by Dahlia West
Chris understood. Even after all these years, all this…distance…between them, Chris got Jack in ways that no one in his entire life ever did, or could.
“Time,” Chris replied evenly. “Enough time away from it all. Surrounded by good people.” Chris’ mouth twitched, like he was about to tell Jack a secret. “Watch them, Jack,” he said in a hushed tone. “Listen to them talk to each other. Be them, for a while, just until…it sinks in. Till you don’t have to remind yourself to hold a door for a woman or offer a guy a jump in a parking lot.”
Jack took a long time to consider this advice. “Smart,” he decided. “You were always smart.”
Chris looked over at him, mouth firm, eyes steady. “You’re smarter. You always have been.”
Jack chuckled but looked away. It was true enough, he supposed, if he did say so himself. Jack had gotten as far as he had in the Buzzards by emulating the most ruthless, predatory men he’d seen. And he’d done a good job of it, too.
It hadn’t been too hard to soften around the edges, just a little, just enough so that Erin had let him in.
“I’m still not…normal,” he said out loud, almost to himself.
Chris laughed out loud, a clear, sharp bark that Jack almost took for an insult, if his friend—well, his former friend, anyway—hadn’t had tears in his eyes and a million-dollar grin. “Jack,” he said, and clapped Jack on the shoulder.
Jack couldn’t remember the last time anyone other than Erin had touched him like this, friendly, brotherly.
“Let’s be realistic,” Chris told him. “You’ve killed more men than I have. And you’ve done it up close and personal instead of looking at them through a sniper rifle. You’re never going to be…fully…domesticated.” Chris smiled at Jack again, wide and genuine. The way Erin had smiled at him in those early days when she was warming up to him. “You don’t need to be.”
Jack’s eyebrow quirked up. “How do you figure?”
Chris shrugged and waved an arm in front of them. “She’s not asking you to put on a suit and tie. She’s not even asking you to live in town. You don’t have to get a job, or work side-by-side with civvies, do you?”
Jack grunted. He hadn’t thought about it like that.
“You’ll be out there. On that farm, on your own. She and the baby will be the only ones you see most days, right? And you love them. No matter what we are, Jack, no matter what we’ve done, our women, our families…they’re it for us. So, all you need is time.”
“If she takes me back,” Jack added.
Would Erin even want him back? With this much blood on his hands?
He opened his mouth and Chris echoed his own words. “Only one way to find out,” they both said at the same time.
“You owe me a Coke,” Chris told him.
Jack rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t give you a punch in the nose and steal your fucking bike.”
Chris grunted. “I’d kick your fucking ass.”
“You’d just have to give me more of your blood,” Jack replied. “And you probably don’t have much left to spare right now.”
Chris went back to work, lunch abandoned for the moment.
Jack leaned back in the chair and looked sideways at the jacket. He could barely remember a time when he didn’t have it. He’d never gone a day without wearing it until that night in the barn.
He grabbed the table and used it to help himself up out of the chair. His legs were a bit wobbly, but he supposed that was no matter. It still hurt to sit up for long periods of time, but Jack had spent most of his life ignoring pain in one form or another.
As he walked past the chair, he slipped the jacket off it and laid it across his arm. He headed down the short hallway and turned into the garage’s office. On the desk sat Chris’ aviators. Jack reached out, scooped them up and headed out the side door.
In the parking lot, the hot summer sun shimmered off everything. Jack slipped on Chris’ glasses and felt his headache simmer to barely a throb. As he strode across the crushed gravel, he slipped on his cut, despite the raging heat.
He passed up the line of bikes, one after another, until he got to the first one. Grasping the handlebars tightly to prevent himself from falling on his ass, Jack swung his leg over the seat and settled down into it.
In the zippered pocket of his jacket, he found a small knife, squeezed it, and the blade flicked open. He leaned down, severed the wiring on Chris’ Harley, and rolled the two exposed ends together.
