Sierra stilled, digging deep into her fury instead of fear.
Please, God.
“Billy,” Tank growled. “Focus.”
Focus? On what?
She swallowed, fought tears.
Rowan might be at the rodeo by now, would have figured out they were missing. And she refused—okay, not well—to be angry at him.
He should have been there. He should have kept his promise. Then Huck would be safe and?—
Nope. She didn’t want to blame him, but…but the fact was, she should have known better. He’d broken promises before. And sure, maybe he was trying to protect her, but…
But his idea of protection and hers seemed miles apart.
Now her eyes did burn, did fill. But see, this was what happened when she let down her guard.
Fine. She’d been taking care of herself and Huck for ten years, and she could do it again. She just needed to be smart, be strong, and keep Huck safe until she could get them out of this.
The zip ties around her wrists had some give. Billy—so Twitchy had a name—kept looking away when Huck sniffled, his conscience apparently not completely dead.
Details. Gather details. Stay ready.
Tank’s gun rode on his right side in a shoulder holster, the leather worn smooth from use. The van smelled like motor oil and stale cigarettes, overlaid with the metallic tang of fear.
Please, God.
The van slowed, tires crunching on gravel.
They stopped in front of a house, and through the gauzy black, it looked familiar…
Oh no.
Peeling yellow paint clung to weathered siding in patches. The front porch sagged under the weight of neglect, and windows stared back at them like dead eyes.
The old Wallace place.
“No.” The word escaped before she could stop it.
Tank’s grin revealed teeth stained yellow from tobacco. “Recognize it, do you? Guess the boss was right about you knowing the family history.”
Sierra’s mind raced. Boss? Family history? Ice formed in her veins as the pieces clicked into place. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t about cattle rustling or land grabs.
This was personal.
The van door slid open with a metallic screech, and cold mountain air rushed in. Billy grabbed Huck’s arm, hauling him toward the opening.
“Don’t touch him!” Sierra lunged forward despite her restraints, her injured ankle sending fire up her leg. Tank caught her easily, his grip bruising her shoulders.
“Easy there, wildcat. You’ll see your boy soon enough.” Tank yanked the hood off her. His breath reeked of chewing tobacco and whiskey. “Boss wants to have a chat with you first.”
They dragged her from the van, her boots hitting the gravel with jarring impact. Her ankle nearly buckled, forcing her to lean against Tank for support—a humiliation that burned worse than the physical pain, and shoot, she cried out.
Billy hauled Huck toward the back door, the boy’s boots dragging in the gravel. “Mom!”
“It’s okay, baby. Be brave.” Sierra’s voice broke despite her efforts to keep it steady.
