by Alison Kent
The grooves he’d called tracks were deep in some spots, invisible in others, and the grass nearly dead as far as she could see. Lovely. She gripped the wheel tightly, grimacing when she bounced through a particularly iffy stretch of ruts, but determined to ignore the sharp clutch of her nerves and tense muscles.
Scanning the horizon, she saw the small herd of cattle before she saw the three men on horseback, but not before they saw her. Dax was the first to rein his horse around and start toward her. Boone and Casper followed, and by the time she’d stopped, Dax had dismounted and the other two were only a few yards behind.
“Arwen? What’s going on?” Dax asked, his hat brim pulled low as he walked toward her, just not low enough to hide the measure of fear painted like a warrior’s mask on his face.
“It’s not good,” she said, her heart pounding like a fist in her chest.
The volcano she’d seen hovering beneath his calm surface before gave a warning rumble. “You’re here. The boys are here. Is it Darcy? Is she okay?”
“She’s at the house. With Josh. She’s fine.”
“Josh is with Darcy.” He wasn’t stupid. He could put two and two together. “It’s one of the parents. Something happened. What?”
“Your father’s at Coleman Medical,” she said, watching his sunbaked face blanch. “He’s had a heart attack.”
Dax pressed his lips together, shoved his hands to his hips, glanced across her head to where Boone and Casper sat on their horses, waiting. “And I’m supposed to do what, exactly?”
He swung his gaze back to her then, his eyes cold and dark, sweat pooling hotly in the hollow of his throat, the sun kissing him with bright bursts of light.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” She took a deep breath, settling her own nerves because his were popping like glass breaking. “I just thought you should know.”
He looked away again, bit off a raw, “Fuck,” then yanked his hat from his head and dried his brow in the crease of his elbow. “Shit. Fuck. Just fuck.”
She looked toward the other two Dalton Gang members, gave a shrug in lieu of a plea for help. Should she go? Leave him here? Let him stew in the company he trusted?
Or should she wait, give him the time he needed to make the decision he had to make. Because she knew he would. His reputation aside, he wasn’t a bad man.
“Go on,” Boone finally said. “We’ll finish up here.”
“Flash—”
It was all he got out before Casper cut in, riding forward to take Flash’s reins. He nodded toward Arwen’s truck. “Get outta here. Let us know what you find out. All things considered, I hope the news isn’t bad.”
Dax was nodding when he turned for her truck, his long legs powering over the ground, his boots sending dirt clods and the grass rooted in them flying. She hurried behind him, circled the cab as he climbed into the passenger seat, jumped behind the wheel and started the engine.
She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t offer words of comfort or platitudes or ask him about his day, what he was thinking, what he was feeling. All she did was drive, telling herself she’d done the right thing, even if right now it didn’t seem right at all.
Her hands tightened on the wheel, Dax’s on the denim of his jeans. The truck bumped and jolted as she steered down the rutted trail, her shoulders aching with the effort until finally she had to let up on the gas or risk losing an axle.
Dax swore under his breath. “Stop. Just stop. Let me drive.”
“I’ve got it.” She knew he was nervous, but she’d made it this far, she could make it out.
“Arwen. Stop the fucking truck now.”
“Fine,” she bit off, clamping down on the single word as she braked.
Dax shoved open his door, tumbled out, but instead of coming around to hers, he walked into the pasture. She watched him through the windshield, her hands shaking even as she held on to the wheel to steady them. But as much as she wanted to go to him, she stayed where she was. Until she knew what he was going through…
God, but this was so unfairly complicated. Throwing this at him when he’d only just returned to the place he’d had to leave to get the life he wanted. And of course life wasn’t fair. She knew life wasn’t fair. But it killed her to see him so lost.
He turned in a circle as if he didn’t know where he was or what to do or how he was going to get out of there. He turned again, stumbling, pulling off his hat and lifting his face to the sun. Then he leaned forward, his hands on his thighs, his whole body heaving as he breathed.
He was breaking her heart, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, blinking rapidly to clear the tears threatening to fall. She couldn’t imagine the damage the past he carried with him had done, the toll the last sixteen years had taken. The pain he would never admit to, would see as a weakness when he wasn’t weak at all.
Finally he straightened, coming around to her open door. But he didn’t get in. Instead, he paced back and forth, muttering, eventually shouting, “I hate him. Goddamn but I hate him.”
“I know,” she whispered, but more to herself than to him.
He stopped, looked up, and came for her then, grabbing her wrist as if to pull her out of the seat. She jerked at his hold, unable to break it, though the pain that lanced through her ankle as she stumbled to the ground had her wondering if she’d broken that instead.
“Great. Thanks. I needed that,” she said, hobbling. “I told you you could drive.”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at her feet, still holding her wrist, his whole body shaking.
“Never mind. I’ll be fine. Let’s just go.” But even then he didn’t move, just raised his gaze to hers, his eyes frightened. So, so frightened.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, his throat collapsing around the words.
She couldn’t breathe. God, she couldn’t breathe. “I know. Oh, honey, I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve been rid of him for years. Or I thought I was rid of him. That he was gone, but he’s not. He never will be. He’s always going to be there.”
