Chapter Eleven
HE’S THE REASON.
That we left the ranch all those years ago.
Isn’t he?
I thought about it after the courtroom. I thought about what he said in the car, about his crime, about him trying to kill Peyton’s father. I couldn’t put it together before—probably because I was out of my mind with fear—but it all adds up now.
Eight years ago, we left the ranch abruptly, Peyton and her mom, and my mom and me.
I remember we were at camp when we got the call that we had to cut it short and leave.
And that we weren’t going home but somewhere else.
They told us there was an attack at the ranch.
That someone broke in and beat Peyton’s father within an inch of his life.
They said he had every intention of killing Mr. Turner, but someone heard noises coming out of the mansion and called the cops.
They also said he wore a mask, a bull mask with horns.
Peyton was understandably upset. She never liked her father, but someone trying to kill him was an extreme she couldn’t have imagined herself.
But me; like a traitor, I was happy. Not because Peyton’s father and my parents’ employer was almost killed but because we finally had the chance to move away from my daddy.
I was happy that maybe now my mother would be safe from him and his fists, his cruelty.
So while Peyton hated the masked man who came to kill her father, I didn’t.
I saw him as a savior. I know it’s fucked up.
I know what an epic betrayal of Peyton this is.
I know that.
Not only did that man try to kill my best friend’s father, but he was probably from the Rawhide ranch. The family that’s full of criminals and bad men. The family that as part of the Grayson clan, I’m supposed to hate.
Even though no one told us that specifically, that the man who broke in was a Grayson, Peyton and I could both figure it out.
Peyton’s mom tried to keep us away from the news, too, citing that it would have a harmful effect on us.
But Peyton, as always, didn’t follow the rules.
She tried to find everything she could about the trial, the man who was arrested.
She never shared any of this with me, though.
She thought I was too fragile, and I let her believe that. But I wasn’t too fragile.
I was too invested in him.
I already wanted to know everything about him, about the man who got us away from my daddy’s evil clutches. Who saved my mother. Who saved me. Not that moving away made much of a difference. My father was still very much a part of my mother’s life if he wanted to be.
But the point is that he’s the one. He’s the one who saved me.
The one in the mask, the man I think of as my hero.
I don’t know how to feel about that. I don’t know how to even begin to comprehend what it means. That the same man who saved me years ago is the man who’s been lying to me for the past six months. I’ve dreamed about two men in my life, and turns out, both of them are one and the same.
My asshole criminal cowboy. My husband.
No, not my husband. He just thinks he’s my husband and I’m his wife.
And if I have my way, he’ll never find out the truth.
It’s more imperative now than ever. Especially after I know what he’s capable of.
Beating a man half to death and stabbing a cop in a courtroom; having his shooter friend at his beck and call, ready to kill people.
“How do I know you kept your promise?” I blurt out, my voice sounding too loud in the space.
We’re in the car and I’m watching his hands.
They’re resting on the wheel, his fingers loosely grasping it as he drives us somewhere.
I don’t know where we’re going; he of course never told me.
Like the morning at the cabin, when I found him in the room, fully awake, and this time, staring at the document he made me sign.
There was breakfast on the nightstand, and with a heavy look directed at me, he said we were leaving soon and I needed to be ready.
I didn’t argue with him.
I didn’t ask all the questions I wanted to ask.
Like, why do I always find him sitting in a corner, awake, looking like he hasn’t slept a wink all night?
What was he doing after I went to sleep?
Because I think something happened. Something…
that I’m afraid to think about. Not to mention, I could’ve fought him this morning.
I could’ve screamed, gotten someone’s attention instead of meekly getting in the car with him.
But I kept seeing the blood spurting out of the sheriff’s arm.
I kept thinking about how he could get someone killed if I didn’t obey him, and my tongue stayed tied.
I unglue it from the roof of my mouth once again, and while staring at his throat-grabbing, knife-wielding, and almost-murdering but savior hands, I prod, “How do I know he…” I stop and clear my throat before continuing, “How do I know my brother’s alive? ”
I watch his fingers flex on the wheel. Then, “He’s alive.”
I lift my eyes to his face, and the first thing I see is the sun’s rays hitting him and making his bronzed skin glow.
