Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
SCARLETT
The house is too quiet after he leaves.
I turn on the TV, trying to distract myself. But my hands tremble, and I can’t shake the feeling that comes over me. Like I’m stuck in between breaths.
It doesn’t help when newscasters break in with an update about the East Ridge fire.
My throat thickens as I listen. “Winds shifting. Firefighters working hard to hold the line, to save the homes below.”
The cameras cut to footage of men and women in gear, running, smoke blossoming black and inky into the night sky.
“Donovan.” His name comes out like a whisper. I look down at the ink ring on my hand. If something happened to him… even though I barely know him.
Even though there’s so much still to figure out—
The quiet of the house presses in on me, harsh and uncompromising.
But is there anything to figure out, or is it all pre-determined? My saying goodbye? My vanishing… without a trace?
I sit on the leather couch in the middle of Donovan’s living room, hugging a throw pillow that smells like him. Pine and something woody and spicy.
Memories ignite again. A burst of pulse. A gasp of air. A delirious moan that ripples through me all over again. Mine.
Logic speaks.
You’re on your own from here.
I’m used to that. But somehow it feels different now. It aches more. I look down at the finger that’s still sensitive, where the fresh tattoo has yet to heal.
Instead of permanent it feels like a promise. Maybe that’s what I want it to be.
I breathe in slowly, then breathe out. The way I learned in yoga classes. The exercises don’t calm or center me. But they’re as close as I can hope to get under the circumstances.
I move toward the kitchen, reaching for the glass I left on the counter. That’s when I hear it.
A shift. Soft. Out of place.
My body goes still, and my ears strain. Awareness tightens the air, the arms on the back of my neck rising.
The back door.
Those three words slam into me, and I don’t know why.
Does this place even have a back door?
I don’t know, but I head down the dark hallway, breathing hard, still feeling Donovan’s soft, warm lip pressed to mine.
Halfway down the passage, I hear another sound. Closer this time.
Maybe it’s a normal sound in this place. The floorboards or the walls settling. But to me, it sounds like something else…
A footstep.
Inside.
My pulse kicks up, fast but controlled.
I don’t call out. I don’t move right away. Instead, I head silently back into the living room where Donovan left it. The weight of the gun centers in my hand—cold, solid, real.
Not unfamiliar. I’m prepared. More than a year of gun training and self-defense training under my belt.
It was the one way I pushed myself beyond my comfort zone. So that I could protect myself and others if push came to shove.
Like the afternoon at Lacey’s grandmother’s house—when her father tried to take us both hostage.
I swore I’d never be on the wrong end of a gun again.
Maybe tonight’s the night.
But how?
I smell him before I see him—musty weed and sour sweat. I don’t startle, just settle back onto my heels, knees slightly bent, ready.
He stands just inside the doorway like he belongs here. “Ms. Ocasta,” he says—mock authority and hollow manners.
He looks different, more wiry, more desperate. And more… certain.
That puts a shiver down my spine. My breath hitches in my throat.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. Not this time.
He grins, broken teeth and bad face tattoos creasing. “You’ve always been predictable,” he says. “Same patterns. Same habits. Always looking for authority to protect you.”
My grip tightens on the gun. “Don’t come any closer.”
His eyes drop to it, then back to me. “You gonna use that?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He chuckles, moving one step closer. I dare him to keep coming, nostrils flaring. “You ruined my life,” he says. “Stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. What kind of woman breaks up a family like that? Tears a daughter from her father?”
“You did that yourself.”
A flicker of something crosses his face. But it’s gone just as fast as it came. “Looks like you’re doubling down on that decision.”
“She was mine,” he says.
“No,” I answer. “She wasn’t.”
His jaw tightens. There it is… the crack in his cool outer facade.
“You took her from me,” he says. “Right when I finally had her back. When I talked my mother into letting me take her.”
“I protected her,” I counter.
“You think this—” he gestures vaguely “—makes you a hero?”
“No.” I don’t give him that. “I know it was right.”
Silence settles.
He shifts, almost imperceptibly.
I don’t. “How did you find me?”
“Was waiting at your place for you… if you and the cowboy would’ve just looked a little harder. But you were too ready to split and get back here to your love nest. Following you was easy after that. Never thought he’d leave, though. Like fate wants this.”
“Fate,” I spit. “Fate is you going back to prison, serving the time you earned.”
“You should’ve kept running,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say flatly. “But I’ve had a whole year to think about it, and it’s no longer working for me. I’m done now.”
His eyes narrow, confusion and miscalculation hidden behind them. Like he never saw this coming, never saw me ready and unafraid.
“You’re not used to someone saying no,” I say, his chest still in my sights.
He laughs darkly. “You’re not walking out of here.” But his face goes grim like he’s no longer so sure of himself. “You think you can stop me?”
“I know I can slow you down.”
That’s when I hear another step headed in my direction.
“Don’t,” I say. My voice cuts sharper now, filled with command and authority—the same tone I used in those homes, to protect children like Lacey.
“Get on your knees,” I say.
He laughs. Actually laughs. “You always did think you were in control.”
I pull my phone from the counter with my free hand, dial, and put it on speaker.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Home intruder,” I say. “I have him at gunpoint.”
His smile falters.
“Location?” My mind blanks. Donovan drove here. I don’t even know his address. “I’m at Donovan Lane’s house… Rough & Ready.”
