Chapter 18
The sound of the gunshot shredding the darkness pierced through him as if he’d been hit. It threw Jericho to the ground.
Please, God!
Jericho knew in his bones that Mars would be chasing her. But the gunshot only confirmed it.
And worse, if Mars took a shot at her, then—then he was close enough to see her.
Find her! He nearly shouted it to Orlando, but that would only alert Mars to his tail.
Except, what if the man had been aiming at Orlando? Aw, Jericho should have taken off the bell. He hadn’t had time to think.
Besides, without the bell, he’d be lost—except, maybe not, because even in the darkness, he recognized this part of the forest, just beyond the boundary of their land.
Toward the ridge . . .
Although maybe Harley was leading them back to the lake, in a circle to her house. Smart. Get there first, bunker up. Call for reinforcements.
Maybe he should turn around, meet her there. Except, no. He wasn’t leaving her in the woods. He started running.
Ahead the bell jangled, a little louder, and of course Orlando would have been jolted, spooked by the shot. He expected his Bernie to race toward him, tackle him in fear any second.
Again, no.
Oh please, let my dog not be wounded. Or dead—
Another shot, and it reverberated right to his bones, even as his feet crashed through the snow, the branches of shaggy evergreens whipping at his face, the wind burning in his ears.
Jericho broke into a clearing—a former campsite where he and his brothers used to pitch an overnight tent.
He barely made out movement from where the trail trekked back into the woods.
Mars! And the man lay on the ground tussling with—
Orlando?
The dog growled, his teeth buried in the arm of the man’s jacket.
Jericho glanced around—no Harley. His chest tightened.
Mars’s shotgun lay on the snow and Jericho leaped at it just as Mars cuffed his dog.
Orlando yelped but didn’t let go. Mars got his hand around the stock of his gun, but Jericho had a hold too. Mars rolled, kicked him, and Jericho’s grip loosed.
Mars lifted the gun, aiming to hit Orlando—
Jericho leaped at him, intercepting, and Orlando’s hold broke free.
The gun fell away, and Jericho landed on Mars.
He didn’t even remember hitting him. The fury simply unleashed in him, flashed out, and he hit the man again as Orlando backed up, barking.
Then Mars landed a blow on Jericho’s ear, and his head swam.
Mars hit him again before he could rebound, and Jericho fell away.
He managed to roll before Mars could kick him in the chest and then he bounced to his feet, despite the world still spinning.
Mars lurched to his feet, spat blood onto the snow, a flashlight lying on the ground illuminating his face. His hat had come off, revealing the tattoo on his forehead. Pretty.
And then he smiled. “Jericho Bowie.” He raised his fists. “Let’s finish this.”
“Yeah, let’s,” Jericho said quietly, finding his stance.
“Jericho!”
The shout came from behind him, but he didn’t move, didn’t turn his attention from Mars.
He wanted to live, thank you.
And that thought blew through him, fresh, alive.
He had so much to live for.
But not looking over his shoulder.
Yes, time to end this.
“Go back to the house, Harley,” he said, his gaze on Mars. “Take Orlando with you.”
He expected a fight. Instead, her breaths fell in and out, hard. Then, “I’ll be back.”
She took off, calling Orlando, the bell jangling distantly.
He could hardly believe it, the sense that she might just be leaving him here, in the forest, to fight Mars.
Except, without her to worry about—“C’mon, man, let’s do this.”
Mars rushed him.
He ducked and grabbed the man around his waist, lifted and tossed him aloft, over his shoulder.
Mars landed with a whuff, just as Jericho turned around and sent his boot into Mars’s gut.
The man huffed out a breath but rolled away from another kick and found his feet.
And in the action, he whipped out a hunting knife. He wielded it now, with a grin. “Haven’t killed me a Bowie in years.”
Jericho let the words slide through him, ignored them.
The jangling of the bell fell away in the wind, just he and Mars in the dim circle of light.
Mars came at him, and he dodged, then whirled around.
The man came at him again, and he jerked back, the knife catching his jacket. No skin contact, but the sense of it shook him.
Mars would kill him.
Unless he killed Mars first.
He wasn’t that guy. Or, at least, he hadn’t been the first time they’d fought. But he’d been required to be that guy a few times in Afghanistan.
So round two would look much, much different.
Mars came at him again, and he slapped his hand away, stepped into the void, and slammed his fist into Mars’s chin.
The man’s head snapped back.
Jericho grabbed his wrist, turned his shoulder into him, and got both hands around his arm.
