Chapter Fourteen #2
I saw the silver arc before my brain could name it: a knife, one of the cheap ones from the block by the stove. Rawley ducked, but not fast enough—the blade scraped down his upper arm, a quick, bright stripe of red blossoming instantly.
The other two were screaming, the taller one trying to scrabble away with his hands still cuffed. The third guy was out cold, facedown in a puddle of what I hoped was only blood from his nose.
Rawley didn’t hesitate. He closed the gap, grabbed the guy’s wrist, and did something with leverage and brute force that sent the knife spinning to the floor.
Then, with the same unhurried malice as a meat packer, he slammed the man’s face onto the countertop, once, twice, until the screaming stopped and the body slumped like a bag of offal.
For a second, there was only the hiss of the fridge and the sound of my heart battering my sternum. Then the tall man, the only one conscious, started to cry.
I found my voice before my brain was ready. “Rawley—your arm—”
He shook it once, blood running down to his elbow. “Superficial,” he said, voice even. “Get back.”
But I didn’t get back. I went forward, crossing the floor, ignoring the sticky feeling of someone else’s blood on my soles. I reached for a towel from the oven handle, pressed it to Rawley’s wound. My hands trembled so hard I could barely hold the fabric in place.
The sound of the siren grew louder, then died. Doors slammed outside.
“Stay here,” Rawley said, but he was already moving to the kitchen door, the gun at low ready. He didn’t trust the uniforms, not even the sheriff. Not with Hargrove’s reach.
The moment his back was turned, the tall man went for the knife. I saw it a half-second too late, but the fear-for-my-life adrenaline had spiked to a place where everything happened at once and in perfect, sharp focus.
I let go of the towel, lunged for the hall closet, and yanked out the shotgun.
I’d never fired it. I had never even loaded it, but Rawley made me practice racking it “for the auditory effect,” which I’d always thought was some macho bullshit until I heard the sound echo through the kitchen like a death sentence.
Both men froze.
“Get out of our house,” I said, voice flat, cold as the river in January.
The tall man dropped the knife, hands raised over his head, wrists still cinched together.
The thud of boots on the porch, then the sheriff’s voice: “Steele! Inside! Hands!”
Rawley holstered the Sig and stepped into the doorframe, both hands up, blood painting his forearm in an unbroken line. The sheriff clocked the situation in a second—two men on the ground, one with a face like hamburger, the other moaning and crying, me with a twelve-gauge aimed at chest height.
“Jesus Christ,” the sheriff muttered. He scanned for bystanders, then called, “Put the gun down, son.”
I did, slowly, but kept my body between the men and Rawley, as if I could shield him with my nothing frame.
Sheriff Calloway came in, gun drawn, but pointed low. He took in the carnage, the blood, the zip-ties, and then locked eyes with Rawley.
“What happened?” he said.
“Home invasion,” Rawley said. “They came in masked and armed.”
The sheriff nodded once, like that was all the explanation he needed.
He cuffed the tall man, dragged him upright, then checked the other two for signs of life.
The stocky one was groaning, but mostly out of commission.
The third man was still out cold, which looked less concerning once the sheriff checked his pulse and propped him up in the recovery position.
Rawley turned to me. “You okay?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t stop looking at his arm, the way the blood slicked down to his knuckles, his hand already starting to shake from shock or maybe just anger.
The sheriff worked the scene with practiced boredom. He read the men their rights, even though one was leaking blood all over the floor. He asked Rawley the same questions twice, wrote down the answers in a notebook with a stub of pencil, then turned to me.
“You see anything?” he asked.
“Yeah. I saw them try to kill my—” The word choked me. I had no legal or moral standing to say husband, and the word partner sounded like something you called your dentist. “—Rawley.”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s good enough for me.” He checked the faces of the men again, then grunted, “Thought so.”
“What?” Rawley asked.
“These two. Ranch hands from Hargrove’s place. New hires.” He looked at me. “They try to hurt you?”
I shook my head, the numbness settling in now that the adrenaline was leaching away.
“Next time,” the sheriff said, his tone weirdly gentle, “don’t come down the stairs.” He gestured at the blood. “Let him do the fighting.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I just nodded, knowing I’d never be able to obey that command as long as Rawley was on the line.
The men were hauled out to the squad cars. The sheriff left one of his deputies to process the scene, which mostly meant standing in our foyer and pretending not to look at the bullet holes in the drywall or the blood on the floor.
Rawley sat at the kitchen table, shirt off, arm propped up while I did a field dressing. His skin was warm under my hands, his biceps twitching every time I pulled the gauze tight.
“You’re going to need stitches,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing.
“It’ll keep,” he said. He watched me work, eyes bright but not unfocused. “You did good.”
I wanted to say I hadn’t done anything, but the shotgun was still on the counter, the barrel streaked with my own fingerprints.
The words died in my throat.
“I should have stopped them,” I said, voice shaking. “If I’d—”
He reached for me with his good hand, cupped the back of my neck, and pulled me close. “You stopped them,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
I pressed my face to his chest, careful not to jostle the wound. He smelled like gun oil, sweat, and the faint, sweet trace of bread flour that seemed to cling to him no matter what.
“I’m sorry,” I said, for the third or fourth time.
He just held me, his hand warm and heavy at the nape of my neck. “Don’t be.”
