Their Reckless Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 11)

“I don’t understand,” I said, glancing from Hank and tipping my chin up to look at Charlie. He didn’t look at me, just stared forward, his jaw clenched.

We rode straight to their house, the place I’d thought I’d never see again. Hank dismounted, then came over and helped me down. Charlie followed.

But we didn’t go inside. Hank sat down on the steps that led to the front porch tugged me to stand between parted knees. Charlie settled beside him so I was eye to eye with both of them. One dark gaze, one green gaze boring into me as if they could see my soul.

There were times I thought they could, but Hank’s next words made me realize they knew nothing.

“We’re home. It’s time to talk,” Charlie said, reaching out and taking off my hat, just as they had by the creek when we’d first met.

My braid fell down my back.

Hank nodded his head in agreement. “I think it’s time you introduce yourself, wife.”

I swallowed, licked my dry lips. Had it only been dawn since I rode away from them?

“I’m… I’m Grace Grove.” I sighed, relieved to finally say it. To tell them the whole truth. “The name I used to marry you yesterday… Churchill, was my mother’s maiden name.”

“You shot your father and brother,” Charlie said.

I nodded, my thumb rubbing over the material of my pants on my thigh. “Yes.”

“Did you shoot my father?” Hank asked.

All the blood drained out of my face and little spots danced before my eyes. “Dear lord, no. It was Father. He got drunk, pleased with himself.”

“Why?” Hank asked. “Why did you shoot your family?”

I sighed, flicked my gaze to his. There were no laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. There was no softness to him that I’d seen when we’d been in bed together. He’d shed his sheriff persona along with his clothing.

I didn’t need the glint of sunlight off the badge on his chest to know who he was in this moment.

“Like I told you, they were going to shoot you. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“And?”

“And because I hate them and they deserved to go to jail.”

“They beat you,” Charlie said, clearly remembering what I’d said at the bank. I noticed his hands were clenched into fists.

“Father did when he was drunk. When he was mad.”

“And Travis?”

I shook my head. “No, but he...” I looked down at the packed dirt at my feet.

“He what?”

“He didn’t need to use his fists to hurt me. Our older brother, Tom, he wasn’t as mean. He’d protected me from them. But then he’d was shot and killed. It got worse after that. And then the other day—”

I bit my lip, glanced away. I couldn’t look at them, couldn’t see either the pity in their eyes or the hatred.

“The other day?” Charlie prompted.

“Father had the bag with all the money from the Travis Point bank. That was the robbery before Simms. He spent most of it at the saloon. Poker. Women. When Barton Finch found out his portion had been used on pussy—”

Hank growled.

“That was his words, not mine,” I clarified, putting a hand to my chest. “When he found out, he told Father he’d have to pay. So he gave me to Barton Finch as payment.”