Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

I shift to my knees in front of Jake. “Look at me.”

When his lashes lift, he doesn’t just look. He examines every scratch, every smudge, every tear on my face. But he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t regard me with his usual pining affection. I don’t think he can. Every muscle in his torso contracts, and the rapid blinks of his eyes play out violent plans of vengeance. He’s fit to be tied.

He snatches his Stetson, dusts it off, and sets it on his head. “Jarret?”

“I’ll stay with her.” Jarret hands him the gun. “Go.”

“No.” I grab Jake’s free hand.

He pulls away, and rejection smacks my chest.

He must see it on my face, because his eyes soften. His arm hooks behind me and pulls me into a stiff embrace, vibrating with tension.

“Conor…” He touches his lips to my hair, but the rest of him coils tightly, thrumming to make a break for it.

“Stay. Please.”

The cords in his neck stretch taut, and he releases me. “I have to do this.”

He stands, casts a withering glare at the dead body, and bolts toward Barnabe.

I wobble to my feet, aided by Jarret’s grip on my arm. “We don’t know if that man has another gun—”

“He doesn’t.” Jake mounts the saddle, shirtless and rigid as steel with the rope looped around his shoulder.

“What if there are more of them?”

“They were alone when they jumped us.” Jarret snags my shorts from the ground.

“Jake, wait.” I take a step, and a wave of pain stitches through my gut. “Listen to me.”

“She can’t walk and shouldn’t be on her feet,” he says to Jarret, slinging the shotgun across his back. “Take care of her.”

My molars crash together. “It’s not his job to take care of me.”

It’s yours.

Muscles twitch beneath his scowl, telling me he heard the unspoken accusation.

“My job”—his voice erupts in a thunderous roar—“is to make sure that son of a bitch never hurts you again!”

With the squeeze of his legs, he drives Barnabe onto the trail and kicks into a gallop.

“I’m not helpless,” I say quietly, but he’s already gone.

I know he’s not trying to make me feel weak. It’s just the way he is with me. Possessive. Protective. Unbending.

If I was curled up in a ball and bawling my eyes out, then yeah, I wouldn’t be able to walk. Maybe that will come later, when I return to the house, when the cops leave, when I’m in my room, alone with my thoughts.

But I’m not there yet. I’m not ready to examine the heavy thing pressing at the back of my mind. I’m not helpless.

“I don’t know what to do.” Jarret squats at my feet and holds out the shorts, his voice brittle with shock. “Lift your foot.”

“I can do this.” I take the cutoffs and pull them on, flinching at the soreness between my legs. “Wish I would’ve worn a skirt.”

“Conor… I…” He rubs the back of his neck, uncharacteristically awkward and unsure. “We should head to the house.” He glances at the trail and returns to me. “I’ll carry you to the ridge. The horses are—”

“We’re waiting for Jake and Lorne.” My gaze latches onto the dead body, and my stomach roils. “Where did they come from? Who are they?”

“Don’t know.” He bends down and yanks off the mask.

Blond hair, dull blue eyes, and a mid-twenties face, he’s no one I’ve ever seen before.

In our rural town of Sandbank, Oklahoma, population 415, there are no strangers. Everyone knows everyone, up close and personal.

“He’s not from around here.” Jarret drops the mask, covering the disgusting frozen expression. “I thought I caught a northern accent from the other one.”

“Northern? Like Minnesota? Canada?”

“Fuck if I know.”

We’ve never been out of Oklahoma and wouldn’t know the difference between a northern accent and a southern one. Regardless, no one just passes through Sandbank. There are no freeways around here. No attractions. Nothing to see but farmland. An out-of-towner needs a reason to stumble onto our ranch.

“They were going to kill me.” I wrap my arms around my waist. “They…did…” Did things to me. “They…”

A crack runs through the wall around my mind, and my defenses start to crumble.

“Dammit.” A sob climbs up my throat, and I swallow. Swallow again. I can’t fall apart. Not in front of Jarret. He’s already traumatized.

I limp to the other side of the ravine, holding up a hand as he tries to intercept. At the rock wall, I lower to the ground, rest my forehead on my knees, and heed the silence beyond the gurgling creek. Jake and Lorne are out there, chasing down evil when they should be running in the other direction.

“If they kill him…” Panic rises, and I lift my head. “Will they get in trouble?”

“They’ll bring him back here.” Jarret sits beside me and slides his palm beneath mine, weaving our fingers together. “They’ll make it look like self-defense.”