Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

“In two weeks,” he says, glancing between me and the road, “we’re going to commit the same crime that put your brother in prison.”

“Except Lorne killed an innocent man. Wyatt Longley lost his life for no reason.” I hope to God Jake isn’t getting cold feet. “Levi Tibbs doesn’t deserve to breathe.”

With one hand on the steering wheel, he places the other on the seat between us, palm up. “Give me your wrist.”

“No.” The hair on my nape stands on end, and I scoot closer to the door. “I can’t do that.”

“Put your wrist on my hand and I’ll explain how Lorne killed a bad man.”

“What?” My scalp tingles. “What do you mean?”

“Your wrist.”

My pulse thrashes, like the wind whipping against the windshield. The tone of his voice is so damn demanding, but that isn’t what moves me. It’s the love in his eyes, assuring me without speaking, protecting me without taking.

Something dormant in me answers, compelling me to gamble on that love.

I lift my arm and rest my wrist on his palm.

The strong muscles in his hand remain slack and loose, his fingers slightly bent but not clenched. I wait for the memories to rise, but Jake’s words distract me.

“Andy and Wyatt Longley shouldn’t have been near the ravine that night. They had no business traipsing around in the south pasture at all.” He scowls. “They were there to help two hitmen sneak on and off the property and dispose of the bodies left behind.”

“Bodies?” My stomach knots. “Mine and Lorne’s?”

“Yes.” Not a single twitch or crease of maybe I’m wrong in his stern expression.

“You have proof.”

“Three years ago, I recorded a conversation between my dad and Andy Longley.”

“You were spying on them?”

“By that time, I was spying on everyone. Their conversation didn’t elude to criminal activity, but something about it made me suspicious. So I confronted Andy and extracted a confession.”

“How?”

“I relieved him of his teeth. With my fist. Then I relieved him of his job.” He sets his jaw. “Only reason I let him live is because he let Lorne live. He was armed the night of your birthday and could’ve easily shot Lorne for killing his son.”

Pounding explodes in my ears. Is Jake in the habit of not letting people live?

“Does Lorne know?” I ask.

“He’s knows everything Jarret and I know.”

“You’re telling me my brother’s serving ten years in prison for killing a man who planned to dispose of his body?” My heart plunges into a pit of despair. “How can Lorne be okay with that?”

“He didn’t know about Wyatt Longley’s involvement when he pleaded guilty. Your dad told Lorne someone would kill you both if you returned to the ranch. That was the impetus for our decision to cut ties with you.”

“Dalton knew?” A ragged breath drags from my chest. “He told me he didn’t talk to Lorne. That Lorne was dead to him.”

“Communication was on and off. Your dad’s focus was on making sure your brother remained behind bars so he couldn’t return home. In the eyes of your enemies, those bars made Lorne a non-threat.”

“Who are our enemies? Your dad and—?”

“I’m not answering that today.”

“Is my life at risk right now?” I toss an angry glare at our surroundings. “I’m not at the ranch. Should I be worried about your dad?”

“You’re with me, and I can handle him.”

I’m not getting anywhere with this line of questioning, so I switch gears. “Today, Lorne said I need to understand his position. What did he mean?”

“His position on serving prison time… One, he doesn’t regret killing Wyatt Longley for the reasons I explained. Two, his incarceration hasn’t just saved his life. It helped me protect yours by keeping you away.”

My mind spins to make the connection. “Because he wouldn’t have gone to Chicago with us. He was eighteen, a legal adult.”

“He would’ve stayed at the ranch.”

“And I would’ve found my way back to him. Because he’s my flesh and blood.”

“Conor.”

“Hm?”

“Look at our hands and remember to breathe.”

I lower my gaze, and my lungs seize.

Fingers lock around my wrist, strong and constricting. I jerk back, and they cinch tighter, compressing, restraining. Like a knot. Rope. It scratches, tearing at my skin, holding me down.

“Let go.” I yank harder, unable to free myself. “Let me go, now! Let go! Let go!”

“Breathe and focus on my hand. It’s just me. It’s Jake.”

Muscles and veins strain against the skin of his forearm. Then black dots move in, blotting him out and taking me to that place, that terrible black tunnel.

“It’s too dark.” I wheeze, flailing and desperate. “Can’t breathe. Let go of me, dammit!”

“Focus on your wrist.” Jake’s voice filters in, deep and commanding. “Tell me what you see.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Tell me what you see!” he shouts.

I blink rapidly and clear my vision. “A hand. A strong hand. Squeezing. Knotting. It’s too tight. I can’t get free.”