| had he started to care so much for Laurel MacNeil? He knew all along they’d have to arrest her. So did she. Why were they both acting as though there might have been some other outcome? Rick dropped his tone. “I got you, man. We’ll take good care of her, I promise.” “Yeah, thanks, Sanchez. I’ll be right behind you with the horse. We shouldn’t have to separate until we get to the snowmobiles.” LAUREL HAD ACCIDENTALLY bumped into Jack’s side when she pushed by him and she was sorry if it hurt him. That wasn’t her intention, but she couldn’t look at him. She’d break down if she did. It wasn’t Jack’s fault they were taking her to jail. It would have happened whether or not she ever met him. This was all her father’s fault. She was furious at him, but the emotion did her no good. He was dead. In her heart she was thankful it was Roger and not Jack who was killed, and that admission came with crushing guilt. Her muscles shivered as though to rid herself of the sickening twist in her heart. Uncertainty over what would happen to her and Wisaka swirled in her gut, making her queasy. But, her greatest fear was she might never see Jack again. She might see him in court, if he had to testify, but she couldn’t bear to hope she’d see him in any other circumstance. What kind of lawman would ever have anything to do |
gloaming for cover. A loud pop resounded through the forest seconds before a slug rammed into Jack’s chest. He heard a rifle report echo in the hills, half a second after the impact. Then instantly, two more slugs. He flew backward into the air, light as a feather. Air rushed from his lungs as a searing pain burst across his torso. He couldn’t draw a breath. His vision dimmed. Jack reached his hands out to grasp onto something, anything. There was nothing. Cold wind rushed around his head to his face. His lungs refused to pull in oxygen. Pain ignited throughout his body. His shoulder-blades slammed against something hard, immovable. His skull crashed into granite and the sharp tang of copper pressed into the back of his tongue. Agony exploded behind his eyes. Red. Yellow. White-hot light. Then darkness stole him away. Laurel cringed at the gunshot echoing through the trees. Her horse, a big gorgeous paint, pranced nervously underneath her. “Steady, Wisaka.” Two more shots sounded and reverberated through her body. She watched the awkward ballet of the man’s limbs as his wounded form flew into the air, through the canopy of trees, hitting branches on the way down to the ravine floor. Woodland birds screeched, wings fluttering amass, disturbed by his unexpected descent. Wisaka reared in fright, wanting to bolt, but Laurel held her firm. “Whoa, Wisaka. Steady, girl.” Laurel secured her rifle in its leather saddle-scabbard and pressed her horse into a lope as she rode down |
