by Pam Godwin
The truth is impossible. It’s ugly, unforgiving, and it shakes me down the center of my soul.
She fell out of love with Rogan because she believes he stole from her and left her. But did he?
He left his belongings behind. He told her he would invest her money. Deep down, I know there’s a possibility he intended to return to her with a profit on his investments. I mean, how could he leave her? She’s beauty, innocence, compassion, and everything perfect in the world. No man would part with that.
If I tell her the truth, she’ll know I’m the reason her husband never returned.
If I don’t tell her, I’ll have to live with that lie for the rest of my life.
What do I do?
What kind of man am I?
I think I’m the wrong man. I’m John Holsten’s son. The selfish liar. Coldblooded murderer. Ruthless lover.
But she makes me want to be the right man. Selfless. Vulnerable. Buckled on my knees beneath the trust in her huge blue eyes. She makes me want to be the man deserving of that precious trust.
My hand shakes as I reach for her and grip her fingers. With a forceful tug, I lead her to the bed and motion for her to sit.
She lowers, her gaze alert and flicking over mine.
I kneel at her feet and rest my hand on her lap, palm up. “We made a blood oath the night Conor was raped. The four of us passed around a blade as Levi Tibbs lay unconscious at our feet.”
Her expression softens as she runs her fingers along my scar.
“We swore to one another…” The wood flooring grinds against my knees, balancing the flood of pain from my memory of that night. “We vowed to kill him when he was released from prison.”
A soft gasp slips past her lips. “He was released.” Her fingers twitch against my palm. “Is he—?”
“Dead? Yes. We killed him a few hours before you showed up at the ranch.”
She yanks her hand away, bowing backward. “No, Jarret—”
“I’m not finished.” I grip her hips and wedge my chest between her legs, holding her against me. “Your husband was a loan shark who extorted money, lent it to desperate people, and charged outrageous interest rates. He paid off my father’s debts and expected a share of the oil in return. He wasn’t involved in the initial attack on Conor and Lorne, but he spent the next five years ensuring they wouldn’t return to the ranch.”
She clutches at my shoulders, her chest rising and falling with the rush of her breaths.
“He hired contract killers.” I loosen my fingers on her hips, stroking her through the shirt in an attempt to comfort her. “He ordered them to kill Conor if she stepped foot on the ranch.”
“She’s his sister. He wouldn’t do that. How could he?”
“I have evidence, Maybe. Video recordings of my dad’s conversations with him.”
“Oh God.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Where is he, Jarret?”
“He’s dead.” My fingers dig into her waist.
She scrambles back, kicking in her desperation for space. I loosen my grip, giving her what she needs.
“How do you know?” She climbs off the far side of the bed, shaking violently. “Did you see it…happen?”
“I was there.” I remain on my knees with my heart in my hands and force out the words. “I killed him.”
My hands shake. My lungs heave for air, and the room narrows to the tick, tick, ticking time bomb in my chest.
Rogan is dead.
Murdered.
Gone.
The horror in my gut wages a war against the love in my heart.
Jarret killed my husband, and I still love him. Jarret. I love Jarret.
I’m a cheater.
Not just any cheater. I cheated on my husband with his murderer.
I wrap my arms around the hollow, frigid cavity of my ribs and chase my thoughts deeper into hell.
What if Rogan didn’t leave me? What if he always planned to come home?
He’s dead, and I never reported him missing. What kind of worthless, fucked-up person am I?
And can I even accuse him of stealing? I gave him full authority to invest my money. Technically, our money, since we were married. Did he let our finances slip into the red because he was gambling the money with the hope of making us rich? Was he really willing to kill Conor and Lorne to ensure that his investment turned a profit?
I don’t condone Rogan’s investment methods or his behavior. It makes me violently sick to my stomach. But I never bothered to ask or investigate what he was doing with my money. I was swamped with magazine deadlines. He said he would handle the bills and our retirement, and I trusted him to do that.
Still, that doesn’t give me a pass. I was negligent. Unsuspicious. Blinded by love. That’s on me.
But if he wasn’t purposefully stealing from me, if he had no intention of leaving me, that changes my entire perspective. He could’ve been on his way home that very night to tell me what he was doing.
Or he could’ve truly taken my money and left.
I’ll never be able to ask him.
I’ll never know.
Jarret rises to his full height, his expression predatory as he prowls around the bed. A feral glow flares in his eyes, yet his movements are cautious, restrained, uncertain.
I raise a hand, gulping down breaths and holding back a cry. “Don’t come any closer.”
He stops at the foot of the mattress, and a shadow of hurt crosses his face before he closes it off.
“How?” I back up, keeping the corner of the bed between us, my voice shrill. “How did he die?”
“Don’t, Maybe.” His head angles away, his rigid jaw a dark slash of warning. “Ask me anything but that.”
My mind runs rampant. Was Rogan stabbed? Shot? Strangled? Starved? Dismembered? Beheaded? Drowned? Set on fire? Run over by a truck? Trampled by a horse? Skinned alive?
