He left, boots heavy on the floor.
Harlow followed, after squeezing Newt’s shoulder a third time, and Quiad drifted off without a word. That left me and Ransom, and Newt.
Ransom looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You want me to stick around or is this a two-man job now?”
“Go,” I said, voice softer than before. “Just keep the shotgun loaded.”
Ransom winked at Newt, then disappeared up the stairs, whistling the old Marine hymn as he went.
I turned to Newt, alone now in the kitchen. He looked up at me, blue eyes clear for the first time in days.
“Do you really think they’ll try again?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if they do. We’re ready.”
He bit his lip, then said, “Thank you. For… all of this.”
I didn’t say anything. Just walked around the table and pulled him up, arms around his waist, so he was standing with his chest pressed to mine. He melted into the hold, finally, and I let myself relax just enough to breathe.
“You’re safe here,” I said, voice low.
He nodded against my neck.
I didn’t let go, not for a long time. When I finally did, I kept my hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing the pulse point there, a silent reminder that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“James Bridger thinks he can use the law to reclaim what’s mine,” I said, not sure if I was talking to Newt or myself. “Tactical error on his part.”
Newt snorted, then smiled for real. “You’re kind of terrifying.”
I grinned. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Outside, the sun had barely cleared the mountains, but the day was already burning. I felt it in my bones, the sense that everything was going to come to a head soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but the next move was ours.
I watched Newt pour himself a fresh cup of tea, watched the way his hands no longer shook, and I realized I hadn’t felt this sure about anything in years.
Let them come. Let them bring everything they had.
We’d be ready.
And this time, the McKenzies weren’t giving anything back.
Chapter Ten
~ Newton ~
The next few hours were a master class in creative paranoia, starring yours truly as the understudy for “Anxiety, Personified.” I wore the part well. If there’d been a Tony for “Most Neurotic Use of a Bedroom,” I’d have sweeped.
Knox left me in his room with explicit instructions—“don’t let anyone but me in, even if they look friendly”—and a promise that he’d be back before midnight.
His last move was to press a pocket knife into my hand, which I promptly dropped onto the bed and then spent the next three minutes inspecting for blood, fingerprints, or evidence of previous crimes. There wasn’t any. The thing was so clean I could see my own reflection in the blade, which was, frankly, not helpful.
I paced. Back and forth. Then diagonally, just to spice things up. The room was big enough to allow it, but not so big that I couldn’t see every exit at once.
The dresser was still open from when I’d rummaged for sweatpants. Knox’s boots—size “titanic”—sat at attention by the door, laces coiled like snakes.
The only window faced west, which meant the dying sun shot streaks of orange across the far wall and made everything look even more like a crime scene.
I tried to sit on the bed, but the second my ass hit the mattress, I shot back up. I wasn’t tired. I was hyperaware, a word I’d once seen in a psychology textbook and assumed was just a polite way of saying “permanently fucked.”