After a while, the sheriff came back in, his voice lower than before. “You’re going to need to press charges,” he said to Rawley. “Hargrove’ll try to spin it, say they were here on a legal errand.”
Rawley grinned, all teeth. “Let him.”
The sheriff hesitated, then leaned in. “I’ll have a car sit on your drive for a few nights. But you should know, this isn’t the end of it.”
“I know,” Rawley said. “And I’ll handle it.”
The sheriff looked at me, like maybe he wanted to apologize for something, but didn’t know how. “You take care,” he said, and left.
I stood in the kitchen, not wanting to move. My legs trembled, the fear coming back now that it was safe to feel it. My hands remembered the weight of the shotgun, the way the action had felt so final, so much like a line I couldn’t uncross.
Rawley got up, stood behind me, and wrapped his good arm around my chest. His other hand covered mine, right where they pressed against my belly.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he said, voice more promise than threat.
For the first time, I believed him.
The house felt gutted. Empty of threat, but also of the comfort that used to fill the spaces between the walls.
I wiped the counter, the blood soaking through the paper towels in watery red blossoms. My hands shook—not with fear, but with the afterburn of adrenaline, as if the fight hadn’t drained from my body yet.
Rawley sat at the kitchen table, his wounded arm propped on a pillow, bandages already blooming faint pink at the edges. He watched me move, his eyes tracking my every step, like he was waiting for me to break or disappear.
He looked different now. Not just hurt—changed. Whatever piece of him had been holding back, trying to be a gentle rancher or some approximation of a normal man, was gone. He was a weapon again, sharp and dangerous, and I wanted that more than I wanted the fantasy of the gentle giant.
When I finished scrubbing, I slumped into the chair beside him. I wrapped my arms around myself, but his hand reached out and found my wrist, held it tight.
“We’ll get through this,” he said. It sounded like an order.
I tried to laugh, but it stuck in my throat. “You really think Hargrove’s going to stop after this?”
He shook his head, slow and certain. “No. He’ll send someone else. Or try something worse.”
I let my gaze drift to his arm, the way his biceps flexed when he gripped my hand. “Does it hurt?”
He looked at the wound like it was a scuff on his boots. “Not much. But I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Next time, you stay out of the way.”
The words stung, but I understood. “What if next time, it’s me they go for?”
He let go of my wrist, then pulled me onto his lap, his good arm wrapping tight around my waist. The gesture was so fast, so absolute, it shocked me into stillness.
“They won’t get past me,” he said. His voice was a mix of threat and plea, and for the first time I realized how much of his strength was just fear channeled into violence.
I touched his face, traced the edge of his jaw. “I don’t want you to die for me.”
He smirked, but his eyes were soft. “I won’t die. I’m too pissed off.”
The sound of police radios faded from the porch. The deputy stepped in, asked Rawley to sign a statement. He did, not bothering to read it. The sheriff said we could go to a motel if we wanted, but Rawley just stared him down until the offer wilted.
When they were gone, the silence was enormous. Even the horses seemed to know something was wrong, and their nervous stamping in the barn carried into the night.
Rawley got up, checked every lock and window, then set out new motion lights by the back porch. He bled through another layer of gauze and ignored my protests as I replaced the bandage, his muscles twitching under my touch.
He refused to take painkillers. “Need to be clear-headed,” he said, like it was a point of pride.
Afterward, he showered. I heard him curse when the water hit the cut, but he didn’t ask for help. When he came out, he found me sitting on the stairs, hugging my knees, staring into the dark.
He sat beside me, his thigh pressed to mine, the warmth of him leaking through the thin cotton of his sweatpants.
“I called Macon,” he said.
I blinked, the name taking a second to click. “Your SEAL friend?”
He nodded. “He’s already halfway here. He’ll set up the cameras. Maybe teach you how to shoot.”
I smiled at that. “You don’t think I’m too soft?”
He studied me for a long time. “No. I think you’re the strongest person I know.”
The words felt like a benediction. I wanted to believe them.
We climbed the stairs together, Rawley’s hand gripping the rail, the bandage stark and white against the tanned meat of his arm. In our bedroom, he stripped down, then pulled me into bed, his back to the wall, his good arm cocooning me into his chest.
His hand splayed over my belly, the heat of it sinking through to the place where our child—God, was that real?—slept, oblivious to the war outside.
I inhaled the scent of him—gunpowder, antiseptic, sweat, the faint musk that was uniquely his. It made me feel safe, in the way that standing in a bunker is safer than the field, even if you’re still under fire.
He pressed his lips to my temple. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt you,” he whispered. It should have scared me, but instead I felt an iron rod slide into my spine. I wanted to say something brave, something worthy of him, but all I managed was a whisper: “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” he said, with such finality that I almost believed in forever.
The night was full of ghosts—footsteps that weren’t there, the echo of glass shattering, the phantom of cold steel against skin—but Rawley’s body was an anchor, his breath a tide that pulled me under.
In the end, I slept.
When I dreamed, it was of wildflowers, of Rawley standing at the edge of our fields, shotgun cradled in his arms, watching for wolves and never blinking. Of the baby, a flash of light on a screen, now as real and urgent as the blood that still stained our kitchen tiles.
When I woke, the sun was already up, spilling gold through the window. Rawley was there, breathing slow and even, his grip on my waist unbreakable.
Whatever came next, we’d face it together.
I wasn’t afraid.