Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LINC
The crowd inside the arena was already worked up before the first gate swung open.
It was the kind of noise that filled every inch of space, laughter and applause, and the shuffle of boots against concrete.
Strings of lights hung from the rafters, blinking red and gold over the sawdust and the smell of horses.
It was Christmas Eve in Montana, and the town had come out for it.
Kristin was supposed to close out the barrel racing. She had been calm all day, too calm for someone who had been looking over her shoulder for weeks. She said she was fine. I had almost believed her.
The announcer’s voice cracked through the speakers.
“Next up, Kristin Felder riding Lady.”
The stands roared. The spotlight pointed toward an empty alleyway. Judges and pick up men stood there looking back and forth when they realized there wasn’t anyone coming.
I waited. One beat. Two. Three. The noise dulled to a restless murmur.
She never missed a call.
Kipp caught my eye from the timing table. I motioned for him to hold the clock. He frowned but nodded.
The air felt wrong.
I left the rail and headed for the warm-up alley. Riders called out greetings, a blur of faces and motion. My eyes skimmed every corner, looking for a flash of her braid or the red and green of her shirt. Nothing.
Lady pawed the ground, ears flicking back toward the holding pens. When I reached for his reins, my boot brushed something half-buried in the churned dirt—Kristin’s scarf. The red one, she never went anywhere without.
Cold shot through me.
I started running.
The sound of the crowd faded behind me as I pushed through the gate toward the holding area. The air back there smelled of sweat and hay, the floodlights throwing long shadows through the panels. Somewhere, a horse kicked against the wall.
Then I saw her.
Josh had one hand around her arm, dragging her toward the far corner by the feed bins. Her boots scraped the ground, her shoulders twisted as she tried to pull free.
“Kristin.”
Her head jerked up. The terrified, wild look in her eyes snapped every thought from my mind.
I hit the gate, and it slammed open against the boards. Josh turned, grin sharp under the brim of his hat.
“Should have known you’d be close.”
“Let her go.”
He tightened his grip and took another step back, pulling her with him. “You need to back off.”
I closed the distance before he could finish. My shoulder drove into his chest. We hit the dirt hard, a tangle of limbs and dust. He swung once, wild, but I was already inside his reach. The sound of the crowd roared somewhere far away, the rest of the world narrowing to the space between us.
Kristin broke free and stumbled toward the fence.
“Go,” I shouted.
She backed up until she hit the wall, still shaking.
Footsteps pounded behind me. Kipp. Nash. Griffin. Ryder. The rest of the crew had seen enough.
Josh looked around, breathing hard, sweat streaking the dust on his face. The noise from the arena covered everything: the announcer calling the winning rider, the crowd cheering, the band warming up. He had nowhere left to go.
“End of the line,” Kipp said.
Josh swung again, desperate, and I caught his arm before he could land it, twisting it behind him, his bones crunching under the pressure. I pushed him back into the corner. The metal fence shuddered with the impact.
That was the last thing he tried.
The others closed in. The sounds that followed were quick and final, lost under the roar of the crowd and the pounding hooves of the next run.
When I turned back, Kristin was on the ground, shaking, her wrists bound together by his rope. I dropped beside her.
“It’s over,” I said. “You’re safe.” Fumbling with the rope, I finally got it free.
Her breath hitched. “I tried to call for you, but the noise and there was no service.” She kept shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I know. He won’t bother us again.”
Her eyes searched mine, waiting for something she could believe. I brushed the dirt from her cheek and helped her to her feet.
Behind us, the others moved without a word. Griffin gave me one look, steady and sure. It was done, he wouldn't be a problem for anyone again.
We stepped out through the service gate into the crisp air of the parking lot. The night smelled like snow and exhaust. The music from inside spilled out in muffled bursts each time the door swung open.
Kristin leaned into me as we walked. Her body trembled, her hand gripping my jacket.
“You came for me again,” she whispered.
“I always will.”
She nodded against my chest, eyes closing for a moment like she was trying to believe it. The lights from the arena painted gold across her hair. I guided her toward the truck parked near the loading dock.
Inside the cab, it was quiet. The heater hummed. She sat close, still shaking, staring down at her hands.
“I’d forgotten to watch tonight. It felt normal, like we were safe there,” she whispered.
“We are now.”
Her lip quivered. “He looked different, but I knew. The way he smiled. The way he said my name.”
I reached over and took her hand. “He can’t say it anymore.”
Her breath came out uneven. She turned her face toward the window, watching the flakes drift across the glass.
I wanted to tell her it was finished, that she could breathe again, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was heavier. It was never really finished. Not after something like that.
She turned back, eyes glassy but steady. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“I’d do it a hundred times over to keep you safe.”
She didn’t argue. She just leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder. The sound of her breathing slowly evened out.
The door to the arena opened in the distance, and the others stepped out one by one, heads low, hands shoved in their jackets. No one spoke. They didn’t have to.
Ryder gave a slight nod before climbing into his truck. The taillights glowed red in the snow, then disappeared into the dark.
Kristin’s fingers found mine. “Take me home.”
“Quit reading my mind,” I said as I put my arm around her shoulder, and held her tight next to me.
The road back to the ranch was quiet. The snow fell harder, whispering against the windshield. Her head tipped toward me, eyes closed, lashes damp.
By the time the highway curved toward the long drive, the tension in her body had started to ease. The glow from the arena faded behind us until it was nothing but a faint line of light on the horizon.
When I parked beside the house, she stayed still for a moment, breathing in the silence.
“Linc,” she said softly.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
I looked at her. Her hair was tangled, cheeks streaked with dust and tears, but she was alive. That was enough.
“You never have to thank me,” I said.
She nodded, then opened the door. The cold rushed in, sharp and clean. She climbed out and waited for me to circle around the truck. When I reached her, she slipped her hand into mine.
Inside, the house was warm and dim. The tree lights still blinked in the corner. She kicked off her boots and stood there for a long time, staring at them like she could still hear the echo of the crowd.
I set my hat on the counter and pulled her close again. She melted against me, silent.
Outside, the wind picked up, pressing against the windows. I tightened my hold, listening to the steady beat of her heart against my chest.
For the first time that night, I let myself breathe.