Chapter Eight
Morning light crept in through the guest room curtains far earlier than she wanted. Gray light. Quiet house. The faint sound of Ranger’s nails clicking somewhere down the hall. Deacon’s place always felt steady, grounded.
Exactly the opposite of her mind.
Jessa finished her shower and stood in front of the dresser, towel-drying her hair while the steam faded from the mirror. She hadn’t slept much. Maybe an hour or two between the ache of memories and the echo of Wynn’s voice threading through her dreams like poison.
The attack. The bullets slicing the night. Deacon bleeding beside her.
Then Roman dropping the truth on her like a bomb, that Lauren hadn’t died of cancer. She’d been murdered. And Wynn, unhinged and ranting, insisting Noah had done it.
Noah.
Her father. Her father who didn’t even know she existed.
She pressed her hands to the dresser, grounding herself. None of it made sense. None of it connected cleanly. Every piece shoved against the next in all the wrong ways.
She pulled on jeans, a long-sleeve tee and reached for the shoulder holster. Then stopped, staring at her reflection.
It wasn’t just the threats or the grief or the weight of every lie Lauren had ever told her. It was him. Deacon. Under the same roof. Close enough to feel even through walls.
Her body hadn’t let her forget that, not for a second. No matter how she’d tried to shove the heat down, it burned anyway. The almost-kiss. The kiss that did happen. The way he’d looked at her like he still felt it too, like it still mattered.
Focus, she warned herself. Get your head straight. Get control.
The last thing she needed was to tumble back into Deacon’s arms when everything around her was crumbling. That would be a complication of epic proportions and one she absolutely couldn’t handle.
Thankfully, sometime around four in the morning, her mind had beaten down her hormones long enough to remind her of the truth. Deacon complicated everything. Always had. Always would.
She took a breath, ran her fingers through her damp hair, and forced herself back into mission mode. Wynn was out there. Lauren’s killer was out there. Someone wanted Deacon and her dead.
And she needed every ounce of clarity she could get.
Jessa squared her shoulders, opened the bedroom door, ready to face Deacon. Ready to face whatever came next.
The smell of coffee hit her the second she stepped into the hallway. Dark roast, strong, the way Deacon took it. The way she’d learned to take it, too, back when her mornings had sometimes started in this house.
She followed the scent into the kitchen.
Deacon stood by the stove, wearing jeans and a clean black T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. His hair was damp from a shower, but there were shadows under his eyes—exhaustion, pain, stubbornness all woven together.
He lifted a mug toward her without a word.
Jessa accepted it, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Too brief, really. It punched heat through her anyway. Of course it did.
Through the window above the sink, she saw Ranger bounding across the backyard, all floppy ears and enthusiasm. Beyond that, Deacon’s horses stood in the pasture, tails flicking in the morning light. A slice of peace in an otherwise impossible world.
“How are you?” she asked, lifting the mug.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in, quick as a spark, and brushed a kiss against her mouth. Light. Fast. A hit-and-run distraction.
It worked.
Sort of.
Her breath caught before she could clamp it down. Warmth slid through her stomach, through her chest, lower than she wanted to admit. But she figured the ploy was meant to stop her from asking if he was in pain.
He turned back to the stove before she could assemble a proper reprimand. On the back burner, two omelets sat warming, fluffy, loaded, exactly how she liked them. He plated them with one smooth motion, then nodded toward the small kitchen table.
“Sit. Eat,” he said. “We’ve got a hell of a day ahead.”
She sat because, well, she was starving. And because arguing took energy she didn’t have to spare. Deacon slid into the chair across from her, moving carefully, and she noticed the way he stifled a wince.
“You’re hurting,” she said, breaching the subject he’d no doubt hoped to avoid.
“Stitches pulling a little,” he shrugged, stabbing a fork into his omelet. “I’m fine.”
She watched him take a bite, jaw tightening at the stubbornness. He’d take a bullet and walk it off if pride gave him half a chance.
They ate in silence for a minute. Coffee, eggs, the ordinary cadence of a morning that wasn’t ordinary at all. Every second pressed down with what they knew. What they didn’t. And what they were about to face.
Jessa lifted her gaze to his, and for just a heartbeat, it felt like years ago. Before murder. Before secrets. Before heartbreak. Before Wynn’s warning that someone else wanted them dead.
The moment passed.
She took another sip of coffee, grounding herself. Time to get to work. “Any updates from Sheriff Chase? Or Noah?” she asked.
Deacon shook his head. “Nothing yet. I told them both what Wynn said on the call.”
