev or the twins. They’d know enough. But I need someone who knows Ace and the Sons—enough to be afraid, and how to beat them in spite of that fear.”
Though she didn’t ask herself why she’d come to him first, when she knew that of all the Wyatt brothers with their various law enforcement jobs, Jamison would be the least likely to forgo protocol.
Except he was the one she needed. If there was an Achilles’ heel hidden inside the hard, upstanding man in front of her, it was the desire to save people.
He was silent for far too long. When he spoke, the pain of his words sliced her in two.
“If I could beat Ace, I would have done it already,” he said quietly into the dark. A painful rasp made those words hurt.
She winced again. She’d known this would be thorny, but she’d also known Jamison was truly her only hope. Any other member of the Sons—man or woman—would be too afraid or too uninterested to help. Even a few sympathetic parties could be a liability in the end.
“When was the last time you tried?” she whispered, the hushed words too loud out here in a town that looked most especially lonely at night. Was Jamison just as lonely?
It was his turn to wince, or maybe take the blow she’d just landed.
He opened his mouth, either to answer or tell her to go, when something exploded, loud and close and painful.
For a second, Liza didn’t recognize the sound as that of a gunshot. So much so she was almost surprised when Jamison crashed into her, pushing her underneath him and on to the hardscrabble gravel. His body covered her, warm and heavy.
After a moment—or was it a few moments?—he rolled her on to her back. His hands were on her, she thought, but she couldn’t quite feel them. She could see his lips moving, but his voice was garbled.
It was the concern in his dark eyes that worried her. But she was floating away on a cloud of shock she didn’t understand. Then radiating pain took her completely under.
Chapter Two
Jamison got Liza in his car, quick as he could. Much as he wanted to chase after the gunman, ascertaining Liza’s injuries was first priority. Getting her out of here and to help was second.
Finding the Sons and hurting them would have to come later—for now. Because he had no doubt who’d shot at her.
He laid her out in the back seat of his patrol car. There wasn’t enough room, and all his equipment made it all too difficult, but he searched her body for signs of a wound.
He didn’t realize he was whispering prayers that she would be all right until he found the injury. Something about his frenzied words and the gash on her leg all coming to a head to remind him to pull himself together.
Taking her to the hospital wasn’t the best option with the shooter still out there. A paramedic would insist on a trip to the hospital. So, that was a no go, too.
But his brother was a trained paramedic along with his duties as sheriff’s deputy—out here it could be a lifeline. Jamison himself knew a few first aid basics—like bandaging the leg wound, which he did with quick efficiency—but he didn’t have the course training and licenses his brother had.
Brady would be able to figure out her loss of consciousness without insisting she be taken to the hospital. Because from what Jamison could tell, the spot on her leg was the only place she’d been hurt, and it wasn’t enough for her to pass out for this long.
Debating again, he reached for the radio, then bypassed the idea. Even though it went against his instincts, his ingrained desire to be by the book—to prove he was nothing like Ace Wyatt. He decided this was bigger than the rules.
Just this once.
He picked up his cell and dialed Brady.
“Location?” he barked when Brady answered.
Brady didn’t pause or ask why. He simply answered, “Sector A.”
Northeast. Good. They could meet in the middle and figure this out. “Meet me on 302nd Avenue in Fuller Junction.”
“That’s out of my sector, J.”
“I’m well aware of where it is. You’re off the clock in fifteen.”
There was a quiet moment as Jamison shut the doors and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Must be some emergency. Heading that way.”
“Same. You’ll beat me, but I won’t be far behind. Anyone at Grandma’s?”
“Just Dev.”
“It’ll do. Give her a call and tell her we’re coming, and to have the first aid kit ready. Yours, too.”
Even though Jamison could feel Brady’s questions piling up into the silence between them, Brady didn’t voice them.
They both hung up and drove toward the meeting point. Jamison had to pay attention to the road in the inky black. He didn’t hear a peep from Liza in the back. Just slow, steady breathing. Thank God.
That was something at least.
She’d been shot. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her story about Carlee Bright. The Sons of the Badlands weren’t exactly known for their kind treatment of women. Jamison himself had always wondered about his mother’s “drug overdose” when Cody had been a baby. But he hadn’t been much more than a child himself. Certainly not adult enough to challenge it.
Sometimes he wondered if that would have mattered.
Carlee Bright wasn’t his mother, and the supposed disappearance of Liza’s half sister could all be...made-up. Getting shot hardly proved her story. If anything, it proved her connection. She knew too much to be an innocent bystander.
Still, Jamison sped through the dark, not seeing another soul on the streets. He turned onto 302nd, slowed on the gravel road until he spotted Brady’s cruiser. Jamison pulled to a stop behind him.
Jamison got out and opened the back seat door. Without a word, Brady immediately examined Liza. If he recognized her, which surely he did, he didn’t mention it.
“She didn’t fall or hit her head?”
“Not that I saw.”
