The Hero I Need

Thanks to Willow Macklin, I can finally live again.

Except now, I can’t.

Not without her.

Sure, the motions are there.

Food. Breath. Work. Even my endless love for my daughters, but other than that, I’m an empty fucking vessel.

It’s different than when Brittany passed.

There wasn’t anything more I could’ve done, and fate severed our worlds.

Not this time.

Willow’s very alive, very gorgeous, and begging to be mine.

And even if she shoots down my proposals ten more times, I’ve decided I won’t stop coming.

The options are there. Hell, I could sell the Purple Bobcat and let Ridge use my land for spillover cattle farming.

The girls would adapt to a life overseas.

I’m sure of it.

It’s me that’s the problem. Dallas has its hooks in almost as deep as Willow, and every time I’ve ever been away, I’ve always been mighty anxious to come home to my town.

But there’s nothing in Dallas for her.

Therein lies my choice, and my personal hell.

My roots. My life.

Or her.

I try to dampen my conflicted thoughts as the road to the airstrip appears.

Once this shit’s over, I’ll have time to ponder. Then I can talk to the girls and make a decision, right after I track down my tiger thief and lay down one rule.

Anything’s fair game in this life, as long as I’ve got her.

I slow down, wrenching the wheel around the corner, and wonder how Willow made it all the way to the bar in this old truck the night she stole it. The damn thing steers like a tank even with Weston’s tune-up, and snorts like a geriatric elephant. There’s no sneaking in on anyone in this thing.

Not that we need to.

Faulk arranged a meeting with Fuckface Bordell the not-conservation officer. He called in saying he’d captured the tiger spotted around Dallas and wanted to know what state Game and Fish wanted him to do with it.

Bordell instantly offered to come and get it. Faulk arranged this meeting instead, saying he was already on the road to Montana, getting it the hell away from his livestock.

I haven’t told Willow about this part of the plan. She had enough on her plate with getting Bruce to the refuge in Wyoming. She knew the plan was for me to drive the truck here, to the strip, but thought it was just so the FBI could find it.

It wasn’t till after she and Weston left this morning that Faulk made the call to Bordell, flushing his cockroach ass out of the woodwork.

Yeah, he’ll know something’s up as soon as he sees the truck and trailer—just like the kind at Exotic Plains—but by the time he figures it out, the trap swings shut.

My phone pings. It’s a message from Faulk confirming he and Hank are in place.

“Almost to the airstrip,” I dictate and hit send.

Another ping sounds and I click on the new message.

Weston. He says they just drove through the gates at Let’s Roar.

Relieved they made it, I set my phone on the seat.

The rest is up to me.

Keeping my eyes peeled for any movement, I slow down, lumbering along the road and clamping my back teeth together to keep them from rattling over the rough spots. The strip soon comes into sight, but I don’t see another vehicle.

I pull all the way onto the pavement, grab the nine millimeter off the seat, and tuck it into the back of my jeans while climbing out. We’re going in locked and loaded in case Bordell isn’t easy prey.

Once I’m out, I take a peek at the bad art project in my trailer. Ridge’s wife, Grace, came up with the idea of using tiger-striped blankets over bales of hay.

From a distance, it damn nears looks like Bruce is asleep in there, and that’s all we need.

I also smile, remembering the first night Willow came screaming into my life. That huge cat in the trailer scared the shit out of me then.

I sigh, already missing his furry face, too.

Honest to God, it was pretty damn cool having a tiger in my barn.

A roaring engine has me spinning around, casting a look at the road.

A cube truck, like the one that delivered the lion cub, comes flying up the road and skids to a halt next to the trailer.

Still wearing his Game and Fish uniform, Officer Bordell jumps out of the passenger seat, a concrete brick of a man with arms and legs. Probably former military by his build, just like myself.

And the fun part is, he’s got his gun drawn.

“Arms up now, asshole!” he roars.

Shit. So much for the element of surprise.

He’s coming in hotter than a charging black bear and he’s not easily fooled.

Sighing, I hold up my arms, elbows bent and hands above my shoulders, watching as two other armed goons climb out of his truck.

“How ’bout we chill, Officer? What’s with the guns?” I ask, giving my hands a shake as I clasp them together over my head, pretending I’m shaken. “I’m just delivering a tiger I caught in my barn. Damn thing could’ve killed my pigs. Yet you’re treating me like I’m a crook?”