Texas Forever (The Tylers of Texas 6)

Would that satisfaction include killing her, too? Vivian remembered the loaded pistol that Hunter kept in the drawer of the nightstand. If she could get to it, she might at least be able to save her own life.

“In some countries, you’d get stoned to death,” Hunter said. “Lucky for you, we live in a civilized society.”

“Listen to me, Hunter,” she pleaded. “Those things you read, they weren’t real. They were made up, like a story I was writing. Will never touched me except to shake hands. Yes, I was attracted to him. But he barely knew I existed. You killed an innocent man!”

“You’re a lying whore!” He took a step toward her, letting the papers fall to the floor. Vivian edged along the side of the bed, toward the nightstand.

“When I thought of you and that bastard together, I wanted to kill you, too. But then I read what you wrote again, and I knew I wanted to do those things to you myself. I wanted to thrill you like he did. I wanted to make you scream and yowl like a cat in heat—like you’ve never done with me.”

Vivian edged closer to the nightstand. “Please don’t kill me, Hunter,” she begged, stalling for time. “I’m your wife. I’ll never tell anybody what you did.”

“Shut up! Now that your boy’s not around to protect you, I can do anything I want. Keep me happy, and I might not kill you—or again, I might. But I can promise you one thing. You’re never going to cheat on me again! Now get your clothes off!”

The drawer was inches away. Hunter wasn’t armed, but he was strong and fast. If she didn’t move like lightning, he could grab the gun or even strangle her with his bare hands.

She reached for the drawer handle, but not fast enough.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, instantly alert.

“My—that gel I use. I’ve been dry lately . . . I thought—”

“Forget that. I said, get your clothes off.”

Desperate, she tried another tack. “Fine. But if you really want to do what’s on those papers, we have to start slow.” Willing her hands not to shake, she unbuttoned her shirt and slid her bra straps off her shoulders. The breasts that tumbled out were full and ripe. She’d always been proud of her beautiful breasts. “Suck my tits,” she whispered. “Suck me like a baby. You’ll see what it does to me, and to you.”

He dropped partway to his knees and buried his face against one breast. Lying back, she held his head there, pushing him into her softness to cover his eyes. His mouth was hard, hurting her. But she moaned and squirmed against him, pretending to like it while her free hand crept toward the drawer and pulled it open. Her heart slammed as her fingers closed around the grip of the 9mm Glock. She had one chance. Fail, and she would be a dead woman.

Clamping her hand around the grip, she lifted the gun from the drawer. She had it, but not at the right angle for cocking, aiming, and firing the weapon, and she didn’t dare let go to adjust her hold.

“What the devil—?” Sensing her distraction, he jerked away and saw the gun. Before he could recover, she raised her knees and shoved him backward. He was on his feet in a flash, but the instant’s delay gave her time to cock the pistol and get both hands around the grip, police-style.

“You bitch!” He was standing over her where she lay on her back, with the pistol pointed up at him. If he were to reach out and seize her arm, it wouldn’t take much effort to twist her aim away and take the gun. There was only one way she could save herself.

Vivian pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed off the walls of the room. A look of surprise flashed across Hunter’s face. He reeled, staggered, and went down. Blood flowed from the wound in his side, soaking into the white rug.

He was alive but too badly wounded to get up. She knew better than to shoot him again. The police would question that. But she was no nurse and certainly no hero. Grabbing the pillow off the bed, she pressed it against the wound. “Hold it tight if you want to live,” she said. “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

With icy calm, possibly from shock, she picked up the bedside phone and dialed 911. “This is Mrs. Cardwell at the old Prescott Ranch,” she told the dispatch operator. “I’ve just shot my husband in self-defense. . . . Yes, he’s alive, but he’s losing a lot of blood. Yes, I’ve put pressure on the wound, but you’ll need to send an ambulance. Oh—and call Sheriff Harger. Tell him that Hunter Cardwell just confessed to murdering Will Tyler.”

After ending the call, Vivian pulled up her bra and buttoned her shirt. Then she picked up the pages Hunter had dropped and carried them downstairs to the shredder.

* * *

The distant wail of sirens woke Erin in the darkness. She stirred in Luke’s ar

ms, pulled away, and sat up in bed.

“What is it?” He opened his eyes, instantly alert.

“Listen,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

He sat up, listening beside her. “They don’t sound close. And they don’t seem to be getting closer. Maybe something’s going on at the syndicate ranch.”

“What if it’s a fire? It could spread.” Erin remembered the terrible wildfires of a few years ago, especially the one that had nearly destroyed the Rimrock.

He kissed her cheek. “What do you say I go out on the porch and have a look?”