by Dahlia West
He passed it up and continued down the road. Up ahead, headlights burned through the sheet of gray rain and Jack ducked down into the culvert to avoid being seen. Once the vehicle had passed, moving slowly because of the storm, he hauled himself up out of the ditch once more.
The rain started pelting him hard now and Jack pulled the collar of his jacket up to shield himself as much as possible. Mud was starting to form in the shoulder and made the trek that much harder, especially since he wasn’t quite certain where he was headed.
It reminded him of Kansas, Missouri, and Nebraska on the revival circuit, on the road in nasty weather, moving from town to town. They were memories he’d thought he’d lost.
His feet took on the cadence of Scratch’s early sermons—fire and brimstone, sin and redemption—until he found himself at a similar signpost, this one reading “Thunder Ridge.”
The sign itself was nothing special. Handmade, actually, with rusted hooks holding it up. The fence on either side of it was crooked, near to collapse. Jack squinted down the long drive and caught a glimpse of an old barn at the end of the lane. Wooden, not siding like the one he’d just passed.
As lightning split the sky and thunder followed quick on its heels, Jack thought he might give Thunder Ridge a try.
He climbed the fence, legs screaming in agony, and swung one foot over the top rail. He landed with a whump in the muddy dirt, splashing it everywhere.
He crept along the driveway, staying close to the trees lining either side, until the small wooded area broke into a sprawling ranch, occasionally illuminated by flashes of lightning overhead.
There was a truck in the drive, rickety and rusted, and he knew he could wire it. He took one step toward it and his left leg nearly gave out. He stopped, put his hands on his knees, and tried to wait it out.
Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. Being hurt.
As much as he wanted to steal this next truck and get the fuck out of Dodge, he’d probably wrap the damn thing around a tree in this storm. Rain soaked him to the bone as he considered all his options.
He looked up at the rambling farmhouse and frowned at it, calculating his ability to subdue even a little old lady at this point. He turned away and shuffled toward the barn instead. He found it unlocked and slipped inside. It was drier here, at least, but it smelled like…well…a barn.
Inside, a horse nickered at his entrance but, overhead, thunder ripped loudly through the sky again, so if the animal had anything else to say about his appearance, Jack didn’t hear it.
He pulled the door firmly shut behind him and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He discovered it was not one horse, but two inside the barn—but no people, and that was a very good thing.
Off to the side, rain splattered onto the hard-packed dirt floor and Jack looked up to see a tarp flapping in the wind where the roof should have been.
Studiously avoiding getting any wetter, he shuffled forward, passing in between the horses who were locked in their stalls. Just past the center of the barn, he spotted an open door off to the side and a small bed tucked away behind it.
He pushed the door open and inspected the tiny room. It had a fully made bed, a chair in the corner, and an old dresser shoved up against the wall. He checked the dresser for anything useful, found an undershirt and pulled it out. He shredded it to obtain a long strip and took off his jacket to tie it around his upper arm where Haze had winged him. Shrugging the jacket back on, he spied another door to the left. Opening it revealed a toilet and a tiny shower stall on opposite sides of a utility sink.
Bare bones accommodations, but Jack hardly cared. He was exhausted, in pain, and ready to collapse. He passed up the bathroom in favor of the bed and lowered himself onto it gently, favoring his busted-up ribs. It was soft enough, he supposed, and dry, and better than sleeping in the dirt, so he lay down to rest his head on the lumpy pillow.
Tired as he was, though, he stared at the ceiling, unable to even close his eyes. His thoughts raced as he considered where it might have all started, where it all went wrong. He replayed every conversation every day for the last few months in his mind, ever since he’d made Hook vice president.
Should he have seen it coming? Obviously. That was Scratch’s voice, rumbling in his head as loud as the thunder outside. Jack’s old man had had no tolerance for weakness or failure.
But had there been anything to see? Jack didn’t think so. There had been no whispers in the corners, no shared looks between his men.
Had he been too high, too fucked up to notice? Jack groaned in response to his own unvoiced question. Unvoiced but not unanswered. Yes. He’d gotten too complacent, fallen too in love with his own image and lifestyle. Too many drugs and free of bugs (that Izzy Boucher had used to monitor his day-to-day activities), Jack had let himself slide, way too far down.
“Asshole,” he grumbled, but it was Scratch’s voice he heard rather than his own.
“Fuck off,” Jack snarled because the old man was dead and couldn’t beat the shit out of him now.
Vaguely he was aware that talking to himself (and answering) was definitely not a good thing, but Jack didn’t care. He did care that he couldn’t rest, though, so with a heaving groan, he lumbered to his feet and tore the black leather jacket from his shoulders.
He couldn’t stand it on him right now, couldn’t stand it touching his skin. He fisted it and looked around the tiny room, but there seemed to be nowhere good to stash it. The dresser, he supposed, or under the bed, but he didn’t want it even in the same room.
He headed back out to the main barn and spied a corner filled with hay near the door. Dropping to his knees, he clawed at the dirt floor, able to see just enough through the flapping tarp every time the lightning flashed overhead. He dug a hole so deep that part of him mused that he was digging his way to Hell.
