Don’t.
Yeah, Dutch still went solo. Even if it meant standing guard in a dive bar with a beer that was mostly for show.
The asshole had been getting progressively handsy with every song, his confidence growing with each drink. When he grabbed Willow’s waist and yanked her closer despite her obvious discomfort, Decker’s blood turned to fire.
She tried to pull away, but the guy’s grip tightened. He’d only taken one step toward her before her sisters-in-law immediately closed ranks around her, and Decker watched them hustle her to the exit. Thank God.
Except the guy took off behind her.
Where the hell was the bouncer? Nowhere to be found. Probably out back having a smoke while some piece of shit put his hands on a woman who made it crystal clear she didn’t want his attention.
Decker pushed off the wall and used his muscled body to cut through the crowd.
He stepped into the man’s path. “The lady’s not interested.”
The guy looked him up and down with bleary eyes, his lips twisting belligerently. “Mind your own business, cowboy.”
Decker moved to walk past him, but the drunk bastard shoved him hard.
That was his first mistake.
When he swung with a wild haymaker, that was his second.
Decker caught the man’s fist mid-swing and twisted his arm behind his back in one fluid motion while hauling him to the back door.
The guy struggled and cursed, but years of military training made short work of the vodka-soaked barfly.
Decker shoved him out the door into the gravel parking lot. “Sleep it off.”
He watched the guy stumble toward the row of pickup trucks parked along the building. Decker turned toward his own vehicle, ready to call the cops if the guy got in his truck.
But the thumping rush of boots made him swing around just as the sharp blade caught him across the shoulder. Fire shot through his flesh.
The knife glinted in the greenish parking lot lights as the man raised it again.
Too bad Decker didn’t have his back turned. He drove his boot into the guy’s chest, sending him flying backward into the side of a pickup truck. The man crumpled, and the knife skittered across the ground.
Decker scooped up the blade and jammed it deep into the wooden wall of the bar, the steel singing as it bit into the wood. He stared down at the groaning man.
“Stay down. Stay away from her.”
Then he walked away, pressing his hand to the burning slash across his shoulder.
When he returned to the ranch, he walked the empty halls of the lodge that housed the therapy program, his shadow moving along the wood-paneled walls like he was a ghost.
The ranch’s infirmary was dark except for the single fluorescent light Decker flicked on over the medical station. He stripped off his blood-soaked shirt and went about setting out the supplies he’d need to patch himself up.
Gauze. Antiseptic wound wash. A medical staple gun.
Reaching the knife wound was a bitch since it was far back on his shoulder. Positioning himself in front of the mirror, he twisted to see the injury and let out a low rumble. The assholehad gotten him pretty good. Blood oozed down his back and darkened the waist of his jeans.
He cleaned out the gash and was just reaching for the staple gun when he heard footsteps in the hallway.
“Stop right there.” Willow’s voice cut through the silence. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“No.” The word came out harder than he’d intended.
She stepped into the light, and he could see her taking in the blood. The jagged cut across his shoulder. ““Then let me do it.”