The more I think about it, the harder the tears fall.
“I can’t do this.” I grip my head and tack my eyes shut as a terrible keening noise escapes my chest. “I’m imagining horrible things, and the images are getting worse and worse. This will eat at me, Jarret. It’ll haunt me into madness.” I find his eyes a few feet away. “Please. I have to know.”
He steps toward me, and I stumble back.
His features harden. “I pushed him into the ravine before we filled it in.”
A cry hides behind the knot in my throat. “He died on impact?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I think his back broke. He was conscious and unable to move.”
Alive. Paralyzed. Defenseless. What were his final thoughts? Did he think about me while he lay in the dirt and confront his death?
Pain and misery drips from my eyes and nose, racking my body with uncontrollable tremors. “What did you do?”
“I had dump trucks on standby, already loaded with dirt.”
I clap a hand over my mouth as saliva rushes in, followed by bile, nausea, the sudden urge to puke.
He closes his eyes, opens them. “I buried him alive.”
I take off at a run, shoving past him and stumbling into the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet as the contents of my stomach erupt. I heave repeatedly, brutally, sobbing in a convulsion of snot and spit.
He kneels beside me and caresses my back, his eyes burning into the side of my face.
Minutes pass. My stomach settles. My mind dissolves into numb shock. He hands me a towel and a glass of water.
His tenderness fills me with difficult feelings. He’s too close, too overwhelming. Physically and emotionally. I need distance.
I need answers.
I clean my face with the towel, drink the water, and clear my voice. “When did he die?”
“Six months before I met you.”
The time line matches his disappearance.
He’s been dead for a year, the same amount of time I was married to him. And I’ve been sleeping with his killer six of those months.
“Where?” I ask.
“He was in Sandbank, on his way to a meeting with my dad.”
“Did he say anything? Obviously, he didn’t mention me. But did he defend himself or say he needed to get home?”
“We didn’t give him the opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
“We gagged him immediately to keep him quiet. I’m sorry, Maybe. If I’d known he was married…”
“You would’ve killed him anyway.”
“Yes.”
“If you’d known he was Conor’s brother?”
“She’ll ask the same question, and I’ll give her the same answer. Yes, I would’ve killed him. I’ve hurt her deeply over the past six years. I hate myself for it, but she’s alive. I will never regret that.”
I admire his honor and devotion, even if his methods are vicious and illegal.
“And the other missing people?” I sit back on my heels, clutching the braid of my hair.
“Hit men. Loan sharks. Levi Tibbs. They all threatened Conor’s life, and they’re all in the ravine.”
Another wave of nausea hits my stomach, but I’m empty. Drained. Hollowed out. I have a lot of soul-searching to do, and it’s not going to happen on this bathroom floor.
I move to stand, and he helps me, crowding in, breathing against my neck.
“Jarret.”
“Maybe.”
We watch each other, motionless, drawn together, even now, in a way I’ve never felt with another person.
I hold still, constricted on all sides by reality. Secrets and betrayal. Covered in blood. Smothered by love. Amid it escapes an agonized sob, followed by his soothing shush. Then his arms, his warmth, his lips in my hair.
He’s ruined me. There will be no more attempts at forever. Not for me. He might not be the first man I loved, but he’s the only one who left a mark. If I walk away from this, I walk away from love indefinitely. That’s my penance.
“I can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for you.” He surrounds me with his scent, his heat, his brain-scrambling presence. “Tell me what you need.”
“Space.” I wriggle away and push past him, heading out of the bathroom and toward the pile of coats on the bedroom floor.
“How much space?” He trails after me.
“Acres. Miles. Months. Years. Forever. I don’t know.” I shove my feet into the boots.
“I know you’re upset. Talk to me.” He touches my chin, lifting it. “Which part of this is the hardest?”
“Everything. All of it.” I shrug on the coat and set the Stetson on my head. “I don’t even know where to start, Jarret.”
“Try.”
I stare at the door, itching to escape as I contemplate his question out loud.
“Looking back at my marriage, I feel so removed from it that it confuses my private memories with the ones I placed outside myself when he disappeared. I put on a brave front and let myself become that callous mask.” I slide on the gloves, cold and wet from melted snow. “I despised him for leaving me. But now I don’t know if he actually did. What I do know is that when we were together, life was good. I was happy with him. We didn’t have the passion and fire that you and I have, but I felt something for him. I can’t just sweep that under the rug and brush off my hands. I need to sort these feelings.”
“Sort it here.” He steps into my space. “With me.”
“No.” I back toward the door. “I’m so wrapped up in you I let six months blur by before I told you I was married. Nothing else exists when you’re all up in my space. Give me some breathing room.”
His jaw clenches. Then he grips his brow and nods.
I hurry through the house, out the front door, and make a beeline for the stable. Inside the building, it’s warm and quiet and filled with warm, welcoming nuzzles from Chicken.
I sit beside her in her stall, stroking the white cowlicks on her head.
And I cry.
Trembling, sobbing, blubbering nonsense pollutes the stable and unsettles the horses.