He crumpled up the cut and stuffed it in the hole, then covered it back up, patting the damp earth flat with his palms. When he was done, the ground was as flat as it had been before he’d started digging, with no hint that something was lurking just underneath the surface. No hint except the uneven circle of dirt, which was darker than the soil that surrounded it, as though the jacket even tainted the earth it was buried in.
Chapter Eight
‡
The storm surged outside and Erin was unable to sleep because of it. Not only was the noise keeping her awake, but so was the worry. Sighing, she flung back the sheet and dressed in the yellow light of the lamp, throwing on her jeans and boots.
By the time she made it to the porch, she peered out at the storm, which was worse than she’d thought. She cursed aloud and considered going back inside for a raincoat, but she needed to get to the barn and the tarp, which, as she could see from here, was not faring very well.
She jumped down the final step and onto the packed mud. Legs pumping, she tried to dash through the heavy sheets of water as they came pouring down from overheard. As she got closer to the barn, she thought she could hear one of the horses grunting.
A loud thump came from within the barn as Erin’s hand came down on the handle. King, no doubt, was throwing a stallion-sized fit inside.
Erin threw the door back just enough to slip inside, then pulled it closed behind her, cutting off the wind and the rain. She could see King and Bee pacing in their stalls and she wiped the wet hair from her face as she stepped forward. “Sorry, guys,” she said, pulling her hair back. “It’s a mess out there.”
She was almost to the stalls when something moved in the corner. Erin turned toward it but before she could get a good look, a huge, hulking shape came out of the dark, headed straight for her.
She screamed and backed up but not fast enough. A large hand grabbed her arm as she was turning, twisting away. He was close enough now to hold her around the middle and she kicked out at his legs, though not hard enough, apparently, to hurt him.
“Hank!” she cried, anger rising in her. How dare he come back? She’d fucking kill him.
Erin fought his h
old, couldn’t break free, and swung back hard instead, elbow connecting with his midsection as hard as she could. Even Erin was surprised when he actually half-crumpled, doubling over but still snatching at her with one arm. The other was pressed to his side as he bit down on a groan.
The animal part of her brain recognized the reaction instantly. He was injured. And Erin wound up for another blow, perhaps hard enough this time to knock him off his feet.
He was ready for it, too, though and reared up, shoving her hard.
Erin sprawled forward, going knees first into the dirt. She scrambled away from him, toward the door. Within just a few strides, though, she knew he was behind her, knew she wouldn’t make it in time.
She whirled away, changing directions on the fly, and threw herself at the far wall. He was caught by surprise and she managed to put a bit more distance between them. Erin lunged for the pitchfork, but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back. He surged ahead of her, snatched it off the wall for himself, and tossed it away, just out of her reach.
It was out of his reach, too, she supposed, so that was something in her favor, at least.
His powerful arms snaked around her even as she tried to sprint for the door. He tightened his hold on her like a vise and pulled her back into the darkness.
“Who else is here?” he rasped into her ear, as though anyone might be within earshot. “Who’s Hank?”
Erin’s mind whirled, trying to catch up to the question. “My husband,” she blurted out. “He’s up at the house.”
The man considered her words for a moment. “And he sent you out here, alone, in the storm?”
His tone told her he wasn’t buying it.
“I can do it!” Erin insisted, struggling a little against him as he continued to hold her tightly. “He might come out here any minute though,” she added. “To see what’s taking me so long.”
The man’s left hand slid down her arm and he gripped her wrist tightly.
Erin winced at the strength of the grasp.
He lifted her hand and, even in the dark of the barn, the bare skin—sporting no gold band—was clearly visible.
“I work on a ranch,” Erin snapped, anxious at being caught out. “It’s not practical to wear jewelry.”
The man grunted and swung her, bodily, off her feet and toward the door. “Well, then,” he announced as he set her on her heels and pushed her forward, “let’s go say hi to your husband.”
Erin had left the lamp on in the bedroom upstairs. It’s soft, subtle glow shone through the window. Maybe that would be enough for him to change his mind. But they moved across the driveway and up the front steps, his pace never wavering, even for a second.
Through the front door, he must have spotted the kitchen off to the side because he herded her in there, still holding on to her arm. His gaze cast about, settled on her mail at the edge of the kitchen counter, and he rifled through the stack. He pulled out the last envelope and waved it in her face. For a moment Erin thought he was taunting her about the bank notice, but he was glaring at her.
“Husband, huh?” he growled. “But he gets no fucking mail, I guess.”
Tears stung Erin’s eyes. “I do have a boyfriend,” she countered.
The man didn’t reply. He merely snorted.
He grabbed her again and hauled her out of the kitchen, then shoved her in front of him to the stairs.
Erin fought off panic as she grabbed the newel post to steady herself. She did not want to go up there. Not with him. Instinctively, she tried to take a step back but collided with his huge, solid frame.
“Move,” he said quietly.
All Erin could do was put one foot in front of the other, like a death march to the second floor.
He checked all the rooms quickly, the spares, the bathroom, and finally her own bedroom while he held on to her with one large hand. He forced her onto her bed and Erin stifled a scream. He didn’t join her, though. Instead, he turned away, crossed the room, and flung open the closet doors.
