"Because the story went public and the FBI is circling. Thornton is smart enough to know that when this whole thing starts to come apart, Merrick's going to throw him under the bus."
"Or because Merrick told him to send that text and lure you somewhere dark and empty so they can finish whatHANDLEDmeans."
She hands the phone back, and her fingers brush mine. The contact lasts a half second longer than it needs to. She notices. I notice her noticing.
Neither of us acknowledges it because we're standing next to a truck with a death threat carved into the paint and discussing the likelihood that someone wants to kill me, and the fact that I still want to push her against that truck and taste her mouth tells me everything about how far gone I am.
"I'm going," I say.
"Then I'm going with you."
"The text says come alone."
"The text is from a man who's been complicit in murder, Colt. Forgive me if I don't take his invitation at face value."
"You're not coming."
"Watch me."
She says it flat, with her arms crossed and her weight shifted to one hip and her eyes locked on mine, and I recognize theposture from every argument she's ever won, which is most of them.
This woman fights like a cutting horse—low, fast, aggressive—turning before I even know the direction's changed.
I step closer. Not because it'll change her mind. Because I need to.
"Kenna." My voice drops, and I watch the recognition cross her face, the slight widening of her pupils when I use that tone.
She holds her ground, but I see the swallow, the quick pulse at the base of her throat.
"If this is a setup, I need you somewhere safe. Not because you can't handle yourself. Because if something happens to both of us, there's no one left to carry on. Everything Grant died for, everything we've built—it dies in that storage yard with us." I hold her gaze. "And because if I let you walk into this and something happened to you, I'd burn this entire circuit to the ground and salt the earth where it stood, and then nobody gets justice anyway."
"That's very dramatic."
"I'm a bull rider. Everything I do is dramatic."
"Fine." She breathes, and the defiance in her posture shifts to something more strategic. "But you're not going alone. Who do you trust enough to bring?"
"Wade Ashcroft."
Her eyebrow goes up. "The one with the flask?"
"The one who's ridden saddle broncs professionally for twelve years and has hands like cinder blocks. He told me at the Scottsdale chutes that if I needed a body, he was available."
"A body. Charming phrasing."
"Rodeo vernacular. It means backup."
"I know what it means. I'm concerned about the man behind the vocabulary."
"Wade is solid when it counts. He's falling apart in every other way, but when the gate opens, he shows up."
She's quiet for a beat, calculating, and I watch her shift from fighting me to solving the problem. "Wade for muscle. Me on the access road with Torres on speed dial. If anything goes sideways, I call her and we all get out."
"You call her and you drive. Not toward me. Away."
"And if you and Wade can't get out?"
"Wade and I can handle ourselves."