Brady nodded toward the driver’s seat. “She could have just passed out from shock. Let’s get her to the ranch. I need more space and more light.”
But they both knew a woman who’d grown up in a biker gang wasn’t exactly gun-shy. She’d seen way worse than this kind of wound.
“You sure you want to take her to Grandma’s? Hospital would be...safer,” Brady said carefully.
Too carefully. As if he thought Jamison was still hung up on a woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years and had gotten over years ago. Years and years ago. This was about the Sons, and it was about keeping someone safe. He’d dedicated his life to keeping strangers safe. Why wouldn’t he keep Liza safe, too? It was just...his job. “I’ll meet you at the ranch.”
Brady nodded and strode back to his car.
They drove, and occasionally Liza would come to, move around a bit, ask where she was. Jamison tried to keep her talking, but she faded in and out. It worried him, even as the fact she kept waking up eased some of his fears.
Finally, he turned off onto the unmarked gravel road that would twist through the rolling hills of the South Dakota ranch and farmland. Then, behind the hills, home.
There was a light on outside the old farmhouse—there always ways. Pauline Reaves was used to visitors at all times of night. She kept her doors open, her windows homey and a variety of weapons within easy reach should any of the bad element ever show up at her door.
It was home, even if he’d spent most of his adolescence in various Sons of the Badlands camps. This house with its piecemeal layout, thanks to being over a century old and needing all sorts of additions and modern conveniences, was his heart and soul.
By the time he reached the end o
f the gravel road and pushed the car into Park, Grandma Pauline was at the door. Jamison opened the back door of his cruiser and Liza blinked at him.
“Come on now.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before pushing herself out of the back seat. She was on her feet a second before she swayed, so Jamison scooped her up into his arms and started marching toward the house—Brady closing the door for him and following.
Dev’s two ranch dogs pranced at their feet but had been trained not to bark at a Wyatt or a Knight. They whimpered excitedly instead, obviously hoping to be petted.
Brady obliged since Jamison had his hands full.
“I can walk,” Liza said, attempting outrage, though it was weak at best.
“No, you can’t.”
She was too light by half, and her clothes fairly hung off her—except for that too-thin leather coat he did indeed remember from fifteen plus years ago.
He strode through the front door and Grandma didn’t blink an eye as her eldest grandson carried in a bleeding, unsteady ex-girlfriend, followed by another grandson.
Both in uniform.
Brady closed the door, the dogs knowing better than to enter here, where they’d have to trot through Grandma’s kitchen. Grandma Pauline did not allow such things.
“Kitchen,” she instructed. “Best light.”
As if they didn’t already know. It might not be so commonplace these days, but once upon a time the Wyatt brothers had gotten into their share of scrapes and had been patched up in Grandma’s kitchen.
Dev was already there, with one of Grandma’s “medical” sheets laid out over the kitchen table.
He raised an eyebrow at Liza but otherwise didn’t say anything. Not all that uncommon for Dev. But even though he didn’t speak, his disapproval came off him in waves.
Jamison sat Liza down on the table. “Believe me now?” she asked archly, before wincing as she moved the leg that had been shot.
Jamison chose to follow Dev’s example and kept silent.
“Let’s have a look,” Brady offered, approaching the table. He pulled back the bandage and examined the wound under better light. Grandma set a washcloth and small basin of water next to him—the first aid kit already opened and laid out.
Brady ripped the hole in her jeans so he had a large enough space to work. He cleaned out the wound, Grandma handing Liza an over-the-counter painkiller and a glass of water when she hissed out a breath.
“Have any idea why you might have passed out?” Brady asked, his voice calm and pleasant. “Recent head wound? Any other injuries?”
Liza shook her head.
“Pregnant?”
“No,” she said flatly, and her gaze stayed resolutely on where Brady worked on her thigh.
“When was the last time you ate, girl?” Grandma demanded.
Liza ran a shaky hand through her hair as Brady rebandaged the wound. “I don’t...”
“Girl needs a meal,” Grandma said firmly, already moving for the refrigerator.
“Broth, Grandma,” Brady ordered.
At Grandma’s harrumph, Jamison knew Liza wouldn’t just be getting broth.
The woman in question looked around the kitchen from her seat atop the table and tried to smile, but it frayed. “Didn’t expect half the Wyatt crew at my beck and call.”
“Don’t get shot, then,” Dev replied sharply.
“I’m no doctor,” Brady said, interrupting the back-and-forth, though his comment made both Jamison and Dev shift because Brady certainly would have made a good physician. But an elderly woman raising six boys in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota, didn’t have the kind of resources to make that happen.
So, Brady had become a paramedic and a cop, and he was excellent at both, but the two older brothers often wondered what if...?
“My guess would be the loss of consciousness came from a combination of a lack of food and shock. There aren’t any other symptoms that point to anything more going on. Get enough food in her, keep the bandage clean, she should be fine.”
“She is sitting right here.”
