Chapter Nineteen #2
She didn’t aim so much as jerk—fingers white-knuckled, breath coming in short, wet gasps. She looked at me, past me, through me. I don’t think she even saw Quiad until it was too late.
He moved with the kind of speed that didn’t belong to men his size. One second he was at my back, the next he was in front of me, a wall of scar and muscle and instinct. Gloria’s finger flexed on the trigger just as he reached for her wrist.
The gun went off. The world shrank to a single point of sound: the sharp, stupid pop of a revolver going off at point-blank range.
Something hit Quiad—a sound like a fist smacking a steak, a red burst on his shoulder. I saw the blood before I heard the grunt, saw the way his arm dropped, limp and useless for a second. The smell of cordite and sweat and old hate mixed together in the air, so thick it burned my nose.
But he didn’t slow down.
He barreled into Gloria, slamming her backward into the gravel. The gun skittered away, vanishing under the truck. He landed on top of her, knees on her chest, one good hand pinning her by the throat. His injured arm hung useless, blood dripping onto her face in fat, fast drops.
She fought, nails clawing at his forearm, legs kicking. Her voice was a raw, animal shriek. “LET GO OF ME! He’s the reason—he’s the reason—”
The words broke off into coughing. She twisted, tried to bite at his hand, but he was all immovable weight. He leaned in, nose to nose, and bared his teeth.
“He’s mine,” he said, voice low and lethal. “He’s never going back with you.”
I wanted to move, to help, to do anything. But my legs were rooted to the ground. My hands shook so bad I couldn’t unclench them.
Knox and Ransom went to work on the thugs—Jacket Guy tried to get back to his feet, but Knox drove a fist into his jaw, the crack so loud I felt it in my own teeth.
Tattoo Guy made a break for the road, but Ransom tackled him, rolling them both into the ditch, boots and fists and curses in a single writhing ball.
Gloria’s eyes rolled up, but she wasn’t done. Her hands found a rock, brought it up, slammed it against Quiad’s temple. Blood welled there, fresh and ugly. He barely noticed. His grip on her throat tightened, just a little.
She spat blood and dirt, clawed again, and this time found his wound. Her fingers dug into the ragged hole in his shirt, the torn flesh beneath. He hissed, jerked back, but didn’t let go.
I finally moved, crawling over the gravel, yanking her hand away from his wound. My palm came away red and slick. I heard her sob, a dry, mean sound.
“You think this is your family? These people? You’re garbage, Levi. You always have been. That’s why I—” She broke off, choking. Her voice dropped to a whisper, desperate and ugly. “You ruined me. You owe me. I gave up everything—”
She coughed again, flecks of blood and spit dotting her chin.
Quiad’s face was set in stone, blood dripping from his head and shoulder, teeth bared. I’d never seen him look at someone with so much hate. I grabbed his wrist, tried to get him to ease off, but he didn’t react.
“Please,” I said. “Quiad, stop. You’ll kill her.”
He looked at me, really looked, and I saw something break behind his eyes. His hand opened, just a bit, enough for Gloria to suck in a ragged breath. She lay there, gasping, eyes wild and white.
Ransom came limping back from the ditch, shirt ripped, a scrape on his cheekbone and blood on his knuckles. He hauled Tattoo Guy by the collar, dumped him next to Knox’s crumpled opponent. Knox stood behind, breathing heavy, face unreadable.
“Sheriff’s on the way,” Ransom said, voice like sandpaper. “Harlow called from the house.”
I nodded, not taking my eyes off Gloria. She glared back, defiant, even as her voice failed. I looked down at my hands, covered in Quiad’s blood. They shook, but not from fear this time.
I stood, stepped over Gloria, and wiped my hands on the hem of my shirt. For a second, she looked up at me—not as a mark, not as a payday, but as her son. I saw the hope flare in her eyes. The hope that I’d fold, that I’d give in, that I’d crawl back to her on my knees.
“No,” I said. “You don’t get to win, not this time.”
She spat at my feet, but she was done.
I looked at the mess around me—the blood on the ground, the broken men, the gun still warm under the tire. The life I’d left behind, trying to claw its way back with teeth and bullets.
Then I looked at Quiad, holding his injured arm against his chest, eyes fixed on me like I was the only thing left that mattered. I knelt next to him, pressed my hand to his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. He winced, but didn’t push me away.
“You okay?” I said, voice barely there.
He grunted. “Had worse.”
I started to laugh, and it came out as a hiccup, raw and close to tears. I buried my face in his chest, breathing in the sweat and blood and wood smoke.
He rested his chin on top of my head, and I felt the tremor go through him, the one he tried so hard to hide from everyone else.
“I got you,” I whispered, voice thick.
He nodded, once. “Mine,” he said, and his whole body shook with it.
I clung to him, even as the sirens began to echo up the road, lights already flashing at the turnoff. I didn’t let go, not for anything. The farm was quiet, except for our breath and the distant sound of rescue.
I’d never felt more free.
It was full dark by the time the sirens lit up the yard, blue and red washing over the porch, the barn, the battered faces and bleeding bodies scattered across the drive. The world went electric: engines revving, voices shouting, radios squawking from the open doors of the sheriff’s car.