The huge bike roared to life, rumbling Jack’s entire body as the engine purred. He leaned it to one side, came close to toppling it when his leg almost gave out, but managed to get the kickstand up just the same. He gave the gas a squeeze.
The first one to poke his head out was the Indian. Jack couldn’t hear what the man said, but he could guess.
Chris burst out of the bay doors just as Jack rolled past.
“Goddammit, Jack!” he bellowed.
Jack did hear that. He gave Chris a grin and extended his middle finger. Chris was right. Jack would probably always be slightly feral.
He swung out of the parking lot and onto the main road, headed straight for the highway. He passed Maria’s bar and gave the place a rev of the engine, for old time’s sake, he supposed.
He might actually miss that place.
He took the ramp to I-90 and gave his new ride full throttle. He roared past the city limits and kept on driving. Buildings gave way to scattered trees and rolling hills. When he barreled up the last crest, the sun lit upon the canyons in the distance.
Jack headed straight for them, tires spinning, hair flying, racing like the devil was chasing him.
And maybe he was.
He turned down a fire road, kicking up dust as he rode. He went as far as he dared, because he wanted to get back to the main road before the sun went down.
It might not have been the right arroyo. Hell, it probably wasn’t. Jack hadn’t exactly been lucid when he’d been brought all the way out here a year ago. But it was close enough for horseshoes, he figured, and smiled to himself.
He shrugged out of the large black leather jacket and couldn’t resist sticking a finger through the bullet hole on the left-hand side again. He’d come pretty close to death but, as usual, no one seemed quite capable of actually doing him in.
He tossed the jacket down into the arroyo and pulled a small can of solvent he’d snagged from Burnout from his other pocket (this one was flammable). He thumbed it open, up ended it, and squeezed. He emptied the can onto the jacket and then threw it in as well. He drew out his Zippo, sparked the flint, and hesitated only for a moment.
He could only dimly recall his life before the Buzzards. It was just a mottle of images and scattered moments, really. But he knew what life after the Buzzards was like. It was warm and comfortable and smelled like earth and hay and freshly cut grass. Even if he wouldn’t be allowed back there, he wouldn’t come back here. Not again. Not ever.
Jack Prior dropped the lighter into the arroyo and watched the leather jacket catch and burn. It was like watching a cremation, like watching a slow, but painless, death. It took a long time and he waited for the fire to die out completely before finally turning away.
He crossed the rain-scarred dirt, back to his stolen Harley (a well-earned prize if there ever was one) and rode out of the South Dakota Badlands, for the last time in his life…and into his afterlife—whatever that would be.
Chapter Seventy-Six
‡
Erin sat at the kitchen table, as far away from the cash hidden in the attic as she could possibly get and still be in the house. Outside the window, she could see Bee and the foal in the pasture and that kept her grounded in her new, unbelievable reality.
As hard as she’d worked, struggled and strained, for every dime she’d earned, having that much money—money she hadn’t earned—suddenly appear in her hands barely seemed real.
The huge Sioux, Hawk had been his name, had left her instructions on how to
set up an offshore account, how to deposit the money in it and take it out as needed. How the man knew such things was anyone’s guess.
Erin hadn’t been about to ask too many questions. If she was going to keep the money, she needed to learn how to spend it.
Part of her still wanted to burn it, though, to send the ashes into the air along with the memory of Jack holding her, calling her his little bird. But like the abortion, some things weren’t about her. Some things were about the baby. The baby would need things—prenatal care, clothes, shoes. With Jack’s money, college was a given.
Erin wouldn’t take a dime of it for herself, though, she vowed. Not even if she lost Thunder Ridge and had to move with the baby into town. She could get an office job. Or wait tables at Darcy’s.
It was blood money, tainted money. And worst of all, it reminded her of all that she’d lost.