“That she is,” Brady replied with a patient smile. “You’re going to want to take it easy. And you’re going to want to tell us why someone’s shooting at you.”
She leveled Jamison with a haughty look. “I guess your brother can explain it.”
Jamison held her stare. “Liza thinks her father murdered Carlee Bright, and that her half sister, who witnessed it, has been kidnapped and is in mortal danger. Like Liza herself apparently is.”
* * *
THE WAY JAMISON so neutrally delivered the details of her situation made her shiver. She instantly had a blanket draped over her shoulders, thanks to Brady.
Silence descended over the kitchen, except for the sounds of Pauline puttering at the stove.
“How do you know Carlee is dead?” Jamison asked.
“Now you’re interested?” she retorted. She felt shaky and off-kilter and her leg throbbed where the bullet had—thank God—just grazed her.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say interested. Obviously you’re mixed up with something involving the Sons,” he said, gesturing toward her torn jeans and the bandage. “I certainly wouldn’t be surprised if your father killed Carlee. I’m having a harder time imagining he’d harm his own daughter. If only because you’re still alive. He’s had ample time and reason to kill you.”
She glanced at the three Wyatt brothers standing next to each other. Each with arms crossed over broad chests. They had the physical look of their father—big men, hard men. Dark hair and eyes that ranged from brown to green. Their jaws were chiseled, their mouths all in firm disapproval.
All had aged, Dev most especially. He didn’t just look weathered, he looked...beaten. She knew any questions about his limp would be met with stony silence.
Just like she knew the Wyatt boys had souls, thanks to the woman bustling around her now. Ace had no soul, Liza knew. His sons had been born or become good men in spite of it.
“Gigi is four years old,” Liza said, trying very hard to find the balance between overwrought and detached. If she was too emotional, they would dismiss her. If she wasn’t emotional enough, they’d think she was some kind of plant sent by Ace. “She saw my father kill Carlee.”
“Why would the Sons of the Badlands be scared about what a four-year-old girl says?” Jamison returned. “Surely there are enough kids running around those camps who’ve seen as much. And they have no recourse. There’s no one to tell who would do anything about it.”
“She told me, Jamison,” Liza said, trying to eradicate the lump in her throat. “She told me. The next day she was gone. I... Someone’s been following me ever since. They know I know and now someone’s shot me. After I approached you.”
“Aren’t you one of them?” Dev returned, as hard if not harder than Jamison.
One of them. Years ago Pauline would have demanded an apology out of Dev, defended Liza to anyone that her ties to the Sons of the Badlands were severed.
But that was just another thing she’d lost when she’d gone back to them—Pauline’s trust. There was no point being sad about it. She was here for Gigi, not herself.
“Regardless, if they really thought you knew something you’d already be dead,” Jamison said, his voice flat and his eyes hard.
He was right, which scared her more than anything, but it also crystallized something about Jamison for her. If he didn’t want to help her, she wouldn’t be here. He would have taken her to the hospital. Not home.
He might put on the gruff, aloof cop act, but he’d brought her home. To his grandma’s. Because even if she’d only had four years over at the Knights’ ranch, Grandma Pauline had been hers, just like Duke and Eva Knight had been something like parents.
But she hadn’t been able to stay with them. When Jamison h
ad convinced her to escape the Sons with him, when he’d given her this home and family, she’d thought she could do it. She’d been sure she could accept her sister was a lost cause.
The more she’d been given at the Knights’, the guiltier she’d felt that her sister was still in that awful place. The more she’d seen Jamison’s brothers thrive—because he’d saved them before he’d saved himself—the harder it had been to live with herself.
She’d had to leave the Knights and go back to the Sons, to try to save Marci. In the end, it had been a lost cause. Marci didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to see the good in the world.
But Gigi was only four. She had a chance at a real life. A safe, good life. So, Liza had given up on one sister and focused on another.
Now she had no one and nothing—here, where she’d once been loved. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use what she knew to get Jamison’s help.
“I just need to find Gigi, and I can’t do it on my own. You know I can’t ask for help in that place.”
“And you know I can’t help you in that place.”
She closed her eyes against that simple truth. She just kept hoping... No. She didn’t have time to hope. Gigi’s life was at stake.
“One of you will help me,” she said. “You know too much what it’s like to be a kid in that place. You know what it’s like to watch horrors, to lose your mother and only have an awful, scary father left. One of you has to help me. You know it.”
No one said anything for the longest time. Pauline handed her a warm mug of broth and a plate with a sandwich on it.
Liza looked at the elderly woman handing her food and wanted to break down and cry, offer apologies and beg for forgiveness.
But fifteen years was too long, and she had bigger issues at hand.
Eventually Brady turned to face Jamison.
“You’re still on duty,” he said, keeping his voice low as if she wouldn’t be able to hear it.
Jamison’s jaw tensed.
“I’ll take your car back. Take your place till shift change. If something goes down, it’ll be both our butts in a sling, but I’ll do it.”