“I understand that now.”
I shift my weight, eyeing the gun still in her hand, though dropped by her side now.
“But?” I ask, feeling the open end past her sentence. Another spasm tears through me, knocking me to the roots of my teeth, though I work hard to hide it.
Her face is ambivalent, eyes regarding me slow. Like she’s digging beneath blood and bone to the heart of me. “But what if it happens again, and I’m all alone?”
Tempest wanders closer to the Palomino, ears up, still on guard.
“Why would you ever be out here all alone? Wakefield family’s huge as I recall.”
She cocks her head to the side, face going dark and guarded. “Actually, I’m the last one.”
Those five words grind into me hard. The passage of time distilled down to one sentence. Wakefield family. Used to be twelve sons. All shitkickers. Some more trouble than others.
“Does that surprise you?” she asks, scrutinizing my face.
“Been awhile is all.”
Her face hardens, lips forming a thin line.
It hits me again. A sensation that makes me take a step back.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” but I fight for the words, strained and thick.
“Why don’t you follow me back to the house where we can talk away from this sun and heat?”
It’s a terrible idea. The worst possible outcome.
I should say no, excuse myself back to Mags. Force the redhead to tell me everything… even if it means digging into her thoughts.
Instead, I nod once, already walking toward my mount. “I’ll follow you.”
Chapter
Six
ELIZA
I’ll follow you.
He meant it, his ebony horse keeping a distance far enough to pass a couple cars through. It feels strange having him at my back.
Like there’s more to his presence than flesh and bone. It shouldn’t make sense, but it does.
At the house, I lead him to the trough where we tie up the horses.
He stands transfixed before the structure, throat working, though no words come out. He looks like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have.
And that’s when I look at him. Really look at him for the first time.
Eyes the color of turquoise. Too bright, almost iridescent. Face rugged and square, jawline sharp beneath thick black hair, curling to his collar—windblown, unruly.
His nose is proportional and aquiline. Or maybe it’s been broken before. He stands a good six foot four or more, clothes threadbare but tailored too carefully.
“Done staring?” he grunts, eyes dark and narrow.
