Page 91 of Breaking His Exile

River’s hand went still on the splinter. He didn’t look up.

“I understand why you ran,” she said. “I would have run too, if I’d been you. If I’d had your choices. But you left me there, and I survived it, and I’m still angry about that. Both things are true.”

He nodded. Short, tight. His shoulders had gone rigid under the jacket, and she could see him fighting the instinct to defend, to explain, to find some angle where his leaving hadn’t cost her what it cost her. He fought it and won. His hand came down flat on the step.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I hear that.” He looked at her finally. “I can’t change what happened. I wish I could. I’d change it in a heartbeat if I could go back and—” He stopped. Shook his head. “But I can’t. So tell me what you need from me now. However much space, however little, whatever it is. I’ll do it.”

The anger in her chest didn’t dissolve. It shifted, the way something heavy shifts when you stop trying to lift it all at once and start figuring out how to carry it. She’d been carrying it for eight years. She could carry it a while longer if she had to. But she didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

“Just be here,” she said. “Don’t try to fix it all at once. We can’t. So just be here, and we’ll figure out the rest as we go.”

Relief moved across his face — cautious, careful, like he was afraid to take too much of it. He nodded.

They sat in the quiet and the ranch moved around them — boots on gravel, a truck door, Jonah’s voice calling something to Boone near the barn. Normal sounds. The sounds of a place rebuilding itself one day at a time.

River picked up the splinter again, twisted it between his fingers. “So. Evander.”

She shot him a look.

“What? I’m allowed to ask. My sister spends a week on a mountain with a man who’s been a ghost story around here for eight years, then comes back looking at him the way you look at him, and I’m not allowed to ask?”

“You’re allowed to ask. I don’t have to answer.”

“Fair.” He tossed the splinter. “But you’re going to, because I’m your brother and I have a right to know if I need to start sharpening my protective instincts.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “There’s nothing to protect me from.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She looked out at the yard. Evander had disappeared— into the barn, probably, or the infirmary, though she doubted the infirmary. He’d be wherever people weren’t, doing whatever needed doing that didn’t require conversation.

“I don’t know what happens next,” she said. “With him. With any of it. I got here three days ago with blood on my hands and a federal marshal asking questions, and I haven’t had a minute to breathe, let alone figure out what comes after.” She wrapped her arms around her knees. “But I want the chance to find out. However that looks. However complicated it gets. I want the chance.”

River studied her. Then he nodded, once, the way men nodded when they’d decided something about someone they cared about and weren’t going to make a production of it.

“Well,” he said, “lucky for you, I’m excellent at complications. It’s basically my primary skill set. Right after getting chased by poultry.”

The tension broke. She shoved his shoulder. He grinned, the River grin — all teeth and no regret — and for a second she could see the brother she’d grown up with, the one who’d made her laugh in a house where laughter was scarce and precious.

The moment shattered when Brandt’s SUV pulled through the gate.

He parked near the barn and stepped out with the same economical movement he brought to everything — no wasted motion, no performance. He wore the dark suit jacket over the black tee, the same outfit he’d had on yesterday, and his expression gave nothing away as he crossed the yard toward the porch.

Walker met him halfway. They spoke low, heads bent, and whatever Brandt said made Walker’s posture shift slightly. Not alarm. Alertness.

Rainey stood up. River rose beside her.

Brandt reached the porch steps and nodded to both of them. “Update,” he said. No preamble. “Creed’s still missing. The Sons have gone quiet — too quiet. Ghost repositioned cameras and motion sensors around the blind spots Cole identified. We’ve got marshals watching the county road. Everyone stays close until further notice.”

He delivered it the way he delivered everything — clean, factual, stripped of drama. The effect was somehow more unsettling than if he’d raised his voice.

“Quiet how?” River asked.

“Radio silence. No chatter, no movement at their known locations. Could mean they’re regrouping. Could mean something else.” Brandt’s gaze moved past them, toward the barn, and Rainey knew he was counting heads, making sure everyone he needed to account for was present. “Just keep your people on the property. No solo runs, no unnecessary risks.”

He turned to go. Paused. Turned back.

“One more thing.” Casual. Too casual. “I spotted a horse near the eastern tree line on my drive in. Dark bay. Standing lame. No rider.”