Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

I catch her around the waist and lift her off the ground.

Her elbows rear back, bouncing off my ribs as she thrashes and kicks the air. “Put me down!”

Swinging her toward the closest tree, I spin her in my arms and press her back against the huge trunk.

“If he restrained you like this,” I say calmly, “how would you escape?”

She goes ballistic, clawing and bucking and seething past clenched teeth. But she only succeeds in knocking off my hat.

“Stop.” I pin her hips with mine and wrap a hand around her throat, applying slight pressure without blocking her airflow. “Take a deep breath and listen.”

She gulps for air, and her arms drop to her sides.

“Your hands are free.” My gaze locks onto her bee-stung lips, and a rush of heat gathers beneath my belt. “You’re going to strike calmly with your thumb or the heel of your hand.”

“Where?”

“Target the cartilage right below the bridge of my nose and shove upward.”

“The mustache area? Thank you, by the way, for not growing one.”

“Yes. And you’re welcome.”

“Now?”

“Go ahead.”

Her hand snaps up, and she opts for the thumb, slamming it above my upper lip and driving upward.

Fuck, that hurts. Even though I expected it, I still drop back, my face forced skyward and my fingers slipping from her throat.

“See what happened there?” I hold my position, one foot behind me and arms out to my sides. “You redirected me and put distance between us.”

“Wow. Cool trick.”

In a blur, I’m on her. I clap a hand over her mouth and effectively restrain her small body with mine. “That maneuver only gives you a second. A second to scream, run, or prepare to block the next attack. You hesitated, and now you don’t have your voice.”

Her eyes widen above my hand, her breath hot against my palm. I release her and step back.

She rubs her cheek, peering up at me beneath long black lashes. “You’ll teach me to block?”

“Yes. But your best weapon is your voice. Scream until your vocal chords shatter. Most people suck, but they’ll hear you. Someone will come running.”

I spend the next couple of hours teaching her basic self-defense. I show her how to escape zip ties and duct tape handcuffs, as well as quick and easy ways to break handholds on her clothing. She listens, asks questions, and obeys without her usual attitude.

She’s motivated to live, and I’ll make sure she has the tools to do that. But I can’t ignore the knot of dread in my stomach. Every time I grab her, spin her, and yank her up against me, that knot coils tighter, thicker.

Over the past four days, I came to the conclusion I could never allow her to hunt down John alone. I would be with her every step of the way.

Except now, I’m coming to terms with a new realization.

I can’t let her go after him at all.

She adjusts her ponytail high on her head and faces me with a wide stance.

“Want somma this, big guy?” She pops her neck and balls her tiny fists. “Come at me.”

Good God, she’s stunning. Gutsy. Full of life. Mine. My charge, my responsibility, my reason for smiling. If another man so much as touches her, he won’t survive.

John needs to be dealt with, but not at the risk of putting her in harm’s way. I can kill him myself. But if I got caught? I would return to prison for life.

I can’t go back there.

I won’t.

The idea alone strangles me in a fog of nightmares so crippling my lungs burn beneath the pressure. When I sense her watching me, I empty my expression and shove the hat low on my brow.

“Oh, no.” She anchors her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. “Which Lorne are we now? Broody? Angry? Guilty? Vicious? Definitely not Chummy because…” She pokes a finger at her cheek and makes a twisting motion. “No dimple.”

“I need to head back.” I grab the shotgun and pack up the ammo.

“We’re finished for the day?”

“I’m not keeping up with the ranch work and—”

“Hey.” She crouches beside me and touches my shoulder. “Talk to me.”

I shrug off her hand and carry the supplies to the horse.

She hurries after me. “Are we being truthful?”

“Always.”

She plucks the ammo from my grip and stows it in the saddlebag. Then she clutches my arm, stopping me from mounting. “How did you learn to fight like that?”

“Jarret and Jake. We started beating on one another the moment we could walk.”

She nods, purses her lips. Then she tilts her head, squinting at me. “You fought in prison, too.”

“When I needed to.” My neck stiffens, and I shift back to Captain, checking the saddle straps.

“Tell me about it.”

“No.” I lift a boot to the stirrup.

She clamps a firm hand on my knee. “Living in that head of yours must be lonely.” She nudges up my hat. “I’m right here, Lorne, seeing you, wanting to hear you.”