“I think she’s the boss in this relationship,” his mother said, as she adjusted her purse strap.
Rawley nodded. “Yes,” he admitted, then took a deep breath that ended in a pained groan.
“Do you need a nurse?” Skylar asked.
“She was here a few minutes ago and gave him something for pain, so it should be kicking in soon,” his mother said.
“Good. You need to rest, Rawley.” Skylar squeezed his hand.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he slowly said.
“Me too, now get some rest. I’ll be here,” Skylar said.
Rawley could feel the drug taking effect and he had trouble keeping his eyes open. He held Skylar’s hand as he drifted off.
****
“He’s out,” Skylar whispered. The fluorescent overhead light cast a pale glow over Rawley’s still form, and she turned to his parents.
“Well, since you’re going to stay here, we’ll head to dinner. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow, Skylar,” Darla said, brushing a hand through her carefully styled hair. Her smile trembled.
Skylar sank onto the vinyl chair beside the bed, its legs squeaking on the linoleum floor. “I’ll be here until they run me off this evening,” she promised, rubbing her thumb over the back of Rawley’s hand. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you know when he can go home?”
“The doctor said not for a few days.” J.B.’s deep voice rumbled with worry. He shook his head, his stern features softening. “I know his job is important, but this is what always worries us.”
“It scares me too,” she admitted, “but I know he loves it.”
“That he does,” J.B. agreed with a sigh that seemed to carry a lot of weight. He fished for a business card from his jacket pocket and slid it into Skylar’s hand. “Let us know if there’s any change.”
“I promise I will.” Skylar managed a slight smile, and they exchanged one last hopeful look before Darla and J.B. slipped out, the door closing behind them.
Alone in the hush, Skylar kept Rawley’s hand warm in hers. The hum of monitors and the soft hiss of the oxygen machine formed a lullaby. An hour later, a tap at the door startled her awake. She lifted her head and saw a tall figure step into the narrow rectangle of light.
He wore dusty boots and faded jeans, and a dark Stetson shaded his strong jaw. His belt bore a badge on his left hip, anda leather holster was on the other side, but it was the Kevlar vest with Livestock Agent stitched on it that caught her attention.
“Ma’am,” he said, voice low and calm. He put his hand out in greeting.
“You work with Rawley?” she asked, and noticed the way he carried himself, steady, disciplined.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Agent Killian Doyle.”
“Skylar McCoy. It’s nice to meet you.” She offered her own hand. His grip was firm, reassuring. “I remember you came into the bookstore with Rawley about those men being there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Killian’s gaze flicked to Rawley’s face. “How is he?”
Skylar sighed. “He’s sore. The doctor said he’ll be fine, but it’ll take a little while, with the lung collapse and all. His chest is covered in bruises.”
“I’m sure.” Killian winced sympathetically. “Those bullets hit him like a sledgehammer.”
“Please sit, Agent Doyle.” She gestured to the empty chair.
“Killian, please.” He gave a quick nod and settled in the other chair.
She leaned forward, voice dropping. “So, you got the men?”
He lifted his hat, ran a hand through dark hair, then spun the brim in his hand. “As I told you on the phone, three are dead. We’ve got Axel Roby, the ringleader, and one more in custody.” Killian exhaled, shoulders tensing. “Hill, the informant who tipped Rawley off about the theft, sold him out. He wanted to help Roby nail Rawley.”
“Why?” Skylar’s tone sharpened, and she caught Killian smiling, ever so slightly.
