Chapter Five
~ Burke ~
There’s a myth that ex-military guys sleep like the dead. That was horseshit. I woke up four times a night, every night, for the last fifteen years—sometimes from a dream, sometimes from the sheer panic that something, somewhere, was going off the rails and I’d miss it.
Today, it wasn’t a noise that roused me, or the cold snap curling up the insides of my bones. It was a feeling, the kind that rides shotgun to dread. The kind you don’t get from caffeine or adrenaline, but from knowing, deep in your marrow, that something is wrong.
I kicked off the covers, swung my feet to the floor, and grabbed the nearest shirt—a ratty college hoodie that Jojo had left folded on the banister. I’d never gone to college, but the thing was soft and still faintly smelled like lemon bars, so I wore it anyway.
The kitchen was pitch-black, but I could navigate it blindfolded. I brewed the strongest coffee known to man—cheaper and less addictive than prescription amphetamines, and twice as likely to give me the shakes. The hiss and gurgle of the percolator was the only noise in the world, for a moment.
I poured a mug and stepped outside, feeling the chill slap my face awake.
Montana mornings in April were a joke: a smear of blue-black sky, air so cold it turned your nose to glass, and ground frost that could break a horse’s ankle if you weren’t watching.
I leaned on the porch railing, listening to the world shift.
That’s when I smelled it.
Most people would’ve missed it—the way blood smells, sharp and metallic, but also a little sweet, like old nickels or the inside of a fresh-cut cactus.
My nose caught it between gulps of coffee and the usual must of horse shit and pine sap.
The wind carried it, faint but there, riding in from the west edge of the property.
I set my mug down, careful not to chip the ceramic. I didn’t bother with shoes; I just barked, “Heads up!” toward the house, loud enough to wake Rawley if he was faking sleep.
Then I sprinted.
The grass was slick, the kind of slippery that’ll put you on your ass if you’re not prepared.
I ate up the ground in long, practiced strides, trying to gauge exactly where the scent trail was thickest. By the second fence, I had it—stronger, almost cloying, and a little tang of fear spiking through.
It led to the equipment shed, or more accurately, to the shadow at its base.
I slowed up, heart hammering, and saw a shape curled into itself. Small, even smaller than I remembered, like a bird that’d hit a window and never learned the trick of getting back up.
I knelt beside him—Danny, of course it was Danny.
His clothes were half-ripped, one sleeve shredded and the other soaked through.
His hair was matted to his forehead with blood that had already started to clot.
One eye was swollen shut, the other just barely open, gold-green and dull in the early light.
His mouth was split on one side, and when he exhaled, it sounded like the world’s saddest tire going flat.
For a second, I couldn’t move. Not because I didn’t know what to do—triage was automatic, my hands wanted to check for spinal, then for pulse, then for shock—but because the sight of him like that made something inside me short-circuit.
It was as if every lesson about how to keep your cool in combat got wiped out by the stupid, useless urge to hold him together with nothing but my bare hands.
“Oh, baby,” I whispered, not even realizing I’d said it out loud. “What’d he do to you?”
Danny’s good eye rolled up to me, glassy, but aware. He tried to smile, which made the blood from his lip bead up and spill over. “I fell,” he said, voice thick and slurry. “Stupid. I’m… I fell.”
I almost laughed, but it came out more like a cough. “Into what? A semi-truck?”
He snorted, which made him wheeze and curl tighter. I saw his fingers, how they clutched at the hem of his ruined shirt, and there were bruises on his wrists shaped like someone’s grip.
I didn’t have to be a detective to know whose.
The world narrowed to just the two of us.
I was vaguely aware of Rawley’s footsteps crunching across the gravel, of the ranch dogs barking somewhere out near the barn.
But all I saw was Danny, shaking and shivering, blood running in slow tracks down his chin.
My hands hovered over him, not sure where to touch that wouldn’t make it worse.
“I got you,” I said. “I got you, okay? I’m here.”
He tried to nod, but his head barely moved.
A half-second later, Rawley slid in beside me, cursing under his breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, voice flat and dangerous.
“Who—” He cut himself off, then looked at me.
I knew what he was thinking. There was a time and place for revenge, but it sure as hell wasn’t while the kid was bleeding out on our property.
“Get Jojo,” I barked, “and wake up Hooper if you can. We’re gonna need help.”
