Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jeremiah was on his way to the site of his father’s showdown with the Brands, a canyon at the far western part of the ranch.
His old man might have had time to hide something there when he’d been waiting to ambush Garrett Brand and his brothers and his kid sister, Jessi, who was scarier than all of ’em.
It had been a stupid mistake to take on a family like the Brands out of vengeance. But they had his son, and de Lorean wanted Ethan back. Jeremiah supposed that would’ve been enough to make his old man take stupid chances.
Imagine him murdering Ethan’s mother and then thinking he ought to be the one to raise him. Hell, he almost wished he’d been rescued by a family like the Brands. Maybe he’d have turned out to be decent, like his brother.
He’d pulled the Jeep over alongside a stretch of pavement and looked at the map unfolded on the seat.
He’d resorted to the map when the GPS had refused to locate the canyon.
Thompson’s Gorge, according to Garrett Brand’s notes.
It was apparently several miles west and there didn’t appear to be a road that led out there.
He had no idea if it was drivable. His Jeep was not an off-roading model. Mud-bogging had never appealed.
He looked off to the left, and saw badlands and desert, boulders and drifts, and he knew plain and simple his Jeep wasn’t equal to the terrain. He was going to need an ATV.
The radio crackled, then he heard a dispatcher’s voice. “A deputy on horseback is in pursuit of a suspect on a motorcycle who just vandalized the WTD. She’s gone silent, we can’t raise her.
A female deputy on horseback? Willow?
He jammed the Jeep into gear, pulled a U-turn in the road, stomped it, and didn’t let off the gas until he got onto the state highway seventeen minutes later, he skidded to a halt on the shoulder amid three cop cars and an ambulance, dove out of his Jeep and ran.
He stopped when he caught sight of Willow, lying on her back on the ground.
Her horse stood nearby. Someone came running up behind him.
Ethan. His red pickup was sideways in the road behind him; its driver’s door open wide.
The EMTs closed ranks around her there on the ground, most of them kneeling, some standing.
Jeremiah couldn’t see Willow. Ethan was swearing and pushing his way forward, so he stayed close, riding his brother’s wake, but then Garrett stepped in front of them, hands to their shoulders. “You have to stay back, boys. Let ‘em have some room.”
“What happened?” Jeremiah croaked.
“Anonymous caller said the horse spooked, reared up so bad he flipped backwards and landed on top of her. Added ‘it wasn’t on purpose.’” He looked over where Sundance was standing. Another deputy had him by his halter. The horse kept picking up one foreleg.
Jeremiah edged past Garrett while the sheriff was focused on keeping his son out of the paramedics’ way.
A minute later, Ethan did, too. They strode up behind the EMTs where they could see Willow.
She had a neck brace on, and a backboard underneath her.
They were fastening straps to hold her in place.
Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving.
Jeremiah swore under his breath, pushed a hand through his hair, front to back, and swore some more. He saw blood on the pavement and something dropped out of his stomach. He didn’t realize he’d dropped with it, right to his damn knees.
They hefted the backboard and carried her toward the ambulance with its rear doors open, then placed the backboard and Willow onto a waiting gurney.
Jeremiah got up off his knees, followed them, and realized others were doing the same. Orrin and Drew had shown up, maybe getting the news the same way he had. With all their sleuthing, they probably had a police scanner.
A big black pickup with the Skydancer Ranch logo on the side sped toward them. It skidded to a halt in the road and Willow’s parents, Wes and Taylor, got out and came running, leaving the truck’s doors open behind them.
“Just give us enough room to work,” said a young medic who was pulling Willow’s eyelids up and shining a light into them.
Drew Brand shot him a look, and said, “It’s you. You’re an EMT, too?”
The young man glanced at her and recognition flashed in his eyes. They clearly knew each other. “Among other things,” he said.
He put the light away and looked at the medic on the other side of Willow from him, who was removing a cuff from her arm. “One-fifteen over seventy-two.”
The young medic said, “Her vitals are strong. Looks like she hit her head pretty good. We need to get her to El Paso. You can meet us there.”
“Can I—” Jeremiah began, then stopped himself before he could complete the thought. Can I ride with her?
Everyone was looking at him oddly as they closed the doors. He didn’t bother trying to tack a lame ending onto the sentence. Let them make whatever they wanted out of it.
He strode back toward his Jeep.
His brother Ethan’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder.