I beat myself up for being so weak and emotional and dry my eyes.
Then I cry some more.
Why is this so hard? Either I stay or leave. Simple as that.
If I look deep inside, the answer is written all over my trampled heart. I’ve loved a lot in twenty-six years, and it’s never been enough.
I loved my dad when I was little, and he left me without offering a reason.
I loved Chris in high school, and he left me to pursue a job in New York.
I loved Scott in college and he left me for another woman.
I loved Rogan, and he… He probably left me, too.
None of them wanted to keep me. None fought for me in any way. Perhaps they never loved me. Perhaps what I felt for them wasn’t love at all. Perhaps I am not enough.
Was Rogan even with me for me? He knew I had money, and his sights were set on Julep Ranch before he met me. He hired hit men, for Christ’s sake. If he was willing to murder his own family to satisfy his goal, he could’ve married me for money.
Jarret’s the first and only man who’s ever given me a sense of mutual attachment. He loves me with the same depth and intensity that I love him. At least, I think he does. What if I’m wrong? Would he fight for me? Do I want him to?
He’s murdered people. Bad men for good reasons. But he’s still a killer. And I love him regardless. I’m not okay with that.
This isn’t about who’s a better man, who I love more, or who loves me in return.
It’s about acceptance.
Can I accept the path I’m on, the choices I’ve made, and the woman I’ve become? Can I stand at Jarret’s side twenty years from now and accept the crimes, deceit, and deaths that led me there?
I can forgive him, but I don’t know how to forgive myself.
If I stay, it must be with a guilt-free conscience. No deep-seeded resentment, confusion, or distrust. If I walk back into his arms with any doubts at all, they’ll fester and multiply and poison everything good in us.
I lost myself in him for six months without telling him about Rogan. Because I was scared. What’s stopping me from falling into that trap again? I don’t want to wake up fifty years from now and realize I’ve been living in a toxic relationship built on great sex and…
Fear.
That’s the single, biggest reason I didn’t run the moment he told me he killed Rogan.
I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to leave. I’m afraid of his reaction if I try. I’m afraid he’ll hunt me down, and he will. He’ll snarl and rage and throw his weight around.
More than that, I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. If he truly loves me, the level of the anguish of what might have been but can never be will damage him.
I’m so afraid, but fear isn’t the reason to stay.
Hours pass. Sunlight fades outside the stable door. The dirt floor digs against my butt. Chicken slips in and out of sleep.
I have answers to some of the questions that drove me to Sandbank, but I don’t have closure. If anything, I’m more lost now than I was when Rogan disappeared.
I’m lost.
All the illusions in the world cannot remove that reality.
My relationship with Jarret is too entangled in my unfinished business with Rogan. I need to dig myself out of this mess before I’m so far gone I don’t know who I am.
I’ve never walked away from anything, and maybe that’s the problem.
I need to walk away.
Now.
Get up.
My gaze drifts to the door. He’ll come looking for me any moment. He’ll rest those gorgeous, commanding eyes on me and persuade me to stay.
Go now.
It takes a sea of courage and a mountain of resolve to make my legs move. Hugging Chicken goodbye reduces me to a tear-soaked blob of wobbly limbs and strangled breaths.
With harrowing steps, I make it to the door, across the field of snow, and stop at the front porch, where Jarret waits.
Jake and Conor sit beside him on th
e stairs, and the first thing I notice is her puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
Jarret told them.
She knows she had a brother. A brother who wanted her dead. She knows I was married to him and didn’t tell her.
Her pain and my guilt sit between us, and it’s eternal.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the cold night air. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere!” Jarret surges to his feet, eyes wild and breaths steaming.
Agony rips through my chest and quivers my voice. “I’ll take your secrets to the grave.” I pat at my pockets. Looking for… Shit. “I need my keys.”
And my purse, phone, money. My wages are deposited in my bank account, but I need my wallet. I didn’t think through this.
There’s no way I’m going back into that house. If I do, I won’t leave.
“I’ll grab them.” Conor stands and disappears inside.
Jarret charges toward me, and I turn, hurrying to the car without looking at him. I’m defenseless against his gaze, fracturing and bleeding beneath the sound of his chasing footfalls.
I speed up my gait, following the tracks in the snow from our snowball fight. Every step plagues me with the relentless wishing for his arms around me, the press of his warm body, and the authority in his voice.
The pain is too great, cleaving my insides and causing my strides to falter. Walking away from Jarret Holsten is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
“Do you still love him?” He grabs my arm and swings me around. “If he were alive, would you take him back?”
“No and no.” I yank free of his grip.
“Then what is it? Why are you running?”
“You know why.” I spin back to the car and reach for the door handle.
“Because I killed him?”
“You killed. I cheated. We built our relationship on a bed of secrets and distrust. I can’t make peace with that, and you shouldn’t be able to, either.”
“He was gone. You didn’t cheat. As for our relationship, it was built on love, Maybe.”
“Love.” I grimace. “How many times has love found me and dumped me? In the end, I’m lost.”
