Cowboy Up(87)

My hand tightens on the knife, my anger for the wrongs she’s done to Clayton taking on a whole new life. “You bitch! He would have loved that baby. Even with you bein’ stuck in his life because of the child y’all shared, he would have loved it. You’re right, he definitely didn’t want to have a baby with you, but he would’ve been the best damn father. Who knows, maybe he would’ve come around, but you’ll never know, because you killed his child.”

I see it in her eyes the second she decides to pull the trigger, that insane glint that’s been dancing there since she broke in turning into something feral. I move on autopilot, jumping to the side and diving behind the island. Before I fall to the floor, though, my arm flies out and over my head as I release the knife. I don’t even know if I threw it toward her, but it was the only thing I could think of. Fighting a gun with a knife leaves little room for options.

My thigh burns and I cry out when I land hard. My ears ring, the blast from her gun so loud that I feel its power in my bones. My body slides and slips against the eggy mess on the floor as I back toward the hallway. I had expected her to be on me the second I moved, but when I hit the hallway and press my back against the wall, all I hear is silence. Well, muffled silence. Between the gun going off and my thundering heartbeat, I can’t hear much over the bounding tempo of my racing heart and my gasping breaths.

Think, Caroline. You can’t just sit here and wait for her to come back for you. Fight.

The gun safe.

Clayton showed it to me a few weeks ago. Gave me the code, but I didn’t think anything of it. I listen for movement, but still don’t hear much of anything. However, when I go to stand, I realize why my leg is burning, and it has nothing to do with landing on it wrong. There’s a small puddle of redness forming under my leg. Now that I’ve noticed, the bullet wound’s pain becomes all but unbearable.

Linney, fight. FIGHT, baby!

Gritting my teeth, I do the only thing I can and rally. I wipe my hands on my shirt before placing them behind me and turning from the wall. Unable to put weight on my leg, I start scooting back with my good leg, pushing my body down the hall toward Clayton’s office. The red trail against the hardwood floors is unpreventable, even if it’s basically an arrow telling Jess how to find me.

Once I reach the office, it takes me a little while to remember the code, but finally the metal door pops and swings open. I take in the different guns inside, but, not knowing anything about them, I just grab one and pray it’s loaded. I start moving back toward the door but pause to look down at the gun I’m holding, remembering the safety that Clayton had mentioned. He hadn’t been teaching me how to use the gun, merely mentioning how, if I needed it, I would have to click the safety off.

“Where the fuck are you, bitch!”

“Oh, God,” I pant, blinding white fear slamming into me. “Where the heck is it?” I turn the gun around in my hand, finally seeing the small button. After making sure it’s off, I try to move behind his desk, but the fire in my leg makes it hard to breathe without it throbbing.

“I’m goin’ to find you and gut you from your nasty, used cunt all the way to your chest so I can rip out your heart and stuff it down your throat.”

I raise the gun, leaning my back on Clayton’s desk and try to calm my racing heart. I hear her moving, swearing as she does.

I look down at my still bleeding leg. Shit. Using the desk, I pull myself up from the floor and hobble as best I can to the attached bath, cracking the door and placing the tip of the gun between the gap in the direction of the office doorway. I hear her as she moves down the hall, her words incoherent as she rants and slurs. My vision is getting gray around the edges, and I know time is not on my side.

“Gotcha, bitch,” Jess yells, jumping into the office doorway and searching the room wildly. “The fuck did you go?”

My hands don’t even tremble as I adjust my hold on the gun and wait. She takes three steps into the room, stopping right next to where I’m hiding, and with one last slow exhale, my vision now a dull black, I pull the trigger.





27


CLAYTON


“Sometimes I Cry” by Chris Stapleton



Pulling up to the still-smoking remains of the gazebo, I park next to Mav’s four-wheeler and cut the engine on mine. I expected Sheriff Holden to be here, but not the three other patrol trucks pointing their headlights toward the ash- and ember-filled space that I’d married Caroline in hours before.

What I also hadn’t expected, was the body of John Lewis to be here.

“What the fuck?”

“Shit, Clay,” Mav answers, blowing out his breath. “I know you thought it might have been him, but fuckin’ hell.”