Then he bent and jerked the man over his hip, onto the ground. Mars landed hard on his back. His grip loosed, and Jericho slammed the man’s arm on the ground.
The knife broke free, tumbled into the snow.
But Mars delivered a fist to his jaw and that had Jericho tasting blood, stumbling back. He landed on his backside.
He’d also lost sight of the knife in the snow.
Mars had rolled, and Jericho kicked away from him, probably tossing the lost knife into the darkness with his efforts.
He fought to scramble up, but Mars tackled him, brought him down with a whuff. Another fist careened toward his face, but he got his arm up before he landed the blow and pulled Mars close, boxing his ear.
Mars jerked and slammed fists into Jericho’s ribs, but his jacket caught most of the impact and then he kneed the man in his gut.
For a second, Mars jerked, and Jericho got his hands around his neck.
Just hold on. The thought hit him, swelled through him. Just hold on, and . . .
And the sense of it ripped through him. It was one thing to shoot someone while at war.
Entirely another to kill someone with his hands.
He wasn’t that guy.
Still, he could cut off Mars’s breathing, make him pass out, then secure him. So, yeah, he held on as Mars clawed at his grip.
He wore gloves, which didn’t help. His grip slipped, his hold loosening and when Mars slammed his fist into his face, the blow broke Jericho’s grip.
Mars reared back, away from Jericho.
Then he took off through the woods.
Jericho wiped blood from his face, fought to his feet.
No. He wasn’t getting away. Not again.
Let’s finish this.
He took off after the man, adrenaline hot in his veins. “Mars!”
The man vanished into the darkness, and Jericho’s gut told him to slow down, but he stopped listening, let his impulse drive him.
He was Harley, running after trouble. And he didn’t care.
His boots crashed through the snow layer, the branches breaking as he plowed through the trail Mars left. Snow shook down from the trees, buffeted him, but he heard the swearing ahead of him, hard breaths and branches breaking. He kept running.
His feet hit rock, and he nearly slid. Grabbed a nearby tree branch for stability, then kept going.
A rock whizzed past his head. That slowed him down.
Another, and he spotted Mars ahead, in the light of the moon, on a rise of rocks.
Yeah, Mars would kill him if Jericho kept running, let recklessness guide him.
But he couldn’t let him get away . . .
“Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
The words thundered through him.
The ridge.
Yes.
He ducked, then slipped into the darkness, behind a tree. Mars picked up another rock, searched the darkness.
Jericho crept through the woods, painfully aware of his own buffalo sounds. But the wind seemed to wake up too, and it screamed around him. And in that moment, he rushed out of cover and launched himself at Mars.
Grabbing him around the waist, they slammed together onto the ridge, the rocks jutting up through the snow. Mars hit his head, and blood darkened the glaze of moonlight, but he still had a rock and—
The blow hit Jericho on the side of his head, night slicing through his vision, pain shattering through his brain.
He rolled off, the world spinning.
Get up.
His own voice, shouting at him, but he couldn’t seem to feel his feet, his hands. He blinked hard, the world in waves.
Mars rose above him. He held the same rock—not large but big enough to crack his skull.
Leave him bleeding out in the snow.
The man raised the rock over his head as Jericho tried to roll away—
The gunshot came from behind them, exploded through the night, and jerked Mars back. Jericho expected him to fall, but he only staggered.
And that was enough.
Jericho rolled onto his knee and threw out a kick that landed in Mars’s gut.
Off-balance, Mars stumbled back.
And fell.
Right into the ravine some twenty feet down.
The former grizzly den that Sully had once found.
Jericho scrambled over to the edge. Mars lay at the bottom, alive, but shouting, his leg at a wild, broken angle.
Jericho stood over him, breathing hard.
Steps behind him, crashing through the snow, heavy breathing. He turned and barely caught Harley before she pitched over the edge.
“Did I get him?” she asked.
“Close enough.” He pulled her back from the edge. “You were supposed to run.”
“I did run! I got into cell range, called Deke, grabbed my gun, and then I came back.” She smiled. “You didn’t think I’d leave you out there to fight Mars by yourself, did you?”
No. Because that’s how it had always been. Them, together.
“Where you go, we go,” she said, gripping his lapels now.
Then she lifted herself up and kissed him.
And it made a crazy backdrop—Mars shouting in the gully below, the wind roaring around them, and even Orlando barking in the distance.
But maybe that’s how it would always be with Harley. Chaos, impulse, all kinds of trouble.
He was built for this.
So he kissed her back, his hand around her neck, holding her there. Steady. No running. All in.
He finally lifted his head. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.