“No.” She shook her head, thought of the mother she’d never really known, thought of the father who she’d had to let go. “He won’t always be there.”
That was what he had to realize. What was going to drive the decision he made next. Wallace Campbell could very well die. For all Arwen knew, he’d done so while his son battled the demons that came with the family name.
He looked down at her, his eyes unfocused, his mind going places she couldn’t but that scared her all the same. She didn’t know his past. He’d been her one-sided crush in high school, the hot guy she’d taken to bed in her dreams, imagining his hands when touching herself in the dark of the night where no one could see.
But now…
She knew enough of who he was to understand this was going to turn his life upside down. He didn’t have to see his father. He didn’t have to go to him. He could saddle his horse and ride herd every day, keeping his ranch alive. But the things about his father that he’d stored in the attic of his mind had just tumbled down the stairs. And that changed everything.
He closed his eyes, his throat working as he swallowed, his jaw clicking as he ground it tight. Then he looked at her, reached for her, slammed her against the side of the truck, speared his fingers into her hair, and brought his mouth down on hers with such force she tasted blood. His, hers, she wasn’t sure, though her bottom lip stung from the pressure.
She wedged her hands between their bodies to push him away, but the dampness on her cheeks stopped her. Tears, and she knew she wasn’t the one letting them go, so she wound her fingers into the heated fabric of his shirt and kept him close, giving him her mouth that he seemed to desperately need.
And then her mouth wasn’t enough, and his hands left her hair and found the button at her waistband. He freed it, unzipped her, tugged her jeans down to her knees, then went to work shoving down his own.
She wanted to stop him. She didn’t want
to stop him. He was out of his mind and it frightened her to see him like this. To know he was stronger than she was, and that he wasn’t thinking, but only feeling, and looking for relief the only way he knew how.
This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about their affair or their bargain or anything but Dax being ripped apart. Trying to rein him in, to soften the act, to calm him would be akin to telling him this was wrong.
If this was what he needed to remind him of who he was, there was nothing wrong about it. So she didn’t argue when he stepped on the bunched-up fabric at her knees and pushed her jeans and her panties to her boots.
She was ready when he lifted her against the truck’s rear quarter panel. The metal was hot against her bare backside, but not blistering. She looped her arms around his neck, opened her knees and made the most room she could with her ankles bound.
He flattened his palms on the truck bed beneath her arms, tilted his hips, and drove home. She gasped at the intrusion, wiggled to adjust, dropped her head back and stared at the sky as he fucked her.
He grunted and he cursed, words she couldn’t make out and didn’t need to. All she could do was hold on for the ride, give him this and hope it was enough to soothe the demon that gripped him.
His cock filled her, stretched her, beat at her with such force she felt the rips and tears as they happened. Her flesh burned, but the hard grinding base of his shaft had her clit on fire. And the angle of his stroke hit everything just right.
She came in crazy wild waves, her legs shaking, her sex gripping his cock and milking it until he followed, spilling, spewing, semen and words and unimaginable pain and helpless anger and raw primal fear. She took it all, held him, stroked him, coaxed him to mourn, but he pulled away, walked away, faced away and just stood there.
She leaned against the truck, her pants around her ankles, cum dripping down her thighs, her lower body fully exposed to any passing cow or cowboy, and she couldn’t even move. She was spent, emotionally, physically—even mentally if her inability to think about what to do next was any indication.
Eventually she pulled herself together, dressed, wincing at the skin too tender for the soft cotton of her panties. He’d used her. He’d abused her. But more than that, he’d needed her, and she’d been there for him, and was glad.
Wiping her eyes, then her nose, she looked up and watched him pull up his pants. “Do you still want to drive?”
“No. You go on. I’m gonna… stay out here awhile.”
Here? In the middle of a pasture? With the temperature already a hundred plus? “You don’t have to go to the hospital. But let me drive you to the house.”
He shook his head, looking down as he buckled his belt.
He’d just fucked her senseless, yet seeing his hands adjusting his pants had her aching all over again. “Dax—”
“No.” His gaze whipped up to hers. “And don’t wait for me at the house. Go home or back to work or wherever.”
She couldn’t just leave him out here. “Dax—”
“Fuck, Arwen. Just do what I say, okay?”
She said nothing, just stared at him, anger rising and tugging at her tongue and urging her to fight back. She knew better than to let anyone talk to her that way. But Dax wasn’t anyone, and this wasn’t a situation that fell into normal. And so she shifted into gear and drove away, leaving him lonely, leaving him as he’d asked.
The picture in her rearview mirror nearly killed her. His long legs ambling slowly, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched as he stared at the ruts in the road. She thought her chest might explode. It hurt. Her lungs. Her throat. Her heart.
She kept one hand on the wheel, but brought up the other to cover her mouth, trying to hold back her sobs. That didn’t work, so she used it to wipe away the tears streaming from her eyes until finally she gave up, driving blindly, the tiny figure walking behind her disappearing into the distance as she watched.