Rawley ran, and it was just me and Danny again.
I moved slow, hands gentle, trying to check for busted bones without making the pain worse. His ribs made a weird click when I touched his side, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, then gritted my teeth. “Jesus, you’re a mess.”
He smiled again, this time less pain and more pure gallows humor. “You should see the other guy.”
I let out a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a sob, but some ugly hybrid of both.
I gathered him up, as careful as I could, tucking his head into the crook of my arm. He fit there like he’d been engineered to. I could feel how bad he was shaking, how much of him was held together by nothing more than stubbornness and spite.
I lifted him, and even though it must have hurt like hell, he didn’t make a sound.
As I turned back toward the house, his hand reached up and clung to the front of my hoodie, knuckles white against the navy blue.
I couldn’t help it; I pressed my lips to his temple, felt the fever-sweat and the grit, and made a silent promise to whatever god was listening that I would never, ever let this happen again.
Not on my watch.
Not to him.
By the time we hit the porch, Jojo was already there, tears streaming down his face. Rawley followed, already barking orders at Hooper, who’d shown up in a pair of boxers and a hunting knife, looking mildly disappointed that the emergency wasn’t “at least a bobcat.”
We carried Danny inside, the rest of the world dropping away, and every step I took just ratcheted up my rage and terror in equal measure.
All I could think was: if Dennis Jenkins wasn’t already dead, he was about to be. But for now, all that mattered was the boy in my arms, and keeping him from slipping away.
Inside the house, the world snapped into triage mode. Rawley was already barking orders before I’d made it to the kitchen table, his military cadence back in full effect. “Clear the table, Jojo—Hoop, bring the first aid kit and get the painkillers from the office. Burke, you hold him steady.”
I set Danny down as gently as I could, ignoring the fresh streak of blood he left on my forearm.
The kitchen lights made his face look even worse—eye swollen shut, lip split so wide I could see the glint of a canine tooth through the tear.
His breathing was shallow, each inhale a hiss that made me want to put my fist through drywall.
Jojo hovered nearby, hands fluttering, but his voice was steady. “Can I get these off?” he asked, already reaching for the edge of Danny’s ruined shirt.
“Do it,” I said, and tried to sound calm. I squeezed Danny’s shoulder, the only place that didn’t look freshly destroyed.
Jojo’s fingers were fast and careful, peeling the fabric away from the cuts and bruises.
Underneath, Danny was a mess—chest and stomach blotched with every color from sick yellow to blue-black, ribs jutting weirdly on the left side.
I could see each spot where Dennis had landed a kick, and I cataloged them all, making a list in my head, just in case I got a chance to return the favor.
Hooper thudded in with the med kit, tossing it onto the table like it was a football. He took one look at Danny, then at me, and said, “He needs a hospital.”
“We’re not risking ER right now,” Rawley shot back, already ripping open an alcohol wipe. “They’ll call it domestic, and we’ll be knee-deep in county drama before you can say liability.”
“We can handle it,” I said, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “He’s not dying. Not here, not now.”
Hooper shrugged, went to the sink, and started boiling water like he was prepping for a goddamn Civil War amputation.
Jojo pressed a towel to Danny’s face, whispering apologies with every dab. He muttered something about “lavender oil and arnica” and sprinted off to get it.
I stayed put, holding Danny’s good hand in both of mine. I could feel his pulse, rapid and thready, but there. I leaned in, kept my voice low. “You with me?”
He nodded, but even that tiny movement made him wince.
“Gonna hurt for a sec,” I warned. “But you’re safe, okay? I swear it. Nobody here’s gonna let him touch you again.”
His fingers twitched in my palm, but he didn’t answer.
Rawley leaned in, squinting at the worst of the bruising. He prodded Danny’s ribs, soft, but deliberate. “Count for me,” he said, and pressed just above the left side. Danny yelped, then bit down hard on his own lip.
“Three, maybe four broken,” Rawley said, as if he was diagnosing a busted carburetor.
Hooper handed me a roll of gauze, already cut to length. “You wanna do the honors?”
I nodded, then lifted Danny’s torso just enough to get the wrap started. He hissed, but he didn’t pull away. I could feel every bone in his back, every tiny tremor. If I’d let myself, I’d have cried right there, but I poured the energy into focus instead.
“Keep breathing,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
“Can’t,” he whispered. “Hurts.”