Page 76 of Savage Heart

“Maverick, you don’t understand. Lincoln would’ve—”

“You’re right. I don’t understand,” I interrupt.

“After he died, I was too messed up. It all got out of hand, and then my dad—”

“Was she drinking?” I ask.

Brandon looks down. “No,” he whispers. “She hadn’t been drinking. She was sick because she was pregnant.”

My stomach churns.

“I’ve heard enough,” I say.

“Maverick, wait. It’s gone on this long . . .”

I need to talk to the person who was there that night. Hours later, my mind is still reeling. I get back on Thunder and turn toward the river road, then cut across the field. Toward Iris’s place. I know the way like the back of my hand.

The sky turns an angry gray. I feel a drop on my wrist. By the time I reach Iris’s trailer, the rain’s coming down steady, enough to soak me through. I should’ve been paying better attention to the weather.

I swing a leg over and slide down, boots hitting mud. Thunder snorts, flicks his ears, patient as ever. I tie him to the hitch post that we built for Lucky and Lady all those years ago. I’m happy to see that Iris never took it down. I stand there for a second, rain running down my neck, soaking my collar.

Then I knock.

Iris looks out the window and then opens the door, eyes questioning.

“Maverick?”

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

Her eyes flick past me, to the horse, to the rain. “Now? What’s going on?”

“Now.”

She studies me for a second, then steps outside. “You’re dripping.”

“You will be too, if we stay out here.”

“Linc’s in there, watching a show . . .”

I nod.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I blink away the rain and reach out, putting my hand on her cheek. There’s a painful lump in my throat, but all I feel is how soft her skin is against mine. Her breath catches as she stares up at me.

“Maverick?”

“I’m sorry, Iris. So, so sorry.”

I watch every emotion play out on her face and wonder how I haven’t seen the truth all this time. It’s been right here in front of me.

She stares at me, and I can see her pulse in her neck. “Why are you sorry?”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Out of anyone in this town, I was your best friend. I knew you best. I knew you. At least I thought I did. Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice is anguished, and I try to reel it in, all these feelings. “You’ve carried this burden alone all this time? I would’ve never let you suffer this alone if I’d known the truth.”

“What are you talking about, Maverick?”

“Brandon told me . . . he told me what happened the night Lincoln died.”