Page 31 of Breaking His Exile

River stumbled, caught himself on the hood of the SUV, and stood there heaving, his hands braced on the metal, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“What the hell was that?” X rounded on him, his own pulse hammering. “You trying to get us shot? Because that’s how you get us shot.”

“He’s lying.” River’s voice was wrecked. “You heard him. You heard the way he talked about her. Like she was nothing. Like she was just some girl who wandered in off the highway and got what she got.”

“Yeah, he was lying. Badly. But starting a bar fight with a room full of bikers while a federal marshal is trying to build a case won’t help Rainey. Getting yourself killed won’t help her.”

River pushed off the SUV and turned. His face was wet, his eyes red-rimmed, and there was a wildness in them that made X’s stomach drop.

X had seen that look before. Not on River, but on men with nothing left to lose, men about to make a choice that ended in gunfire or handcuffs or both. It hollowed out his stomach and filled the space with ice water.

“River.” He kept his voice low, even, the same tone he used with spooked horses and feral dogs. “Look at me, man. I’m right here.”

River’s chest heaved. His hands hung at his sides, opening and closing, and the tendons in his forearms stood out like cables under strain. His eyes kept cutting toward the bar’s front door like he was calculating how fast he’d have to move to get back inside, how many steps to Lyle, whether the pool players would clear their holsters before he got his hands on the old man’s throat.

“Don’t do it,” X said. He stepped into River’s line of sight, blocking the door. “Whatever you’re planning right now, it’s not worth it.”

“You don’t know what I’m planning.”

“I know you’re not breathing. I know your hands are shaking. I know you want to go back in there and beat the truth out of a seventy-year-old man in front of a room full of Sons of Sin.” X folded his arms. “That’s not a plan. That’s a funeral.”

River’s jaw worked. A muscle jumped beneath his eye. For a second, X thought he was going to swing, but then the fight drained out of him. He tipped his head back until he was staring at the pale wash of sky above the pines. His breath came out in a long, ragged stream.

“I can’t do this.” His voice cracked. “I can’t stand here while some liar in a bar pretends my sister doesn’t matter.”

“I know.” X moved closer, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “But you’re not doing it alone. Brandt’s in there right now doing his marshal thing. And you’re out here with me, not getting shot. That’s a win, pendejo. Take it.”

River let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t come from somewhere so broken. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and held them there, his whole body trembling with the effort of keeping himself together.

They stood there in silence until Brandt shoved out of the bar and strode across the lot, his expression like a storm cloud. He didn’t speak again until they were back in the SUV and peeling out of the lot.

“What happened?” River demanded.

“We have a body.”

River’s complexion went the color of milk. “Rainey⁠—”

“No,” Brandt said quickly, and his expression softened. “Sorry. A witness that was going to come forward and contradict the official statement. “Marshals went to collect him and found him dead in a motel room.”

X spun his ring around on his finger. “They’re cleaning house.”

“Yeah.” Brandt returned his attention to the road. “Which means they’re closer to finding her.”

nine

On Rainey’s second day at the cabin, restlessness set in. It wasn’t helped by the rain that had been on the roof for an hour. In any other situation, she found that kind of white noise soothing.

But not now.

She’d tried to read one of the well-worn adventure novels Evander had. Tried to work on a song and messed with her broken guitar. Tried to pace it off, tried to ignore the twinge in her left side every time she reached too far.

None of it distracted her from the fact he left when the rain started with strict orders to stay inside, and he hadn’t returned.

Fuck waiting.

She pulled on her boots. Grabbed the wool blanket from the foot of the cot and wrapped it around her shoulders. The movement sent a twinge through her left side, sharp enough to make her hiss, but it settled as she crossed to the window and wiped the fog from the glass.

Outside, the clearing had turned to mud. Sheets of rain swept across the yard, driven by a wind. The lean-to where Sable stood was barely visible, a dark smudge at the edge of the clearing, and the horse had pressed herself against the back wall, tail to the weather, head low.