Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

A sharp stitch of pain pulls through my insides, and I gulp air like I just got kicked in the gut. Self-disparaging thoughts slosh around in my skull, hazy and irrational. I can’t swallow, because a lump has taken up residence in my throat.

This is what rejection feels like. It’s nothing new, but this time it’s misplaced and borderline manic. I don’t know this guy. I have no claim on him. Yet I’m clutching the knife like I’m seconds from running into that house and cockblocking his good time.

The thought of him banging that woman makes my chest hurt.

He’s under my skin, and I need to shake him off. Right now. This isn’t who I am. I don’t obsess over men. I don’t swoon or buckle in the presence of washboard abs and flirty smiles. I’m not even tempted to look.

Until him.

A shadow passes through the glow of light on the side yard, and a second later, a shade lowers over the bedroom window, shutting me out.

I return the knife to its sheath and straighten my spine. A hard swallow dislodges the knot in my throat, and a good mental spanking forces my feet to the car.

He did the right thing by coming outside and confronting me. I shouldn’t have spied on his intimate moment.

I screwed up, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

In the car, I start the engine and cue up a motivational song on my phone.

As Hell On Heels by Pistol Annies thumps through the old speakers, I roll down the window and hit the gas.

Tomorrow’s a new day, and there’s strength in that.

Tomorrow, I’ll have my shit together when I show up at Julep Ranch.

Tomorrow, he won’t be able to turn me away.

After a hot shower, I recline on the back porch with Jake and Conor and glide my fingers through the damp hanks of my hair. It’s been a long day, and the silence between us hangs as heavily as the shadows over the field.

Restlessness penetrates my veins in surging fits, and the pasta from dinner sits uncomfortably in my stomach. I’m sure the leftovers were fine, but all I tasted was the dour mood in the air.

We killed Levi Tibbs tonight.

That’s a damn good reason to celebrate, but none of us are feeling victorious. Conor seems lost in memory, no doubt mourning the night that bastard raped her.

I suspect Jake is brooding for the same reason I am.

For six years, we dreamed of drawing out Levi’s demise and bathing in his blood. He deserved a more prolonged and gruesome end than what we gave him.

We decided against it for Conor’s sake. Not that she isn’t strong enough to handle violence and gore. Christ, the things she’s survived would make a psychopath cry.

Nevertheless, Jake and I refused to expose her to more senseless depravity. She wanted to witness Levi’s death, so we made it quick and efficient. I guess old habits die hard, because we can’t give up our need to shelter her.

She curls up on the outdoor couch with Jake, burrowed against his side beneath the mantle of his arm. They look good together. Always have. But they seem stronger than ever now, their connection more balanced and immutable.

Despite the relapses she still has from her trauma, I know they’re happy. The thought loosens some of the tension in my chest, but we won’t know true happiness until we get Lorne back.

Without interrupting their quiet reflection, I collect the dinner dishes and step inside the house.

After I load the dishwasher, I head to the front door to spend the remainder of the night tinkering around in the stable. My project list is never-ending, and while most of the tasks are mundane, I love working with my hands.

Hard work is healing. Not in a magical way. It doesn’t erase wounds. But it returns me to the person I was before—healthy and uncomplicated, focused and unjaded.

Outside, I hop off the front porch and stroll toward the stable in the dark. And stop.

What the almighty fuck?

Maybe Quinn steps out of a beat-up sedan and hurries toward me like a woman on a mission.

Oh, fuck no. This broad has the audacity to trespass on the ranch after I told her to get lost? Her ass will be glowing red-hot by the time I’m done with her.

I plant my feet in a wide stance and join my hands behind my back as she closes the distance.

A flowery, ruffled dress thing hangs by tiny straps off her narrow shoulders, and white flats cover her feet. She looks like she dolled herself up for a tea party with the queen. It’s kind of cute, in a nutty Alice In Wonderland way.

“Before you get all surly and dickish…” She points a finger at me and pauses a few feet away. “You want to hear what I have to say.”