Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

Two years ago, Jarret and I sat down with Lorne in prison, and the three of us made the decision together. Dry up all communication with Conor. No replies to emails. No text messages for her to wake up to. No phone calls to help her fall asleep. Shut her out of Oklahoma. Don’t give her a reason to return. No matter what.

Conor deserves to know the truth about what’s happening, and a very selfish, desperate part of me aches to chase her down right now and dump it all on her.

Dalton Cassidy swears on his life she’s not in danger as long as she stays away from me, my family, and this ranch. He turned out to be a weak piece of shit father, but I believe, deep in the barrel of my heart, he wants her to live.

She has a rigorous eight-year journey ahead of her to become a practicing veterinarian. If I divulge the truth to her, she’ll abandon her schooling, return to the ranch, and risk her life in an attempt to bring down the forces against her.

I can’t let her do that.

I’ll make sure she realizes her dream, because I love her.

I’ll hunt down her enemies. I’ll protect her from afar. I’ll let her believe I don’t love her.

Because I love her.

Jarret steps back, chest heaving and hands resting on his hips. He searches my eyes, silently asking if I understand, if I feel his turmoil, if we’re on the same page.

I nod. “Are we done talking about this?”

“Yeah, we’re done.”

I move to walk past him, and he clutches my shoulder.

After a hesitant moment of silence, he releases a ragged breath and pulls me into a one-armed hug. “We’ll see her again.”

I think his words are for him not me, but I grip his scarred palm and squeeze it against mine. “Five years.”

Five years until her rapist goes free.

Five years to eliminate her enemies and make it safe for her return.

If there’s anything left of me after that, anything redeemable or worth loving, I’ll focus on restoring her faith and mending her heart. But I’m not stupid. When she discovers my manipulations and deceit, she’ll never forgive me.

Jarret heads to the equipment shed, presumably to retrieve Ketchup from where we hid her.

That was another decision I didn’t take lightly.

If Conor knew her beloved mare was alive and healthy, she would’ve delayed her departure. She would’ve been compelled to visit her horse.

Every second she spent on the property was a risk, so I reduced that risk. I eliminated the last tie she had to this place. She won’t return for me or Jarret or Ketchup.

I want to gut myself for hurting her so thoroughly. But I had to. I had to give her the closure she needs to stay alive.

Dragging my bleeding, busted-up body into the house, I redirect my thoughts to the gift box she dropped in my room. My strides move faster, my breaths rushing as I reach my room and grab the box.

I tear at the wrapping on my way to the bathroom. The paper falls to the floor as I absently turn on the shower and open the box with shaking fingers.

A wide, masculine wrist cuff sits on a bed of tissue paper. Sewed into brown leather is a silver horseshoe, rotated on its side to resemble her initial. I take in the handcrafted detail and meticulous metalwork before I read the note.

I’m not an artisan.

Just a girl who misses her cowboy

with every stitch and solder,

every hour and mile,

every inhale and exhale.

I made this with all that I am

for the one I’ll never stop loving.

C

Stabbing pain cleaves through me as I press the note to my nose, inhaling deeply, desperate to scent her in the ink. I do the same with the cuff, holding the leather to my face, clinging to the textures, and choking on the flames in my throat.

She gave me a bracelet on her birthday. A precious, invaluable piece of heaven.

And I gave her torment, heartbreak, and hell.

I made her believe I let her go.

God, if I only could.

Nothing will stop me from watching over her, but I can’t have her.

I’ll protect her with my life, but I must forget her.

Because she no longer belongs to me. I sent her away. I made her a free agent.

She’s free to move on.

Free to date.

Free to fuck other men.

Free to love again.

I drop to my knees beside the toilet and puke my guts.

Exhausted, numb, and penniless, I find a dumpy motel near the OSU campus in Stillwater, Oklahoma. In lieu of my empty wallet, I peel the Help Wanted sign off the door and approach the thirty-something attendant at the front desk.

The lift of his eyes begins the skin-crawling greeting I’ve come to expect from men between the ages of sixteen and death. The head to toe perusal, fluttering nostrils, heavy breaths—whatever happens in the male brain that triggers these responses doesn’t seem to care that it’s rude and uncomfortable.