Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)
My heart falls out of my chest and bleeds in the snow. My lungs slam together, and I bite down so hard on my tongue I taste iron.
But I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Maybe Quinn doesn’t do anything without a fight. So I push away the rejection and pull my insides back together. My muscles tense. My blood heats, and determination surges beneath my skin.
“You can.” I rise to my feet and clench the ring in my fist.
“You don’t understand.” Her chin quivers, and tears streak down her pale cheeks.
“You love me. I love you.” My voice rises to a guttural shout. “There’s nothing else to understand!”
“Oh, God.” Her shoulders hunch, and her gloved hands fly to her mouth as she turns away, wobbling in the opposite direction of the house.
“What are you doing?” I trail her through the lot with a painful knot in my stomach. “Talk to me.”
“I will.” She picks up her pace and lurches toward her car. “I have to…” A sob rips from her chest. “I need to show you.”
She stops at the driver’s side door, clutches the handle, and pauses. Agony and conflict shake through her tiny frame, and it’s all I can do to keep from roaring. I can’t stand to see her upset.
“Whatever it is…” I return the ring to my pocket and pull her tight against my chest. “We’ll get through it. I’m not letting go. Understand?”
She stares up at me, her eyes vivid, radiant, watery blue against the backdrop of snow. She blinks, and a lone tear clings to the lower fringe of her lashes.
“I never wanted to see your lashes wet.” I catch the droplet with my finger and squeeze it in the ball of my hand. “I’m so sorry I made you cry.”
“It’s not you.” Her eyes close, and her expression crumples.
“You’re stunning, even when you’re crying.” Cupping the back of her head, I guide her face to my lips and kiss each eyelid. Damp lashes flutter against my skin, and I kiss those, too. “What can I do?”
“You’re doing everything right.” She turns back to the car door and opens it. “We should’ve had this conversation months ago.”
She bends down toward the floorboard and reappears with a large envelope clutched to her chest.
That’s where she kept her secrets? All this time, I could’ve looked in her car, but I never considered it. I told her I would wait until she was ready to give me the truth, and she left the envelope in the car, trusting me not to take it.
“I love you, Maybelline Quinn.” I hold out a hand to her.
With a jerky nod, she grips my fingers. Then she follows me into the house, down the hall, and into our bedroom.
We remove our outerwear in silence, watching each other without looking away. She sits on the bed to tug off the boots. The boots from my childhood. She could’ve replaced them with the money she’s earning. Instead, she wears them every day and even now, she sets them on the floor with affectionate care.
Lifting the envelope from the pile of coats and hats, she finds my eyes across the room. “I would’ve said yes.”
“But…” My throat closes, and a swarm of bees invade my stomach.
She clutches her neck, her expression washed in misery. “I’m already married.”
A knife twists inside one simple word.
Married.
How is that possible? Maybe is mine. She’s been mine. My fists clench as denial clamps down on my lungs.
Married.
I repeat it in my head, weighing the declaration against her actions over the past six months.
She was resistant from day one, physically and emotionally averse to having a relationship with me. But there are so many explanations for that—her fear of sexual intimacy, her suspicions about my past, and her connection to the list of dead men.
My chest squeezes around my heart as my thoughts take me farther and farther down a horrifying path.
In the back of my mind, I suspected she had some kind of family tie to my dad’s business partners. Her mother died of cancer. Her father, however, she never mentions.
But a husband?
Had I considered that possibility? Perhaps deep down I always knew and refused to let myself acknowledge it.
“Did he send you here?” I ask with more calm than I feel. “Is he using you in some kind of ploy against me?”
“What?” She shakes her head rapidly. “No!”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know anymore.” She hovers near the closed door of the bedroom, watching me warily.
“What does that mean?” I shake uncontrollably as a flood of questions rise in my throat.
Do I know him? Is she looking for him? Does she love him?
Why didn’t she tell me?
His identity is chief of my concerns. Levi Tibbs was the youngest of my victims and the first person she mentioned when I met her in the bar. But I can’t fathom her marrying a rapist and hired hit man.