Beat of Love (Texas Solace #6)

1

Rafferty

Lawson’s Landing, early August

During his months in captivity, Rafferty Lawson had ached for home. Yet now, mere moments from stepping onto the land where he had taken his first breath, all he wanted was to be back in the Amazon jungle where he didn’t have to account for the grim downward spiral his life had taken.

Everything he had vowed to fight against he had become.

How could he face his family — his salt-of-the-earth family — when his soul churned with everything dark and rotten?

A tremor wracked his body, and perspiration beaded his forehead, every nerve ending alive, a thousand ants biting.

And his stomach roiled, the ever-present nausea rising, rising. Rising.

“Stop,” he bit out, releasing his seatbelt, gripping the door handle.

His companion slammed the brakes and skidded onto the gravel verge. Rafferty was out of the vehicle before it was fully stationary.

Hands braced on his knees, he emptied his stomach of its meager contents. Pain radiated from the stitched wounds across his torso. It wouldn’t surprise him if he’d torn a couple of sutures from the violent heaving.

He straightened, and with an unsteady hand, accepted the bottle of water Bones held out. Swishing the liquid in his mouth, he blinked several times, clearing his vision of the fucking tears. He spat out the water, rinsing his mouth again. And again.

The stinging sensation eased; the tremors abated somewhat.

But the bitter taste remained.

Not surprising, considering my rancid soul.

He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“The nausea will reduce,” Bones said.

“Yeah.” Closing his eyes, he lifted the bottle back to his lips and drained half. The August sun blazed hot, exacerbating his headache. The air was bone-dry, the kind of heat that sucked the sweat off his skin before it could cool him.

The hairs on his nape prickled.

Just his nape.

Someone was watching.

He lowered the bottle, peeled his eyes open to slits, and scanned past the fence, past the cattle—

They locked on the lone rider.

Ramrod straight, the man sat motionless on the back of his horse.

The distance was too great to make a visual confirmation of the rider’s identity beneath the cowboy hat … but he knew.

It was Aidan.

His older brother.

Rafferty lifted his hand in greeting.

The man spun about and rode away.

Rafferty dropped his arm.

Fuck.

Snapping around, he shuffled forward, only to stumble over a clump of grass.

“Easy, Lawson.” Bones placed a supporting hand under his arm, preventing him from crashing to the ground, and helped him to the SUV a few paces away.

He hated, hated being so fucking weak.

Rafferty collapsed into the passenger seat and leaned his head back, exhausted despite having slept most of the flight home.

If Aidan’s rebuff was an indication of his family’s reaction to his ignoble return …

A lump formed in his throat, and he blinked away the unbidden tears.

He’d never intended to come home.

Hatred for the man who had caused his wife’s death had lived inside him for so long, it had eclipsed reason. And standing over Oliveira’s body, watching life fade from the man’s eyes, Rafferty knew he’d crossed a line, one of no return.

And when he walked away, he felt no regret.

Trekking back across the Amazon jungle, he’d planned the rest of his life.

Life in isolation.

A cabin in the woods.

A self-imposed life sentence.

But his planning had been for naught when, on a rooftop bar on the banks of the Negro River, he’d stumbled onto his path to redemption. A year later, he was left for dead — naked and broken.

Should’ve died in that godforsaken jungle.

The vehicle slowed and turned. He lifted his head, looking around.

His tears had dried, but the ever-present ache in his head had worsened, and sharp pains radiated from the base of his skull to behind his eyes.

A large gate rolled open. Sturdy sandstone pillars supporting the scrolled metal lettering spanned the width of the entrance.

Lawson’s Landing , it read.

Home.

He winced.

His last memory before lapsing into unconsciousness had been of this place. Delirious from pain, and feverish from infection and withdrawal, he’d recalled the Biblical tale of the prodigal son — the father running to his son, welcoming him home.

How he had longed for that.

But Pa was in a wheelchair. The strong man who had raised him would never walk, never run, again. And he, Rafferty Lawson, black sheep scumbag, had put his father in that fucking chair.

How can I expect forgiveness?

He squelched that thought, another taking its place.

Don’t borrow trouble.

Those were words he had uttered as encouragement to Essie not even a half-hour ago.

Fuck .

Now all he needed to do was apply them to his life.

With a concerted effort, he concentrated on his surroundings. The entrance — gate, wall, and electrified fencing — were new. Part of the improvements after stick-up-his-righteous-ass Aidan had married Cecelia.

