Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
WYATT
Tires screech as I round the bend from my brother’s house to the ranch, dust and gravel spinning in the rearview mirror.
One of the girls murmurs something from the back seat, but my mind is fixated on the house.
Smoke curls in the sky. Just as terrifying as it was the first time I caught sight of it.
I punch the gas harder, fear for what I’ll find is consuming me.
What the hell caused it? I left my phone at home, and when I attempted to use Blake’s or Vivienne’s, they all went straight to voicemail.
“Shit!” Wesley shouts, jolting me from my thoughts. “Watch out!”
I see the figure sprinting down the road just in time.
I swerve left, foot slamming down hard enough to ache.
Tires shriek beneath me, and the entire truck jolts as we skid to a violent stop.
Wesley’s door pops open before we’ve even stopped moving.
I’m right behind him, quickly throwing my door open and rushing around the front with him.
My mom stands in the middle of the road—hair wild and face tear-streaked.
Brinley is clutched against her chest, just as hysterical.
My eyes skim over the little girl. She’s crying, already reaching for me.
Relief allows me to breathe for a moment–until I register that there’s no sight of Whitney beside them.
“Where is she?” I demand. My mom’s mouth opens and closes–“Mom!” My voice cracks, “Where is Whitney?”
“S-she was right behind us,” my mom sobs, “but the animals-”
The house is close enough that I don’t bother jumping back in the car.
I sprint down the road, not bothering to respond.
All I can register is my boots punching through the snow.
Wesley shouts something behind me—maybe telling me to wait or slow down, but I’m already gone.
Nothing matters. None of it matters if she’s still in there.
Whitney.
There’s a faint sound of sirens in the distance as I reach the front yard.
The smell hits me first. Burning wood chokes my lungs as I jump the porch steps.
Soon after, heat slams into my skin. The front door doesn’t budge when I give it a shove.
I step back, chest heaving. Planting one foot, I rear the other one back and kick.
Once.
Twice.
On the third kick, the door bursts open with a deafening crash.
Smoke and heat spill out, and my arm flies up to cover my face.
I squint my eyes as I try to shield them from the blaze and see through the clouded house.
I shout her name, and when she doesn’t answer my heart sinks. “Whitney! It’s Wyatt!”
The hallway is barely visible. I move as fast as I can—ducking low when needed and kicking loose pieces of furniture and fallen wood out of my path.
A high-pitched scream bounces off the crumbling walls of the house.
At first it’s nearly impossible to know where it’s coming from.
When she calls for me again, I spin towards the sound and crash through the doorway to the kitchen.
It’s so raw and close and terrified that it feels like my heart’s about to hammer out of my damn ribs.
I catch sight of her dark hair in front of a broken window—pinned on the ground.
Fucking. Andrew.
He’s on top of her, face twisted in rage or panic. Whitney’s trashing and clawing at his face as he tries to clamp a hand over her mouth.
Rage licks up my spine.
I stalk towards them, grabbing the back of his ash-ridden shirt and yanking him off of her with everything I have.
Andrew stumbles in shock, and I take the opportunity to slam my first into his jaw.
Over and over again. Blood sprays. A tooth cracks.
My knuckles split. I want to kill him. I will kill him. Right here—
Whitney coughs, and the red clouding my vision disappears. I shove him, the thump of his body more satisfying than it should have been.
Whitney’s on her hands and knees, sucking in what little air is available in here.
I rush to her, hauling her into my arms. “Are you okay?” I shout the question, eyes scanning her from head to toe for injuries.
She’s covered in soot, but there’s no visible burns.
Only a long, heavily-bleeding cut on her hand.
I rip a piece of my shirt and make quick work of wrapping it around the wound. She doesn’t answer me, only tucks her head into my shoulder and sobs. “It’s okay, baby. I’m getting you out of here.”
“Brinley?” Whitney hiccups.
“She’s safe.”
“Wait,” she gasps, “Andrew.”
I keep moving, shaking my head. Her nails dig into my shoulders. Hard. “You can’t be serious.”
“Please, Wyatt.” Her voice is ragged as she begs, “He’s still her father.”
The look in her eyes nearly sends me to my knees.
Don’t make me tell her he died. Don’t make me tell my little girl her father died.