He knew without looking who it was but stopped walking.
Everyone else was heading for their vehicles, too.
As they passed, Willow’s father sent him a long, hard look.
He was an impressive man with the sculpted face and piercing brown eyes of his Comanche ancestors and silver white hairs interspersing the black.
Jeremiah felt as if Wes Brand moved past him in slow motion, that steely gaze penetrating his very soul.
So he shifted his eyes away from it, and they fell on Willow’s mom, an older version of her daughter.
She gave him the very slightest nod. There was encouragement in her eyes.
“See you at the hospital, Jeremiah,” she said.
Her husband shot her a look, and she slid her hand into his and hurried toward their black stallion of a pickup truck.
Sheriff Garrett was leaning into his SUV, speaking into the radio mic. His brother-in-law and chief deputy, Lash, was leading the team around the bit of road where the accident had happened, directing the deputy who was taking photos of twisty skid marks on the pavement.
Orrin and Drew were heading his way, on their way to the little white EV they’d driven there.
Drew said, “You’re coming to the hospital, right?”
Orrin sent his sister a frown.
Jeremiah just nodded, turned, and went to his Jeep. He got behind the wheel, and realized Beans was home alone. He’d intended to pick the pup up once he’d figured out how he was reaching the site.
He took out his phone, and called the landline number Frankie had given him. A woman answered, and he said, “Hey, Mrs. Miller? This is Jeremiah Thorne, I have the dog.”
“It’s Mrs. Delmar,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Thorne? We can’t take Beans back, if that’s what—”
“No, uh, I need a dog sitter for a few hours tonight. I thought if Frankie wanted to—”
“Oh, thank goodness. He’s been heartbroken. Frankie! Frankie!”
Thundering footsteps and his grandmother’s muffled voice preceded Frankie’s excited, “Jeremiah? You need me to watch Beans?”
“Yeah. Listen, kid, can you get someone drive you over to the bunkhouse? I don’t like you riding that far on your bike.”
“Sure, Grandma will take me.”
“The key’s under the old milk can that sits by the bunkhouse door,” Jeremiah said. “Have your grandmother help you unlock it, in case you have trouble. I’ll run you home after I get back, but it might be late.”
“That’s okay, no school yet.”
“I’ll pay you for your time, kid. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. Grandma’s getting her keys. See you later, Jeremiah.”
“See you later, Frankie.”
As he disconnected, his heart was slightly lighter. He’d made Frankie happy. That was worth something. The kid and his dog were like a couple points of light along a dark stretch of highway.
He started up the Jeep and pointed it toward El Paso, got about ten miles, but then he couldn’t keep going. Images of Willow lying so still, of the blood on the ground he was pretty sure had come from her head, wouldn’t let up. What if he got there too late? What if she…?
Something welled up in his chest and his eyes were watering so much he couldn’t see. He had to pull over. So he did, along the shoulder. Then he gripped the steering wheel in one hand and pressed his fingers to his eyes but even then he kept seeing the blood shining in her dark hair.
His stupid nose was running.
He opened the glove compartment, and his father’s journal fell out. The whole reason he’d come here was in that journal. Freaking stupid quest, stupid gold. He opened it to the page he’d marked, tore it out and crumbled it in his fist.
Knuckles rapped on his window, startling him bad. He shoved the crumpled page into his pocket and looked up.
His brother stood there with his angel-blonde bride Lily beside him. She was frowning so hard her eyebrows met.
Jeremiah put his window down. Ethan looked at him and his eyes widened a little bit. Then frowning again, he said, “So it’s like that, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro. I’m having an allergy attack.” He glanced at Lily. “Don’t suppose you have a Benadryl on you?”
“Fresh out,” she said. And she tilted her head to one side and searched his eyes. “You okay?”
Of all the Brands, only Lily would ask a villain like him if he was okay. Then again, she was only a Brand by marriage.
His throat knotted up so hard he couldn’t talk, so he nodded instead. Then he grabbed the water bottle in his console and took a drink. It was piss-warm. He said, “We should get going. Make sure she’s okay.”
“So why’d you stop then?” Lily asked.
“Told you. Allergy attack. I think it’s easing up.”
Lily’s face was soft. “You can ride with us, get the Jeep later, if—”
“He’s got it, hon,” Ethan said, like he knew Jeremiah needed to be alone. “You’ve got it, yeah, bro?”
“Yeah, I got it. Thanks.”