The world narrowed to just the two of us. I was vaguely aware of Rawley’s footsteps crunching across the gravel, of the ranch dogs barking somewhere out near the barn. But all I saw was Danny, shaking and shivering, blood running in slow tracks down his chin. My hands hovered over him, not sure where to touch that wouldn’t make it worse.
“I got you,” I said. “I got you, okay? I’m here.”
He tried to nod, but his head barely moved.
A half-second later, Rawley slid in beside me, cursing under his breath. “Son of a bitch,” he said, voice flat and dangerous. “Who—” He cut himself off, then looked at me. I knew what he was thinking. There was a time and place for revenge, but it sure as hell wasn’t while the kid was bleeding out on our property.
“Get Jojo,” I barked, “and wake up Hooper if you can. We’re gonna need help.”
Rawley ran, and it was just me and Danny again.
I moved slow, hands gentle, trying to check for busted bones without making the pain worse. His ribs made a weird click when I touched his side, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, then gritted my teeth. “Jesus, you’re a mess.”
He smiled again, this time less pain and more pure gallows humor. “You should see the other guy.”
I let out a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a sob, but some ugly hybrid of both.
I gathered him up, as careful as I could, tucking his head into the crook of my arm. He fit there like he’d been engineered to. I could feel how bad he was shaking, how much of him was held together by nothing more than stubbornness and spite.
I lifted him, and even though it must have hurt like hell, he didn’t make a sound.
As I turned back toward the house, his hand reached up and clung to the front of my hoodie, knuckles white against the navy blue. I couldn’t help it; I pressed my lips to his temple, felt the fever-sweat and the grit, and made a silent promise to whatever god was listening that I would never, ever let this happen again.
Not on my watch.
Not to him.
By the time we hit the porch, Jojo was already there, tears streaming down his face. Rawley followed, already barking orders at Hooper, who’d shown up in a pair of boxers and a hunting knife, looking mildly disappointed that the emergency wasn’t “at least a bobcat.”
We carried Danny inside, the rest of the world dropping away, and every step I took just ratcheted up my rage and terror in equal measure.
All I could think was: if Dennis Jenkins wasn’t already dead, he was about to be. But for now, all that mattered was the boy in my arms, and keeping him from slipping away.
Inside the house, the world snapped into triage mode. Rawley was already barking orders before I’d made it to the kitchen table, his military cadence back in full effect. “Clear thetable, Jojo—Hoop, bring the first aid kit and get the painkillers from the office. Burke, you hold him steady.”
I set Danny down as gently as I could, ignoring the fresh streak of blood he left on my forearm. The kitchen lights made his face look even worse—eye swollen shut, lip split so wide I could see the glint of a canine tooth through the tear. His breathing was shallow, each inhale a hiss that made me want to put my fist through drywall.
Jojo hovered nearby, hands fluttering, but his voice was steady. “Can I get these off?” he asked, already reaching for the edge of Danny’s ruined shirt.
“Do it,” I said, and tried to sound calm. I squeezed Danny’s shoulder, the only place that didn’t look freshly destroyed.
Jojo’s fingers were fast and careful, peeling the fabric away from the cuts and bruises. Underneath, Danny was a mess—chest and stomach blotched with every color from sick yellow to blue-black, ribs jutting weirdly on the left side. I could see each spot where Dennis had landed a kick, and I cataloged them all, making a list in my head, just in case I got a chance to return the favor.
Hooper thudded in with the med kit, tossing it onto the table like it was a football. He took one look at Danny, then at me, and said, “He needs a hospital.”
“We’re not risking ER right now,” Rawley shot back, already ripping open an alcohol wipe. “They’ll call it domestic, and we’ll be knee-deep in county drama before you can say liability.”
“We can handle it,” I said, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “He’s not dying. Not here, not now.”
Hooper shrugged, went to the sink, and started boiling water like he was prepping for a goddamn Civil War amputation.
Jojo pressed a towel to Danny’s face, whispering apologies with every dab. He muttered something about “lavender oil and arnica” and sprinted off to get it.
I stayed put, holding Danny’s good hand in both of mine. I could feel his pulse, rapid and thready, but there. I leaned in, kept my voice low. “You with me?”
He nodded, but even that tiny movement made him wince.