I grit my teeth, but pivot Whitney so that she’s upright–her legs locked around my middle and her arms wrapped around my neck.
Andrew pulls himself across the ground, attempting to crawl away.
Blood drips from his nose. He’s dazed but alive.
I don’t say a word, just bend down as Whitney clings to one side, and grab the dead-beat piece of shit by the back of his shirt with my free hand.
I drag him toward the door. He doesn’t try to fight me.
Heat swells as we reach the front, and just as we spill out into the fresh winter air, a Clover-Hills firetruck pulls in. Sirens blare, lights flash. Men and women jump out, already shouting commands and uncoiling their hoses. The Sheriff pulls in right behind them, snow crunching beneath tires.
“Over here!” I shout, jerking my head towards the three of us.
The Sheriff beelines for Andrew, while a paramedic I recognize takes Whitney from my arms. She barely leaves my touch before I collapse to my knees.
My arms shake as a ball of black fur darts towards me.
I barely have time to brace for impact before Benji jumps on me, knocking me backwards and into the snow.
I let a sob escape. He made it out. They all made it out.
The biting cold of the snow is the only thing that reminds me to sit back up and push Benji off of me.
I spot everyone gathered around my truck.
Blake is beside my mom, holding her up as she sobs.
Brinley is clutched against Vivienne’s chest as they head towards the ambulance Whitney is in.
Wesley runs towards me first, dropping onto his knees and into the snow.
His hands clap onto either shoulder, “You okay, man?”
I shake my head, eyes floating past his head and toward the girls.
“They could have….” They could have died is what I try to say.
But I can’t even voice the words. My throat tightens like it might close up.
My head spins and my eyes burn. It could have been worse.
It could have been so much worse. Wesley only tightens his grip on me, forcing me to look into his eyes. “They didn’t, Wyatt. They didn’t.”
I glance over to find Sheriff Eaton cuffing Andrew.
He’s still bleeding heavy, body jerking left and right as he tries to wiggle free.
That just earns him a not-so-gentle nudge onto the hood of the cop car.
Rage replaces fear when his smug stare meets mine.
This is his fault. Andrew must be able to feel my mood shift, because he baits me by saying, “She’s mine, and that kid is mine. ”
“Don’t,” Wesley warns.
But I do.
I’m not even sure how I manage to stand.
My body is a mind of its own. Once Eaton finally has him under control, he tugs and straightens the man out.
I use that as an opportunity to stalk forward until I’m close enough to see the bitterness in his eyes and smell the sweat coating his skin.
His facade is crumbling and I’m about to snap it in two.
“She was never yours,” I say, my voice low. “Not Brinley. Not Whitney.”
Andrew sneers, but I cut him off by grabbing his collar. I yank him close so only he can hear me. “Wyatt.” Eaton and Wesley warn in unison. I think I hear one of them take a step forward. Both calm, but firm enough to remind me it’s not worth it.
“If you ever come near either of them again,” I hiss into his ear, tightening my trip on the collar of his shirt. “I swear to God, no badge or fancy fucking connection will stop what I’ll do to you.”
I let go of him with a sharp shove. He crashes into one of the deputies, spitting at the ground near my feet. “Do you even know who I am?” Andrew shouts, a shadow passing over his face. “She’ll come back. They always do.”
I begin to walk away, content with never speaking to the asshole again–until his next blow stops me in my tracks. “You aren’t her dad. You never will be.”
“And what does that make you?” I bark, swiveling around.
I don’t know why it pisses me off so much.
What the fuck does he know about it? He isn’t around.
Does he know what her laugh sounds like?
Did he even worry about her well-being when he started that fire?
He tried to take two lives because he got rejected. “Do you even know her middle name?”
Andrew blinks. “What’s her favorite show? Snack?” I shake my head,“Did you know she can’t sleep without a nightlight?”
I glance toward the little girl curled up into the side of her mom, where a paramedic listens to her lungs.
Whitney refuses to look over here. Whether that’s because of me or Andrew, I don’t know.
I swallow, surprised to feel a burn growing behind my eyes.
So, when I meet his gaze again, I mutter, “I may not be her dad, but I’m hell of a lot more than you’ll ever be to her. ”