“Yes, ma’am. Traced. We’ll have someone there shortly.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” I add, more to him than the dispatcher. “But he’s not cooperating, so please hurry. ”
“Officers are on the way. Stay on the line with me until they arrive.” I set the phone on the coffee table, steadying the gun with both hands.
I don’t break eye contact. Not once.
“You really think this ends here?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
Because it has to. I’m done letting it be anything else.
Minutes drag. He tries to move a few times, catch me off guard. But I know better. That’s how he got Lacey and me the last time.
Still, this time, he doesn’t wait for me to slip.
He lunges. Fast. Faster than I expect.
One second he’s on his knees… the next he’s surging forward, hand shooting out for the gun.
“Don’t—”
Too late.
His fingers slam into my wrist, knocking my aim wide. The gun jerks sideways as he grabs for it, his weight crashing into me.
We stumble. The world tilts. My shoulder hits the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Pain flashes, but I don’t let go.
I can’t. Not again.
“Hello, ma’am,” I hear the dispatcher saying through the receiver.
I manage one scream.
His breath is hot and rancid against my face as he fights for leverage, fingers digging into my wrist.
“You’re not stronger than me,” he growls.
Maybe not. But I’m faster now. Smarter.
I twist. Not away, but into him.
Just like I was taught.
My knee drives up hard, catching him low enough to make him grunt. His grip falters… just for a second.
It’s enough.
I wrench my wrist free and stagger back, securing the gun and stepping back a safe distance. Steady and centered. Locked on his chest again.
“Don’t move!” I snap. This time my voice cracks like a whip. Filled with authority and final.
He freezes, chest heaving. Eyes wild. For a split second, I see it cross his face. Lost control. Lost hope. And fear.
Good.
“On your knees,” I say again. Slowly this time, lip curling, eyes boring into him.
He freezes. I can almost hear his mind working. But it’s too late. I see the moment he realizes this, then obeys.
My arms burn and lungs ache. But I don’t lower the gun.
Not now. Not when I’ve come this far, and I finally didn’t run.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” the dispatcher screams through the phone.
“Yes,” I pant. “Tried to gain control, but failed. Won’t try anything again,” I say, staring daggers at him. “Isn’t that right?”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t move.
Still, I don’t start breathing until a siren cuts through the distance. Faint. Then closer.
His eyes dart toward the sound. Then back to me. Something shifts. I recognize it instantly, calculation.
“I wouldn’t,” I say.
And this time, there’s nothing in my voice but certainty.
He sees it. Finally. His hands lift slowly.
“Stay on your knees,” I repeat. “Or you’re going to end up in the hospital.”
My lungs burn because I’m holding my breath. I don’t notice until now. I don’t let it show as I inhale quietly.
The sirens get louder and closer. And then, lights flash across the walls. Blue. Red.
Relief hits, and I finally start breathing again, no longer holding my breath. But I don’t lower the gun. Not yet.
The front door bursts open. “Sheriff’s department!”
The next moments are a cacophony of unfamiliar noises. Boots, the rustle of fabric, the click of handcuffs.
Then, Sheriff McLeod steps into view, taking in the scene in one glance. “Well,” he says, calm as ever. “Looks like you’ve got things handled.”
Something in me almost gives. But I hold it together. “Not yet,” I say. But the gun tips down, and I set it on the coffee table by the couch. My hands don’t shake until it’s over.
He nods going about his work with his deputies, taking control. He searches quickly, done in under an hour. Everything’s professional, efficient, and by the books.
But only when Felix is pulled to his feet and turned away do I finally start to breathe and shake.
McLeod looks at me. “You alright?” he asks.
“I think so,” I answer. And for the first time in too long to remember, it’s not a lie.
His gaze flicks to the gun in my hands.
“That Donovan’s?”
I nod. “He left it for me.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Smart call.”
One of the deputies steps forward, careful as he takes the weapon, clearing it with practiced ease.
“Run it,” McLeod says.
While we wait, he takes my report. My body shakes now as I recall the details. Some of it feels murky, far away like when he tried to fight back. But other parts, like his breath, his smell will stay with me until my dying day.
A beat passes. A radio crackles. “Registered to Donovan Lane. Clean.”
McLeod nods once, already turning back to me. “Given the circumstances, and Donovan’s present location,” he says, voice steady, “I’d keep it close.”
The deputy hesitates, then hands it back. The weight settles into my palm again before I set it carefully on the table.
Out of the blue, the blond sheriff grins, adding, “You look familiar.”
“Do I?” I ask breathlessly, heart racing again at the words I’ve dreaded for twelve months.
“You won Phoenix at the auction.”
I nod once.
“And you’re here, at his house, defending it against intruders?”
I huff a laugh. The question emphasizes how strange all of this is. His eyes drop to my finger, and a thin grin captures his lips.
“You were the one who won the trip to Vegas, too. The raffle grand prize. Roxy and Hawk couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“That’s me,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. “But the best prize I won last night by far was Donovan.”
McLeod runs a hand over his chin, and I can hear the stubble scratch. “Sounds like you’ve got quite a story to tell.”
I nod once, chest bursting with something I haven’t let myself feel until this moment—true, delirious happiness. “Speaking of Donovan, he’s working the East Ridge Fire right now. Have you heard anything about how it’s progressing?”
“About had it under control last time I checked with dispatch.”
My shoulders relax, and my breath finally flows freely again. That’s when I realize, in every cell of my being, how much the big cowboy fireman means to me—stranger or not.
Husband on paper and flesh.