Chapter 23 #3
Cullen stepped between them, waving his arms wide. "Hey. Hey. Come on, big girl. Over here."
Dolly didn't care about Cullen.
Dove got in front of Dutton and spread her arms the way she'd seen Trent do it, planting her feet, making herself large. “Over here, sweetheart.” Her voice dropped to that low register. "Come on, Dolly. It's okay."
Dolly slowed. Her head swung toward Dove.
Dutton raised his weapon.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Trent said.
The shot cracked across the property.
Dolly lurched. A sound came out of her that Trent had never heard before—not a bellow, not a hiss, it almost sounded like a gargled cry—and she spun sideways, tail whipping.
Trent raced in her direction.
"You shot my gator.” He got between Dutton and Dolly without thinking about it, without any plan except that Dutton was not firing again. "You shot her."
Dutton yanked open the driver’s side door. “It’s not a pet.”
Pop. Pop.
Dutten jumped. Courtney gasped. The SUV sank as the tires exploded. Trent glanced over his shoulder and saw Buddy wave from the observation deck. “Watch out. Dolly’s on the move, and Clarkson’s right behind her.
“I got Clarkson.” Cullen waved his hands and stomped his feet.
Clarkson turned her head but didn’t move.
Trent had nothing left that resembled patience.
Dolly had flattened herself on the ground. But that was only temporary.
Trent pointed at Dutton. "Get to the porch. Right now. You move anywhere else, and I promise you this gator is the least of your problems."
Dutton took Courtney’s hand and moved to the porch.
Trent turned back to his animals.
Clarkson wasn’t interested in Cullen and had Karl pinned against the SUV, mouth open, waiting. Jack had worked his way around the far side, arms out, moving slow. Cullen came in from the other angle.
“I don’t think she’ll charge if he doesn't move," Trent called. "Give me a second."
He got to Dolly first. She’d begun circling, agitated, tail still sweeping hard. He could see the wound now—high on the tail, entry and exit both visible, bleeding but not pumping.
His shoulders dropped about an inch.
"Hey." He crouched down to her level and put out his hand. "Hey, old girl. I see you. Let me look."
She turned her head toward him. One amber eye, ancient and furious.
"I know." He kept his hand out. "I know. You're okay."
She stilled. Not calm—still hot, still agitated—but she let him move closer.
Dove appeared beside him. She crouched the same way he did, held her hand out the same way, and spoke in the same low register. "Come on, Dolly. It's okay. You're okay."
Dolly's tail slowed.
Trent glanced at Dove. She was watching the gator the way he'd tried to teach her—patient, steady, no sudden movement, letting the animal decide on her own.
He looked back at Dolly.
The wound wasn't bad. Clean through the thick part of the tail, well clear of anything vital. She'd end up with a scar, and she'd be sore. She’d be in a mood for a good week, but she’d be fine.
"Back to the water," he said softly. "Come on. Go on home."
Dolly held for another moment. Then she turned and moved toward the moat, slow and dignified, like the whole thing had been her idea from the start.
He stayed crouched until she slid off the bank and into the water.
Behind him, he heard Cullen utilizing that same low and steady timbre that everyone who’d ever been raised with gators used. Jack echoed it, and the two of them worked Clarkson back toward the moat one patient step at a time until a splash told him she was back where she belonged.
Karl slid down the side of the SUV and sat in the gravel with his head in his hands.
Trent stood.
Buddy climbed down from the observation platform, rifle across his back, and Sterling came around from the far side of the house, and from the end of the drive, tires screamed on the pavement as Dawson's cruiser rolled in hot, another vehicle right behind it.
Dawson was out before the car stopped rocking. Chloe was right behind him. And from the passenger seat, Lach Ridge unfolded himself from the vehicle.
They didn't need much direction, though Buddy gave it to them anyway, even though his FBI days were long behind him.
Dutton sat on the porch steps with his hands up while Dawson cuffed him, reciting his rights in the flat, practiced tone of someone who'd done it enough times that the words were automatic.
Chloe moved Courtney to the second vehicle, portfolio still somehow under her arm, mascara tracking down her face.
Lach walked Karl to the patrol car without a word, and Karl went without argument, which told Trent everything about how much fight the man had left.
He almost felt sorry for Karl. Almost was the keyword.
Trent stood in the middle of his driveway and watched the people who’d tried to destroy him—and who’d a hand in taking away his father twenty years ago—get what they deserved.
He knew this was only the beginning. He knew how the law worked.
Charges would be filed, both local and federal.
Dutton and Courtney—they’d fight them. And they had the means.
Karl? Something told Trent that Dawson might be able to get him to turn on them for the right reduction of his sentence, and he hoped that would be the play.
Why Trent still had a soft spot for Karl, he had no idea, but he did.
He supposed years of running barefoot together in a place as special as the Glades did that to people.
Trent rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around.
Three generations of Mallors had worked this land.
His grandfather had carved it out of the Glades with nothing but stubbornness and a tolerance for heat.
His father had loved it enough to testify for it, to die for it—or to disappear for it, which had turned out to be the same thing.
His mother had kept it alive through grief and tight budgets and sheer refusal to quit.
And now here it was. Still standing. Still his.
Dove stepped up beside him. She didn't say anything. Just stood there with her shoulder against his arm and the morning light catching gold on the side of her face where the bruising had started to settle in around the cut.
His father appeared on his other side.
The three of them stood there watching Dawson's people work, watching Cullen joke with Buddy near the moat, watching Dolly drift past in the water below like nothing had happened, like she hadn't just taken a bullet and kept moving.
"Hell of a morning," his father said.
"Yeah." Trent looked at the moat. At the house. At the land running all the way down to where the Glades opened up and went forever. "It was."
Dove laced her fingers through his.
He looked down at their hands. Then up at his father, who was watching him with the same expression he'd had in the kitchen that morning—warm and quiet and twenty years of an absence that had finally found its way home.
“Your mother had the most beautiful wedding dress,” his father said.
“Excuse me?” Trent stared at his dad. “We nearly died, and you’re thinking about mom’s wedding dress?”
“I’m wondering if that dress is still in the closet because ever since you were born, she kept telling me that she was never gonna be the mother of the bride, and she just hoped that maybe your bride would humor and wear that dress.
” His father laughed. It wasn't boisterous.
Or loud. Or even humorous. But it was real and it was the same laugh Trent had been carrying in his memory for two decades even if it was slightly worn around the edges with grief but still recognizable.
“Um, we’re not discussing this right now. Or any time all that soon,” Dove said. “I think we need to let things settle for a bit.”
Trent leaned over and kissed her unbruised cheek. “Mom tried to get me to realize how much I cared for Dove the moment she learned she could cook chicken and rice soup.” Trent smiled. “Mom was always right about everything.”
“She told me within the first two hours of us meeting that we were gonna get married. I thought she was crazy. We were married three weeks later.” Jack looked out at the water. “Your mother was always right. Always.”
Trent had nothing to add to that. He just held onto Dove's hand and stood between the two of them in the morning sun on the land that was still his and let that be enough.