They passed through the gate and continued along the graded dirt road.

It all looked the same, yet not. The land thrived.

Freshly bound bales of hay littered the pasture to his left, and the one to the right — the one he’d seen Aidan in — was lush with grass and dotted with cattle.

He should know the type of grass, yet the name eluded him.

Ranching had never appealed to him. That was Aidan’s thing.

From as long back as he could remember, he’d wanted to be a soldier, always dragging Sully into playing war games with him.

A bit of his gloom lifted thinking of his twin brother.

Sullivan was engaged to a princess. An honest-to-God princess . And one day his twin would stand by Marielle’s side while she ruled as queen.

Rafferty smirked. Imagine that.

He was happy for the man.

His twin had given up so much for him.

Years ago, when he’d dragged his brother into a real war game, it ended Sullivan’s relationship with his college girlfriend.

And just like that, she popped into his mind.

He’d managed to banish her from his memory, but over the last few months, with his life filled with nothing but regret and pain, his thoughts often turned to the woman with sparkling green eyes, russet hair, and razor-sharp tongue.

The SUV slowed, and Rafferty dragged his thoughts back into the here and now and glanced out the side window at the home, affectionately known as the Main House, he had grown up in.

The rambling structure that started as an L-shaped, one-story, five-roomed stone building almost a hundred-and-fifty-years ago, had morphed into a two-storied hodgepodge of stone and cedar siding, its current color a pale yellow with blue shutters and trim.

It was bright and cheerful, far too welcoming for the likes of him.

They pulled to a stop and his breath hitched, his gaze stilling on the man maneuvering his wheelchair down the ramp leading from the screen-enclosed front veranda.

Heart thumping in his chest, he opened his door and swung a leg out. It was like moving through quagmire, his actions slow and reluctant. His mind knew what he wanted, needed to do, but his body …

Unwilling. Weak. And riddled with guilt.

Rafferty shifted, stretching his leg down. One vomit-splattered sneaker touched the ground, then the other. He stood, trembling, gripping the top of the passenger door.

Pa reached the end of the ramp.

It gutted him, just gutted him, to see his once robust father bound to the chair.

Your fault. Your fault.

“P-pa,” he stuttered, loosening his death grip on the door. He caught movement out of his peripheral vision and swung his head.

The sudden move was a mistake.

The brightness of the day dimmed, darkness closing in, and the edges of the house faded. Black spots danced before his eyes. Sweat broke out across his entire body. He staggard back, sagging against the side of the Suburban.

“Raffie!”

Ma’s frantic call was the last he heard before the darkness took him under.

*

Rafferty woke with the urgent need to pee. He pushed upright. And groaned at the stab of pain across his chest. What the—?

The events of the past days rushed back.

The jungle. The attack. Esther . The rescue. Coming home.

Home. He was home.

And he had passed out.

Fainted .

“Fuck.”

“Ah. He wakes.”

A shadow crossed before the closed drapes.

The shape took form.

“Sully.”

“Hello, brother.”

Rafferty swung his legs off the bed.

The room tilted.

He tilted.

“Easy does it.” Sullivan reached out, steadying him, stopping him from face-planting on the floor.

“Need to piss,” he grumbled, the pressure on his bladder intensifying.

Sullivan stepped to the side, sliding one arm around his back, the other hand gripping his bicep.

Rafferty hated the need for assistance, but he’d hate pissing his pants more. “Thanks,” he mumbled, standing.

Together, they shuffled across the floor, moving from carpet to wood to tile. The cool ceramic beneath his bare feet gave him a jolt, and the light streaming in from the unadorned window cleared the lingering haze. He lifted his head and straightened his spine. “I can manage.”

Sullivan’s hold on him eased, and he took a step back, remaining close.

Rafferty wanted to banish his brother from the bathroom but also didn’t want to add concussion to his host of ailments.

He took care of business and doddered to the basin, priding himself on making the short distance without help, even though his body moved like that of an octogenarian.

He rinsed his hands and splashed water onto his face, taking a moment to breathe in the clean and fresh smell of the soft cotton Sullivan handed him.

Dropping the towel, he studied the side-by-side view of him and his twin in the mirror.

Their difference was startling. Once, people couldn’t tell them apart.

But not anymore.

And it went deeper than his gaunt appearance.