Page 13 of Breaking His Exile

“The Sons of Sin know who you are and it’s all but guaranteed they also know who your brother is. They know where he lives. The first place they’ll look for you is Valor Ridge. The second place is River’s bunk. The third is every road between here and there.” He crossed his arms. “You show up at that ranch tonight, you might as well paint a target on every man living there. You want that on your conscience?”

She didn’t. She hated that she didn’t.

“They have resources,” he continued. “They have connections. They have men who will sit on a road for days waiting for a white Ford truck to drive by. The only advantage we have right now is that they don’t know where you are. The second we give that up, we lose.”

Rainey stared at the floor. Tilly’s warm weight against her leg was the only thing keeping her upright.

“So what’s the plan, then?” she asked. “We hide here until they forget about me?”

“No. We hide here until I can get a message to Walker without tipping our hand. He’ll know what to do.”

“Walker?”

“The man who runs the ranch. Or Boone, his second in command.”

She wanted to argue. Every instinct told her to keep moving, to find River, to put miles between herself and the Dead Marshall and the body on its stage. But Evander’s logic was sound.

“Fine.” She pushed herself upright, wincing. “But the second you can get a message to River without leading the club to his door, you do it. That’s not a request.”

“Noted.”

He reached into the duffel and came out with a bottle of ibuprofen. Tossed it to her. She caught it one-handed.

“Take three. Food’s coming.”

He had bread. Cheese. Apples. And other simple things that wouldn’t spoil. He cut the apple with a folding knife and laid out slices on two plates, added the bread and cheese, and pushed one across the table to her. She ate standing up because sitting hurt too much. The bread was stale. The cheese was good. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the first bite hit her stomach and her whole body seemed to wake up at once, demanding more.

Evander ate his portion in four bites, washed it down with water from a metal cup, and started clearing the plates before she’d finished half of hers.

“Shirt,” he said and shoved it into her hands. “Clean. You can change in the outhouse or behind the blanket. Your call.”

She took the shirt. It was gray with long sleeves, and soft from too many washes, and it smelled of pine smoke. “Uh, blanket.”

The idea of going into an outhouse in the dark held no appeal.

“Okay.” He strung a blanket across a corner of the room, making a makeshift changing room, and she ducked inside. She changed as quickly as her ribs would allow. His shirt hung to mid-thigh. She rolled the sleeves twice, and still they fell past her knuckles.

The cot had a sleeping bag and a pillow that looked like it had been stuffed with something that wasn’t feathers.

She sat on the edge and tested it.

Firm.

Unforgiving.

Exactly what she’d expected.

Evander claimed a spot on the floor, beside the door, his back to the wall, the rifle within easy reach. He’d rolled out a thin pad and a blanket that looked military-issue, and he sat with his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them, perfectly still.

She bet he could hold that position until dawn and not think twice about it.

Tilly stood between them, looking from Evander to Rainey and back again. Her tail gave a single uncertain sweep. Then she crossed the room and settled on the floor beside the cot, close enough that Rainey could reach down and rest her fingertips against the warm ridge of the dog’s skull.

If Evander was annoyed his dog chose her, he didn’t show it.

Rainey lay down. The sleeping bag rustled. The cot creaked. Her ribs settled into a dull, persistent ache. The ibuprofen had taken the edge off, but the pain was nowhere near eliminated. She stared at the ceiling and wondered how the hell he expected her to sleep.

Rux Granger was dead, which meant Malachi was now in charge of the club. With Rux, she might have had a chance to talk some sense into him. With Mal, there was none. He’d want revenge, times two—for his father and for her daring to leave him.