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“Craddock stopped us that night, after I was taken from the distillery, and…” A sob erupts in my chest. “He saw me with Please.”

Cole’s eyes widen, then narrow. I watch a dark kind of rage, of madness filter into those dark blue depths.

“Please told him I was his wife, but…Craddock knew I wasn’t. He called Hale. A-And he let me go with him.” Silent tears fall, dripping onto the sheet pulled over my lap. “He didn’t help. He didn’t stop him.”

A roar rips out of Cole. He shoves off the bed, dragging a hand down his sharp jaw. Breathing erratic, he squeezes his fists at his side, and the rage that exudes off him whips the air. He stalks across the room, the only sound the hard tread of his boots.

“Fuck,” he says, the word ripped from his chest.

“Cole?” I ask, my whole body shaking from inside out. My eyes water as I watch him pace. “Come back to me, cowboy.”

He whips his head back, turning to look at me as his hands move to rest on top of his head. The torment, the agony on his face pulls at my heart, and I worry that I’ve fucked up by telling him.

At the tremble in my voice, his haunted gaze clears. He returns to sit beside me on the bed. He holds my hand, but his body is taut like it’s taking all he has in him to remain calm. To not fly out of my makeshift hospital room and kill a man.

“I shouldn’t have told you.” I lower my gaze to our linked fingers.

“No. You should have.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Delilah.” He frames my face with his strong hands so I’ll look him in the eye. His voice is steady. Vicious. “You don’t understand. I’m going to fucking ruin him.”

I stare back at Cole. The hammering heart inside of me hardens to a cold piece of flinty steel before I lick my lips, lean in, and say, “Good.”

51 Cole

The sight of the white Stetson slipping out of a police cruiser and heading to the tasting room boils my blood. This plan is a risk, but it has to work, or we’ll lose everything we’ve fought for.

“Keep your head straight,” Warren orders in a low voice as he steps behind the bar so as not to make Craddock suspicious about his presence. “Don’t go fucking cockeyed.”

I meet Warren’s cool gaze. “Helpful.”

“I do my best.”

From behind the bar, he pours us a shot. We clink, drink, then I exhale.

Nervous energy pulses the air.

The chimes above the door jingle as Craddock steps inside, flashing a sneer at us.

“You Westons call, I come. Can’t say that’s not small-town service,” Craddock remarks, tugging off his aviators and tucking them in the front pocket of his brown uniform.

“We also have whiskey. That doesn’t hurt.” I nudge a bottle his way.

Craddock’s greedy eyes move to the shots on the bar. He gulps one down. “Now what’s all this about a break-in?” His gaze surveys the bar. There’s cockiness in Craddock’s walk, his smile smug, pleased we’ve called him into our mess. “Things seem in order to me.”

We invited Craddock here with a lie about a break-in at the distillery, knowing he couldn’t resist gloating over our bad security. Knowing he’d never dig any deeper.

Now it’s us and the element of surprise.

“Had some precious things go missing.” After a beat, Warren nods his chin. “You planning to take notes, or…”

Disgruntled, Craddock pats his back pocket for a notepad and pencil. “When did it happen?”

“Saturday. The same night as the church fire.” Warren cuts limes from his place behind the bar.

“Fucking shame, isn’t it. That church has been in town for decades. The shit that went on there that night… Fire department’s still sorting through the ruins for more bodies.” He crosses the room, heaving his round gut over his belt. “Bad press for our town, I’ll tell you that.”