The first thing I saw was Floyd, moving like a man who’d rather be anywhere but here. He hopped the fence, boots spraying gravel, his right hand never leaving the butt of his holster.
Behind him, Deputy Dan peeled off, scanning the shadows for hidden threats, his face tight and pale in the strobe of the patrol lights.
Floyd clocked the scene in three seconds flat. Gloria and her muscle on the ground—one moaning, the other dead weight. Knox and Ransom flanking them, faces set and still. Me, crouched next to Quiad, my hands soaked red, the stink of blood and gunpowder heavy in the air.
“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND, NOW!” Floyd bellowed, voice carrying clear across the field.
Nobody moved. Knox just set his jaw, arms folded. Ransom raised his hands, palms out, the ghost of a grin flitting across his bruised mouth. Only the two thugs reacted, groaning and flinching at the command.
Gloria—her voice like broken glass—spat, “You’re too late, Sheriff. Your golden boy’s already shot somebody.”
Dan ran up on us, weapon drawn, eyes wide as he took in the blood running down Quiad’s arm. “Jesus, is he hit?”
“Bullet graze,” Quiad grunted, not looking away from Gloria. “Could use a towel, not a funeral.”
I tried to help him stand, but he shook his head. “Stay down, Sunshine. You’re a better target that way.”
Floyd holstered his gun, striding in to get a closer look. He knelt next to Quiad, then turned to me. “You alright, kid?”
I nodded, but it was a lie. My bones were vibrating, every muscle gone to mush. “Can you get her out of here?” I said, nodding at Gloria, who just glared back with murder in her eyes.
Dan took her arms, read her the rights in a voice as flat as the kitchen table. She went feral, fighting the cuffs, screaming about property and blood and how she’d sue the county for everything it was worth.
For a second, she managed to twist and look me full in the face. “You’ll pay for this,” she hissed. “You and your whole fucking bastard family.”
Ransom laughed, low and cold. “Try it, bitch. See how far you get.”
Knox picked up the gun from under the truck, careful with the grip. He handed it to Floyd, who bagged it without a word.
The rest of the cleanup happened fast—like a tornado passing through, everyone scrambling to triage and document and patch the holes.
Dan zip-tied the two thugs together, neither of whom looked like they’d be moving on their own anytime soon.
Knox and Ransom stood sentry, eyes never leaving Gloria, while Floyd ran the story twice, checking for cracks.
All the while, Quiad kept me pressed against his good side, arm locked around my waist. Even bleeding, even dizzy, he never let go.
“Hurts?” I asked, voice hoarse.
He shrugged. “Nothing compared to watching them try to take you again.”
I buried my face in his shoulder, the salt and iron and sweat grounding me.
When they finally got Gloria into the back of the squad car, she still hadn’t shut up.
She kicked at the door, shrieked that she’d burn the place down, that nobody could keep her from what was hers.
Dan slammed the door with a satisfying bang, and the scream went instantly silent, trapped in the glass and steel.
The thugs went in the second car, still cussing but with none of Gloria’s venom.
Floyd came back, wiped his brow, and surveyed the McKenzie clan: the blood, the bruises, the way we were all crowded around each other like a pack of battered dogs.
“You boys want to explain what the fuck just happened out here?”
Knox did, in exactly thirteen words, none of them wasted on adjectives.
Ransom added, “She came for Levi. Missed the memo about us not being pushovers.”
Floyd shook his head, something like pride flickering at the corners of his mouth. “You McKenzies attract trouble like shit attracts flies.” Then he looked at me, softer. “You sure you’re alright, Levi?”
This time I managed a smile. “Better now.”
He nodded, then gestured at Quiad. “You’re getting that looked at. Don’t argue.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Quiad said, eyes never leaving mine.
The yard slowly emptied—the lights faded, the radios went silent, and the sirens became nothing but a memory. Ransom found a half-bottle of whiskey under the seat of Gloria’s truck, popped the top, and passed it to me. The burn was like swallowing a live wire, but it steadied my hands.
Knox went inside for towels, bandages, the first aid kit we’d used a hundred times before. When he came out, he wrapped Quiad’s arm, then handed me a wet cloth and nodded for me to clean up.
Ransom nudged me. “Hell of a night, huh?”
I wiped my face, trying to scrub the fear out with the blood. “Yeah,” I said, “but I think it’s finally over.”
“Nothing’s ever over,” Ransom said, but he smiled when he said it.
Quiad stood, winced, but held himself tall. He caught my chin in his hand, wiped away a smear of blood, and kissed my forehead. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I laughed, then cried, then laughed again, because it felt like a miracle to be alive, to be here, to be held by the man who’d saved me a thousand times over.
He pulled me in, held me tight, his big hand cradling the back of my head. I clung to him, the world shrinking to the heat of his body and the thump of his heart under my ear.
“We’re good?” I whispered.
He nodded, voice raw. “We’re better than good.”
The leather bands on our wrists pressed together—his blood and mine mixing, proof that no matter what came for us, we’d always fight back.
I watched the sheriff’s car roll down the drive, Gloria’s face a smudge of fury and loss behind the tinted glass. I let her go, at last. Let the past go with her.
We stood in the blue darkness, arms wrapped around each other, and I knew what it was to be free. To be wanted. To be home.