“And?” she pressed.
“And Noah denied every word of it,” Deacon said. “Didn’t even hesitate.”
Jessa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She wasn’t surprised, though relief still trickled through her. He might be her father in DNA only, but she hadn’t wanted him to be a killer.
“Of course he denied it,” she murmured. “He’s… Noah. Whatever else he is or isn’t to me, the man’s practically squeaky clean. His entire life is built around protecting people. Serving them.”
“He’s not the type to kill the mother of his child,” Deacon added. When Ranger scratched at the door, Deacon stood to let him in. The dog went straight to his water bowl. “Or anybody, unless they needed killing.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “And it’s not like he had a reason. He’s never been married. Never had some jealous spouse to hide anything from. Even if he’d known about me, it wouldn’t have been some scandal that destroyed his life.”
Her throat tightened saying it. If he’d known about me…
Deacon’s gaze softened. “You don’t have to convince me, Jess. I believe him.”
“I do too,” she admitted. “I don’t know Noah the way you do, but from what I’ve seen, from everything I’ve heard… there’s no motive. None.”
The only motive in this mess belonged to someone else.
Someone who wanted to rewrite Lauren’s death. Someone who wanted Jessa and Deacon dead. Someone who wanted Crossfire Ops, Creed Response, or maybe her entire world torn apart.
The unanswered questions pressed in again, heavy and unwelcome.
She’d just taken another sip of coffee when her phone vibrated in her pocket. “Unknown number,” she relayed after taking it out and glancing at the screen.
Deacon’s fork hit his plate with a soft clink. “Speaker,” he said.
She set her coffee aside, nodded, and answered. “Wynn?”
Static, then a breath, sharp, unsteady. “You want answers?” Wynn rasped. “Meet me at the end of Deacon’s road.”
Jessa shot to her feet. Deacon did the same, stitches be damned. They moved together toward the side kitchen window overlooking the long gravel driveway. Sunlight spilled over the pasture, stretching all the way to the tree line that concealed the property’s entrance.
Nothing. No car. No movement. Just a wall of oak and mesquite hiding whatever waited beyond.
Deacon leaned closer to the phone. “Wynn, how do we know this isn’t an ambush?”
A rough laugh crackled through the speaker. Not amused. “You don’t,” Wynn said. “But if you want the truth, if you really want to know who killed Lauren, you’ll come.”
“Give me a minute,” Deacon told Wynn, and he cursed under his breath. “Mute the phone and come with me,” he added to Jessa, already striding down the hall. “Office.”
She did as he said and followed, coffee forgotten on the table, Ranger trailing after them with a confused whine. Deacon pushed open the door to his home office, a compact room filled with clean lines and efficiency. Desk. Safe. Nothing cozy about it. Just purpose.
He dropped into the chair, woke his laptop, and pulled up the security feed. The screen flickered, then split into four angles of his property. He clicked to enlarge the camera positioned at the end of the long gravel road.
A truck sat just off the shoulder. Dark blue. Older model. Dust-coated. And inside, visible through the windshield…
“Wynn,” she said on a breath.
He looked as if he’d aged a decade in the past weeks since she’d seen him. His graying hair was cropped short, his face rough and unshaven, eyes sharp even through the pixelation of the feed.
But he wasn’t alone.
A second figure sat in the passenger seat. Corbin Knox.
Jessa’s stomach dropped. “What the hell is he doing there?” she asked in a whisper.
Deacon zoomed in until the image blurred. “Trying to see if Wynn’s holding him at gunpoint,” he muttered. “But I can’t get a clear read.”
Corbin didn’t look restrained. Didn’t look terrified. If anything, he looked… calm. Focused. Watching the road like he expected them.
“We’re not walking into that blind,” Deacon said, voice clipped.
He grabbed his phone and dialed. “Raines to dispatch. I need units en route to my residence, end of the main road. Requesting backup for arrest of suspect, Marty Wynn.”
He listened, jaw tight, then ended the call. “My county deputies are on the way,” he relayed to her. “ETA twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes. A lot could happen during that short time.
Deacon turned back to his phone, this time scrolling to Corbin’s number. He hit call and stared at the security monitor, jaw tight. On-screen, Corbin glanced down at his vibrating phone. His expression didn’t shift. No hesitation. He answered.
This time, Deacon hit speaker. “Corbin, why are you here?”
“Wynn asked me to come as a witness.” Corbin’s voice came through the speakers, smooth and too calm for someone sitting with a man accused of attempted murder.
“A witness for what?” Jessa snapped.