Knox picked up the gun from under the truck, careful with the grip. He handed it to Floyd, who bagged it without a word.
The rest of the cleanup happened fast—like a tornado passing through, everyone scrambling to triage and document and patch the holes. Dan zip-tied the two thugs together, neither of whom looked like they’d be moving on their own anytime soon. Knox and Ransom stood sentry, eyes never leaving Gloria, while Floyd ran the story twice, checking for cracks.
All the while, Quiad kept me pressed against his good side, arm locked around my waist. Even bleeding, even dizzy, he never let go.
“Hurts?” I asked, voice hoarse.
He shrugged. “Nothing compared to watching them try to take you again.”
I buried my face in his shoulder, the salt and iron and sweat grounding me.
When they finally got Gloria into the back of the squad car, she still hadn’t shut up. She kicked at the door, shrieked that she’d burn the place down, that nobody could keep her from what was hers. Dan slammed the door with a satisfying bang,and the scream went instantly silent, trapped in the glass and steel.
The thugs went in the second car, still cussing but with none of Gloria’s venom.
Floyd came back, wiped his brow, and surveyed the McKenzie clan: the blood, the bruises, the way we were all crowded around each other like a pack of battered dogs.
“You boys want to explain what the fuck just happened out here?”
Knox did, in exactly thirteen words, none of them wasted on adjectives.
Ransom added, “She came for Levi. Missed the memo about us not being pushovers.”
Floyd shook his head, something like pride flickering at the corners of his mouth. “You McKenzies attract trouble like shit attracts flies.” Then he looked at me, softer. “You sure you’re alright, Levi?”
This time I managed a smile. “Better now.”
He nodded, then gestured at Quiad. “You’re getting that looked at. Don’t argue.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Quiad said, eyes never leaving mine.
The yard slowly emptied—the lights faded, the radios went silent, and the sirens became nothing but a memory. Ransom found a half-bottle of whiskey under the seat of Gloria’s truck, popped the top, and passed it to me. The burn was like swallowing a live wire, but it steadied my hands.
Knox went inside for towels, bandages, the first aid kit we’d used a hundred times before. When he came out, he wrapped Quiad’s arm, then handed me a wet cloth and nodded for me to clean up.
Ransom nudged me. “Hell of a night, huh?”
I wiped my face, trying to scrub the fear out with the blood. “Yeah,” I said, “but I think it’s finally over.”
“Nothing’s ever over,” Ransom said, but he smiled when he said it.
Quiad stood, winced, but held himself tall. He caught my chin in his hand, wiped away a smear of blood, and kissed my forehead. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I laughed, then cried, then laughed again, because it felt like a miracle to be alive, to be here, to be held by the man who’d saved me a thousand times over.
He pulled me in, held me tight, his big hand cradling the back of my head. I clung to him, the world shrinking to the heat of his body and the thump of his heart under my ear.
“We’re good?” I whispered.
He nodded, voice raw. “We’re better than good.”
The leather bands on our wrists pressed together—his blood and mine mixing, proof that no matter what came for us, we’d always fight back.
I watched the sheriff’s car roll down the drive, Gloria’s face a smudge of fury and loss behind the tinted glass. I let her go, at last. Let the past go with her.
We stood in the blue darkness, arms wrapped around each other, and I knew what it was to be free. To be wanted. To be home.
Chapter Twenty
