Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

The summer morning breeze brushes its emptiness against my face and stirs the frizzy ends of my hair. It’s not the same breeze that kisses Julep Ranch. It doesn’t caress my skin or cleanse my lungs. It doesn’t carry the warmth of his breaths.

It’s insubstantial. Meaningless. I can’t relate to it.

I’m truly lost.

Closing the window, I let my fingers linger on the sill. Traffic motors by on the narrow street three stories below. People stroll along, walking dogs and carrying coffee cups. Purpose propels their steps. They have places to go. Loved ones to see.

Since living here, I’ve kept to myself and evaded all forms of relationships. I can’t risk anyone discovering I was married. Rogan was never reported missing, and if someone starts prying and retracing my steps, they might uncover the crimes at Julep Ranch.

I left Jarret because I want him to be free of my misery. I want him to be happy, unshackled by his past, and never ever confined to prison walls.

Where are you?

Are you alone?

Do you miss me?

Are you happy?

Dangerous thoughts. They possess my mind like demons, stifled by willpower but always fighting for dominance, hissing temptations under heated breath, and easily summoned in moments of weakness.

It’s been six months since I fled the ranch. That night, I drove south and ended up in a small town in middle Texas that reminds me of Sandbank.

I checked in at a motel and ate at a diner across the street. The server was exhausted and didn’t hold back her complaints about the waitress who just quit.

I asked for the job. I don’t know why. I guess it felt like an omen. Within a week, I was earning tips and moving into an apartment down the road.

Conor started texting me a month later. She checks in regularly, always asking about me, giving me updates on Chicken, and never mentioning Jarret. My responses are vague.

I’m fine.

I’m safe.

I’m not ready to tell you where I’m at.

Until last night.

She didn’t ask for my address. She demanded it. I knew my time of avoidance was over, so I sent it to her.

It’s a four-hour drive from the ranch. I expected him to be here this morning, but I’m glad he’s not. I’m not strong enough to battle him. I’m too selfish and fragile right now to send him back to his life without me.

I think about him constantly. When I’m hurrying out the door for work, I imagine his tongue on my neck, and my skin shivers. When I’m running in the park behind my apartment, I hear his voice in my head, and my body heats. When I’m waiting tables during the lunch rush, I feel the tickle of his fingers between my legs, and my thighs clench.

I miss him more during the day when I’m busy than at night when I’m lonely.

I miss him with excruciating agony, and those pangs are permanent.

Stepping back from the window, I grab my phone and set Furnace Room Lullaby by Neko Case on repeat.

The haunting country song serenades me as I shower and get ready for work. I finish piling my hair into a bun and tilt my head at the sound of honking on the street.

Not just one horn. Multiple cars blare repeatedly, which is odd for this quiet little town.

I wander to the window and freeze.

Jarret’s truck sits out front with a trailer hitched to the back. The rig takes up more than half of the narrow street, preventing traffic from moving in either direction.

Standing on the front lawn three stories below, he stares up at me from beneath his hat, a braided lead in his hand, and Chicken beside him.

My heart rate explodes with fear and elation, and the hairs on my nape stand on end.

He’s here.

He brought Chicken.

I can’t breathe.

God, he’s gorgeous. Tight jeans, fitted t-shirt, tanned skin, muscles flexing from here to there. His face hides in the shade of his hat, but I feel the burn of his predatory eyes along my skin.

He came for me.

That means he hasn’t moved on.

But he has to. He can’t be here. How do I make him understand that without hurting him? How far will I twist and break him so he can be free of me?

I don’t have it in me to be cruel, but we can’t fall back together. I’m too mixed-up in guilt and distrust. He murdered my husband, and I didn’t tell him I was married. He’s a killer, and I’m deceitful. The blood has seeped too deep, the wounds too infected. We’re a toxic combination.

I have to stay away, even if it means wrapping myself in the hell of my own undoing.

We stare at each other through the glass, across the distance. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to speak or gesture at me to come out. He just watches, ignoring the honking around him, disregarding the entire world, as if I’m the only thing that exists.