TWENTY
DARCY STOOD IN the Coleman Medical emergency waiting room, arms wrapped around her midsection to keep the shivers coursing through her at bay. She wasn’t really cold. She wasn’t really feeling anything. She’d gone almost completely numb, an unblinking statue, an unmovable roadblock. But she couldn’t stop shaking.
She stared at the swinging silver doors that led into the ER, the tiny reinforced windows too high for her to see anything happening down the corridor beyond. Once in awhile a staff member pushed through, but even then all she could see was the long tiled floor, the white walls, the curtained partitions.
She couldn’t see The Campbell at all, and he was the reason she was here. No one knew anything, or if they did they weren’t telling her, and until someone came out to give her news, good or bad, or to let her know there was no change in his condition, she was staying put. She was done walking away.
She had no idea where her mother was. The staff at home hadn’t seen her since this morning. She wasn’t answering her cell. Greg, who’d been with The Campbell at the office when he’d collapsed, was clueless. Who knew where the hell Dax was, though he was useless; he hadn’t been in touch with their mother since his return. And Josh was out of suggestions.
Josh…
He sat behind her in one of the plastic chairs not meant for anyone’s comfort. Last she’d looked, he was hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, one hand worrying the knuckle of the other’s pinky. His hat kept her from seeing his face, only the line of his jaw and his neck before his shirt collar got in the way.
Eyes closed, she remembered him coming to tell her what had happened. She’d been in the back of Tess Dalton’s closet when he’d arrived, folding clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles, trying—and failing—to do so dispassionately. Instead, a nearly overwhelming sense of responsibility had her taking care with every single piece.
At the sound of Josh’s boots on the stairs, she’d called out, expecting Dax. When Josh had appeared in the bedroom, she’d known he wasn’t there to kiss her again, and everything inside of her had gone cold and black.
He’d pulled off his hat, held the brim with both hands and stared at the floor gathering words. Blood had rushed to her head as she’d waited for him to speak. And for the first time she’d noticed he had a cowlick on the right of his forehead. Hair that should’ve been mashed flat by his hat stood up and waved.
In the end, all he’d said was, “Your father’s in the hospital,” and she’d tumbled out of the closet, searching for the shoes she’d kicked off before going in.
Halfway down the stairs she’d remembered her keys were in her purse in the bedroom she was using. Josh had stepped aside for her to burst past, then on her return trip blocked the staircase and demanded she let him drive.
Since she remembered nothing of the trip to the hospital, his insistence on chauffeuring her had turned out to be a very good thing. The only thing about the past few hours that was.
“Darcy?” He spoke from directly behind her, the heat of his body tempting her to lean into him. But she couldn’t lean. Not yet. She couldn’t lean.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted Dax. “Have you heard anything from my brother?”
“No, but—”
“Arwen found him, right?”
“I’m supposing she did, but—”
“If you want to help me, find my brother.” The words sounded harsh to her ears and she wanted to suck them back in and swallow them down and start over. Start the whole day over, the week, the month. She wanted to be living at home again, to be working with Greg and The Campbell.
Except she didn’t want any of that. She just wanted Dax. “I’m sorry—”
At that, Josh moved in front of her, used the length of an index finger beneath her chin to force her to meet his gaze. “If you don’t come and sit down, I’m going to pick you up and carry you out of here. I’m going to take you to the Blackbird and feed you. I’m going to sit in the cab of my truck while you lie down in the seat and nap. I’m not going to
lose you when I’ve just found you. Now what’s it going to be?”
His eyes never wavered. Neither did his voice or his resolve. She couldn’t imagine that he’d manhandle her, but the threat rang with enough conviction that she found herself nodding. She was tired, and she was hungry, and she was not wearing the last few hours gracefully. Leaving didn’t sit well, but her staying wasn’t doing anyone any good.
“He’s right,” said a voice behind them.
Darcy spun to see the Campbell family physician running a hand through his hair and looking as tired as she felt. “Dr. Kirkland? You’re here. Have you seen him? No one will tell me anything.”
“I have, and no one has told you anything because there’s been no change since he first arrived.” He shoved his hands to his hips, his tie askew, his dress shirt wrinkled.
He’d been in Austin at a conference luncheon when The Campbell had collapsed, but had come when the hospital called. “So, what? We just wait?”
“I wait. You go home,” he said, raising his hand when she opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere. “He’s being monitored, and you have my word I’ll let you know the minute there’s an update.”
“I’d rather stay here. So you won’t have trouble reaching me.”
“Darcy—”
“No,” she said, before the doctor could say more. “I want to be here.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Josh placed his hand on her shoulder. “C’mon. At least to get something to eat. If you want to come back after that, I’ll bring you. I promise.”
She kept one arm crossed tightly over her middle, rubbed at her forehead with her other hand. What she wanted was for everyone to leave her alone, but since her wants didn’t seem to be in the cards, she nodded, and let Josh guide her through the ER doors to the parking lot and his truck.
They made the ride to the diner without speaking, a Blake Shelton playlist at low volume keeping the silence from growing awkward and nearly lulling her to sleep. She knew her exhaustion was fueled more by worry than needing to rest; it was only eight o’clock. But knowing didn’t change the urge she had to close her eyes, just for a minute or two.
