Page 50 of His Texas Home
It felt good…almost as good as sayingour land.
Sirens sounded down the road…Daley and his men looked that direction.
“Come on, boys,” Daley muttered. “We’re done here.”
Then they finally left.
Gage lowered his shotgun and let out a long breath. Forrest still had one arm around me, even as his shoulders slumped.
“Jesus,” Wyatt muttered, finally coming through the gate and going straight to Forrest. “You look like hell.”
“They wanted to kill him,” I blurted out, and the words got stuck in my throat as I started crying. “I’m…oh God?—”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Forrest said, but it didn’t seem okay. Wyatt put out an arm to brace him as he swayed on his feet. “I’m okay, just a little beat up?—”
“You’re not okay,” I said, shaking my head. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. “You’re not?—”
“You’re both a little worse for wear,” Wyatt said, looking between us then back at Gage. “I’m gonna take them back to the house so me and Haven can take a look. Wanna fill the sheriff in and join us there?”
Gage nodded, eyes darting toward where the cop car was almost in the drive. “I gotcha. Go on ahead.”
Wyatt got Forrest into the truck and I climbed in after him, and we drove up to the main house with the sirens getting louder behind us and the Hill Country afternoon going gold around the property.
It wasn’t over…not even close.
But it was the beginning of the end.
And I was home.
SIXTEEN
Forrest
Wyatt had me sit on the kitchen counter by the sink, his whole kit laid out like a real doctor or something.
He checked my ribs first; hands pressing methodically along my side, watching my face for a flinch. I flinched twice. Wyatt just nodded along, calm and patient and professional.
“Bruised,” he said. “Not broken. You’ll know the difference tomorrow morning when you try to get out of bed.”
“Great.”
“You’re lucky.” He moved to my face, tilting my chin up toward the light. They’d clocked me in the face and split my cheek open; it had been trickling blood the whole drive. I’d never been in a fight before today…and I didn’t intend on doing it again. “Cut’s not deep enough to need stitches. Butterfly closure, ice, you’ll have a black eye by morning.”
“Also great.”
Haven had Willa sitting at the table, the two of them murmuring to each other. There was already bruising on Willa’s arms where they’d grabbed her—red marks that would be purple tomorrow. I kept looking over, Wyatt redirecting my chin so he could clean and close the cut on my cheek.
“She’s okay,” he said quietly. “Haven’s got her.”
“I know.”
“Look at me.”
I looked at him. He checked my pupils, held up two fingers, ran through the standard protocol. I found myself grateful that my cousin had been a combat medic so I didn’t have to turn right back around and go back to the doctor.
“No concussion,” he said. “You’re just beat up.”
“You say that like it doesn’t hurt like hell.”