Erin watched as he pulled out shirt after shirt, inspecting them and throwing them on the floor.
“Does he wear your clothes, too?” the man asked.
Erin couldn’t find her voice to answer.
He scanned the bedroom, eyes lighting on the dresser next to the door.
Erin fought off a groan, low in her throat, as he yanked open the top drawer. He didn’t have a weapon, not yet, but he was about to. For one glorious moment, Erin thought he wouldn’t find the .38. It was buried so deep, so far at the back, and underneath piles of silk and cotton underwear. Surely he wouldn’t wade through it just to be thorough. He did, unfortunately.
His hand re-appeared, holding the pearl handle of her pistol.
“Oh, please, God,” Erin whispered as fresh tears gathered in her eyes.
He pulled the pin and checked the cylinder, finding her brass Remington slugs nestled neatly, one in each chamber. He turned to her and Erin gasped, pushing herself back farther on the bed, though logically she knew it wouldn’t help. “This your idea of home protection? Or his?”
She shook her head, which was no answer, but she couldn’t form words.
He gave up on getting a response and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Then he checked the other drawers, found nothing as exciting as her revolver, and slammed the last one shut. The dresser smacked the wall behind it.
He hesitated, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even in the dim light of the lamp in the corner, Erin thought he looked tired. And she knew he was hurt.
“Are you okay?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
It didn’t comfort him, though. It had the opposite effect, in fact. The look he gave her was downright chilling.
“I’m Erin,” she said quickly, while licking her lips. “My name is Erin and I—”
“You watch too much television, Erin,” he snapped.
She frowned at him, startled. “What?”
He sneered at her. “I don’t give a shit what your name is. We’re not going to bond. I’m not going to spare you just because someone named you after they pulled you out of your mama’s crotch.”
He moved suddenly, coming toward her. He grabbed her wrist and tugged hard.
She cried out and slapped at his hand, though it did no good.
“Come on,” he growled, and that made her pause.
He didn’t want her on the bed. He didn’t want to rape her. At least not yet. And though she really, really, really hated the idea of doing anything he said, every minute he spent not raping her (or shooting her) gave her a chance to do something, to get away.
She allowed him to pull her up off the bed without a fight and stumbled after him as he dragged her out of the bedroom and down the hall.
He pushed open the bathroom door, yanked her inside, and shoved her against the wall. After he flipped on the light, he said, “Get down,” and Erin was stunned but complied as quickly as she was able. She hunkered down to the floor, in the corner of the small room, wrapping her arms around her knees.
He stood like a giant between Erin and the door, looking down at her like she was a bug he could simply squash with one of his enormous boots.
Erin hoped to God he wouldn’t.
Chapter Nine
‡
Jack opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out a half-empty bottle of Tylenol, and tossed it angrily into the sink. He was going to need something a lot stronger than that. Then he saw a flat, plastic case and drew it from the shelf. He turned it over in his hand and examined it. Birth control pills. Maybe she did have a man.
He chucked those as well and moved on to the drawers. He rifled through the top one till his fingers lit upon a long, smooth object that was soft and pliable to the touch. He plucked it from the drawer and held it up between them, then caught her horrified gaze in the mirror.
The woman blushed furiously.
Jack kind of liked that, honestly. No club whore would even bat an eye when presented with her
own vibrator. Hell, Diamond would probably grab it and shove it into her mouth and down her own throat, just to show off. He tamped down a growl that threatened to erupt from his throat. He didn’t want to think about Diamond, or the club, or anything to do with Rapid City.
Instead, he re-focused his attention on the woman in front of him. Thin¸ pretty, good-sized tits. What she needed a vibrator for was beyond him.
“Now I know you don’t have a man,” he told her. “Not a real one, anyway.” He smirked at her. “What’s that you call the boy horses? When you cut their nuts? Neuter ’em?”
She blinked at him, color still rising in her cheeks.
“What is it?” he demanded.
He watched her delicate throat swallow nervously. “Geldings. They’re called geldings,” she said, voice wavering.
He snorted. “If you’ve got a man, Erin, he’s a fucking gelding if he lets you have one of these.”
He tossed the toy into the sink along with the stack of useless garbage. He picked up the Tylenol, which he supposed was only semi-useless, pried off the top and swallowed a palmful of the white pills. He left the bottle on the counter, turned, and hauled the woman up off the floor.
She stumbled a little as he pushed her back into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind them. The sound reverberated off the walls, competing with the thunder outside.
“Bed,” he ordered, pointing to it with the only arm he could raise.
She hesitated, eyes widening with fear.
He sighed. Erin. She wanted a connection, to give him a reason not to hurt her. Fine. He could use it to get her to obey. “Erin,” he said calmly, trying to keep exhaustion from creeping into his voice, “get on the bed. Don’t give me any shit.”
She still didn’t comply so he turned away from her, occupying himself with dragging the chair in the corner in front of the door. He pressed it up against the solid oak and sank down into it.
He resisted the urge to moan, though.
Finally deciding that Jack was thoroughly uninterested in her, Erin moved slowly backward and lowered herself onto the mattress, never taking her eyes off him.