The sunlight falls on his jaw, his throat, the strands of hair teasing his neck in patches, and for a second or two, all I can do is trace the patterns they create.
All I can do is think about how the sun chases away the shadows created by his cap.
How he attempted to murder someone, but he’s also a savior.
“But how do I know that?” I insist, pushing those thoughts away for the millionth time. “You could be… You could be lying.”
His fingers flex again.
As if at the word lying. Then, “I was.”
“What?”
“Lying.”
“I don’t—”
“Didn’t have anyone waitin’ for him,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road. “He was fine the whole time.”
And my mouth falls open. “He was… You…”
His chest rises and falls with a breath. “Killin’ the Turner family’s not my endgame. Not anymore. I want them alive. So they can wish they were dead.”
I turn toward him fully. “So you lied to me?”
His jaw moves back and forth. “That’s what I said.”
“That’s… I don’t…” Then, with my hands fisted, I try again: “I can’t… I can’t believe you lied to me.”
His face is hard, a pulse beating in his cheek, but his shrug seems casual. “Well, I lied to you for six months. Shouldn’t really be a surprise I did it again, don’t you think?”
God, I hate him.
I absolutely fucking hate him.
I open my fists and grab the edge of the seat, biting into the leather with my nails. “So, what, if I hadn’t gotten in your car yesterday, your stupid freaking car that you kidnapped me in, and came with you to the courtroom all quietly and meekly like I did, nothing would’ve happened?”
“Something would’ve happened.”
“Like what?”
“Like me tyin’ you up and throwin’ you in the trunk of my car. And drivin’ you to the courthouse anyway.”
I think a nail breaks at this. “You—”
“I didn’t think your wrists could take the abuse,” he speaks over me. “Not yet at least, so I made a judgment call.”
I stare at him for a few seconds because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to say or think other than the fact that he’s insane. He’s completely insane.
“So scaring me out my mind,” I begin, glaring at him, “was your judgment call?”
“Your wrists are gettin’ better, aren’t they?”
I look down at my wrists like an idiot. And again like an idiot, I do think they look fine. The redness is still there, but the skin doesn’t look as tender or swollen as it did only a day ago. It doesn’t itch as much either.
But that’s not…
I jerk my head up. “I don’t care about my wrists. I care that you lied to me.”
“Again,” he replies, his voice all cool. “Shouldn’t be a surprise after everything.”
“Oh my God, this is—”
“Plus, it got you to get in the car, didn’t it.”
“That’s not a reason to—”
“The easy way too,” he goes on. “So all’s well that ends well.”
“No,” I snap, finally getting my bearings. “All is not well. All is fucked. All is—”
“Stay in the car.”
I draw back at the sudden change of topic, and for the first time since we started this journey, I look away from him.
And I realize two things: First, we’ve come to a stop.
And second, we’ve come to a stop at a ranch.
I’ve been so focused on him that I have no idea how long it took us to get here, but it looks like we’re parked on a dirt road and there’s a corral right in front of us.
There are palominos trotting along the fence and a couple of ranch hands brushing other horses’ coats and tending to their hooves.
A sprawling house stands against the backdrop of a large field that also holds grazing horses, and then, as always, off in the distance is the ever-present chain of mountains that you find in Montana no matter where you go.
Before I can turn to him and ask what this place is and what we’re doing here, he climbs out of the car and prowls away, leaving me stunned.
He heads toward the barn that sits right adjacent to the corral, and as he nears it, I see the barn door opening.
A guy comes out wearing a Stetson and leather chaps.
I watch them have a conversation, and it’s so reminiscent of yesterday that ignoring his decree, I jump out of the car and head toward them.
I get there just as the guy walks away and I demand, “Who was he?”
My eyes are on the guy as he heads back to the barn, which is probably why I don’t see Arsen move closer to me.
So close that I feel him breathing down my neck.
I feel his big hard chest, which was plastered to my spine yesterday while he held my throat captive, moving.
My heart races, and for some reason, instead of turning around to face him, I choose to watch the guy as he disappears inside the barn.
“Is he your buddy?” I blurt out. “Like the sheriff?”
Ignoring me, he rasps, “You didn’t stay in the car.”