Just then, she heard the sound of an engine rumbling up the driveway. Erin sprang up, darted to the kitchen drawer where she’d stashed the gun (she’d been taking it with her from room to room, sleeping with it under her pillow every night). She yanked on the handle, hand hovering over the weapon when she peered out the window.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
But Duke certainly could. The Lab barreled through the unlocked screen door and bounded down the steps.
Jack stood in the driveway, grinning at him. “Hey there, buddy!” he said, putting one hand on the seat of an enormous motorcycle and petting the boisterous dog with the other.
Duke barked and spun in circles and leaned himself up against Jack’s legs, deliriously happy to see his daddy again.
Erin had to fight the urge to put her own tail between her legs and flee. Who did he think he was, coming back here now? Weeks had gone by without a word. Nothing. Just one static-y phone call that had probably been a wrong number. Why did you leave? she wanted to scream at him.
And why was he back?
She held up one arm and pushed on the screen. Robotically, she stepped out onto the porch as her vision swam. She opened her mouth, to demand answers, an apology, but she shut it when she realized he wasn’t really back. In fact, he’d only just gotten off the bike.
He stood apart from her, the large machine parked between them. He had a smile and some kind words. For the dog, at least.
Apparently, Erin wouldn’t even get that.
Maybe this was goodbye.
She started to turn away. She didn’t want to hear it.
“Is that…is that Bee’s foal?”
Erin turned and followed Jack’s shielded gaze to the pasture that lay beyond. She only pressed her lips together, unwilling to answer.
“Is it a boy? Or a girl? I can’t tell from here.”
Jack seemed to finally get that she wasn’t interested. She wasn’t going to make small talk about horses. Not after all that had happened.
He smiled at her.
Erin’s chest ached.
“He’s beautiful, Erin. Really. You did an amazing job.”
She couldn’t reply. Too many words, bitter ones, sharp ones, bubbled up from inside her and lodged in her throat.
Jack cleared his throat, filling the empty silence. “And our little one?” he finally asked.
Suddenly Erin couldn’t breathe. Her stomach twisted and she stared at him. He knew? He knew?! She watched him swallow hard before he spoke again.
“Are you going to keep it? Or…did you already…?”
Erin shot down the porch steps, advancing on him while white-hot fury rose in her belly. All his talk about being the man of the house hadn’t amounted to shit. He’d left the minute things had gotten too difficult, the very second she needed him the most. “You’re no kind of man, Jack!” she shouted. “And you sure as hell aren’t anyone’s daddy, taking off like you did, leaving us like that!”
Jack’s eyebrows raised. “Us?”
She finally reached him, had to, because he wouldn’t come to her, and her temper boiled over. She shoved him. Hard. Instead of the rock solid man she was used to, though, Jack actually fell backward, narrowly missing the bike. He landed on the ground in a sprawl. Erin’s heart leaped to her throat. “Jack?!” she cried and darted toward him. “Jack?!”
Jack had one arm over his midsection, holding it tightly. With his other hand he waved her off. “It’s all right,” he told her.
Erin reached out and took off the sunglasses he was wearing.
Jack didn’t try to stop her, but he grimaced.
This close to him now, she could see how pale he was. Dark circles shaded his eyes and his cheeks were slightly sunken, as though he hadn’t eaten for a while. Tiny scratches covered his face. “Oh, my God,” Erin whispered.
“I’m fine,” he assured her, putting one hand on the ground and trying to push himself up. He couldn’t hold his own weight, though, apparently, and fell backward.
Erin finally understood that he hadn’t been holding himself back from her, or perhaps not entirely. He’d needed the bike for support. She grabbed his arms, planted her boot into the dirt, and slowly hauled him to his feet. She saw him clench his teeth. He couldn’t hide that.
Erin’s formidable outlaw, it seemed, had been somewhat cut down.
He swayed into her and she lifted his arm, stretching it over her shoulders.
“Come on,” she ordered. He couldn’t stay out here, baking in the sun.
She helped him negotiate the stairs into the cool confines of the house. Much as it twisted her gut to do it, she led him upstairs to the bedroom where he could lie down.
