“Home invasion,” Rawley said. “They came in masked and armed.”
The sheriff nodded once, like that was all the explanation he needed. He cuffed the tall man, dragged him upright, then checked the other two for signs of life. The stocky one was groaning, but mostly out of commission. The third man was still out cold, which looked less concerning once the sheriff checked his pulse and propped him up in the recovery position.
Rawley turned to me. “You okay?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t stop looking at his arm, the way the blood slicked down to his knuckles, his hand already starting to shake from shock or maybe just anger.
The sheriff worked the scene with practiced boredom. He read the men their rights, even though one was leaking blood all over the floor. He asked Rawley the same questions twice,wrote down the answers in a notebook with a stub of pencil, then turned to me.
“You see anything?” he asked.
“Yeah. I saw them try to kill my—” The word choked me. I had no legal or moral standing to say husband, and the word partner sounded like something you called your dentist. “—Rawley.”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s good enough for me.” He checked the faces of the men again, then grunted, “Thought so.”
“What?” Rawley asked.
“These two. Ranch hands from Hargrove’s place. New hires.” He looked at me. “They try to hurt you?”
I shook my head, the numbness settling in now that the adrenaline was leaching away.
“Next time,” the sheriff said, his tone weirdly gentle, “don’t come down the stairs.” He gestured at the blood. “Let him do the fighting.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I just nodded, knowing I’d never be able to obey that command as long as Rawley was on the line.
The men were hauled out to the squad cars. The sheriff left one of his deputies to process the scene, which mostly meant standing in our foyer and pretending not to look at the bullet holes in the drywall or the blood on the floor.
Rawley sat at the kitchen table, shirt off, arm propped up while I did a field dressing. His skin was warm under my hands, his biceps twitching every time I pulled the gauze tight.
“You’re going to need stitches,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing.
“It’ll keep,” he said. He watched me work, eyes bright but not unfocused. “You did good.”
I wanted to say I hadn’t done anything, but the shotgun was still on the counter, the barrel streaked with my own fingerprints.
The words died in my throat.
“I should have stopped them,” I said, voice shaking. “If I’d—”
He reached for me with his good hand, cupped the back of my neck, and pulled me close. “You stopped them,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
I pressed my face to his chest, careful not to jostle the wound. He smelled like gun oil, sweat, and the faint, sweet trace of bread flour that seemed to cling to him no matter what.
“I’m sorry,” I said, for the third or fourth time.
He just held me, his hand warm and heavy at the nape of my neck. “Don’t be.”
After a while, the sheriff came back in, his voice lower than before. “You’re going to need to press charges,” he said to Rawley. “Hargrove’ll try to spin it, say they were here on a legal errand.”
Rawley grinned, all teeth. “Let him.”
The sheriff hesitated, then leaned in. “I’ll have a car sit on your drive for a few nights. But you should know, this isn’t the end of it.”
“I know,” Rawley said. “And I’ll handle it.”
The sheriff looked at me, like maybe he wanted to apologize for something, but didn’t know how. “You take care,” he said, and left.
I stood in the kitchen, not wanting to move. My legs trembled, the fear coming back now that it was safe to feel it. My hands remembered the weight of the shotgun, the way the action had felt so final, so much like a line I couldn’t uncross.