He half flopped onto the bed, unable to lower himself down. He bounced on the mattress, groaned, and had to catch his breath. He lifted his hand, or tried to, but it flopped back onto his lap uselessly. “Pills,” he told her breathlessly. “Front pocket.” He grimaced. “Hate to take ’em, but…I kind of need them.”
Erin tugged at the front pocket of his jeans and produced a small brown bottle with no label on it. “What are these?”
“Pain pills.”
She supposed she could’ve guessed that.
“Only two, though,” he told her. “They make me too fuzzy.”
Erin was about to argue, but another glance at him told her that he clearly needed them. He couldn’t stand. He could barely breathe, for God’s sake. She fled from the bedroom to the bathroom, mostly so she wouldn’t have to continue looking at him.
Her hands shook as she pried the cap off the plastic bottle. He was back, but he was broken. And he hadn’t said he was wrong. Or that he loved her. Or that he was staying.
Erin took a deep breath, tamping down all the questions buzzing her brain. It would do no good to ask them. Not now. Maybe she didn’t want the answers, anyway.
She filled a glass with cold tap water and brought it back to him.
Jack’s throat spasmed as he gulped down the pills.
Erin fought back tears as she took the empty glass from him before he fumbled it onto the floor. She leaned across him to place it on the nightstand. Now that she was within his reach, Jack seemed to gather enough strength to grab her.
“Please,” he begged, cupping her face in his hands. His tired eyes plaintively searched her own. “Keep the baby.”
“Shhh,” she told him, squeezing his hands. “We don’t have to talk about that now.” She pried herself out of his grip and tried to push him back onto the bed. “Just rest now. Just—”
She stopped as she looked down at him. Through the fabric of his shirt on the left-hand side, a spot of blood started to seep through. Frowning at it, she said, “Jack, you’re bleeding.”
He shook his head and reached for her again. “Doesn’t matter,” he grunted. “The baby. You—”
Erin sighed and tugged at the hem of his dirty T-shirt. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I told you, we can talk—” Her blood froze instantly. A huge swath of gauze covered Jack’s side. Blood was leaking through the top. “Jack,” she w
hispered. “Jack, what is this?”
He shook his head again and tried to pull his shirt back down. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
“Jack!” she insisted, and carefully plucked at the tape holding the gauze in place. “Jack, this is—”
“Popped a stitch is all. Must’ve happened when I fell down.”
He finally gave up fighting, though, and allowed Erin to peel back the dressing. She gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, my God! What happened?”
When he didn’t answer, she tore her eyes away from the wound and looked at him. “Jack,” she cried, but his eyes were closed. “Jack, look at me. Talk to me. What is this? Is this…a bullet wound?!”
Jack finally opened his eyes again, gathered his strength (it seemed to Erin that there was so little left) and managed to struggle into a sitting position. He grabbed her wrist, squeezing it.
She couldn’t tell if he was trying to be gentle or if he was just that weakened. The thought scared the hell out of her.
“The baby,” he persisted. “All that matters is the baby. Please keep the baby. Please, Erin.”
Erin’s heart nearly shattered when she heard his desperate pleas. He was fading fast, struggling to keep his eyes open now that the pills had apparently started to work. But there was so much fear there, and she’d never, ever seen Jack afraid.
“Erin,” he begged and his voice broke.
She grabbed his hand, noticed that it, too, was battered and bleeding. Ignoring it, though, she pressed his palm to her lower belly. “The baby’s here, Jack. The baby’s fine. I’ll never let anything happen to it,” she vowed.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
‡
Jack felt a single tear escape and slide down his cheek but fuck if he cared anymore. She was keeping the baby and that was all that really mattered. He was so grateful that he could barely speak.
“Even…” he began but couldn’t get the words out. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Even if you don’t want me around. I’ll…I’ll go. I promise. You have the money. You’re all set up. I…it would be enough just to know you kept our baby. Even if you want me to leave.”
