CHAPTER FIVE
Justice
Six years later
My breathing is slow and even, concentration strong and aim steady. Despite the noise of nature, silence descends upon me, my finger hovering over the trigger, ready for the pivotal moment it awaits for.
“Pull!”
At Knox’s call my eyes find the targets he releases, the barrel of my gun following each one as I fire off two consecutive shots. The clay explodes in the air, incinerating before my eyes.
“Nice one, brother.” Braxten delivers a hard clap to my shoulder then gets into position, taking aim. “Now sit back and watch the pro.”
I grunt. Despite how cocky he can be there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend my Sunday with my two brothers on the land we call home, doing the one thing we are best at—shooting. And it’s all thanks to the man who raised us. A man we will always call our father.
Blood ties or not, Thatcher is family. Just as we are brothers. He trained us to be the most lethal sharpshooters in the country, gave us a home when we didn’t have one, and guidance when we needed it most. I respect no man more than my father. My brothers and I owe him everything. After a long month of being gone on our last job, it feels good to be home where we belong.
Braxten fires off his two shots, destroying the targets as quickly as I did. “Now that’s how it’s done, boys!”
I refrain from rolling my eyes like a fucking chick and grab my almost finished beer. “You want another?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
I raise the bottle at Knox from where he starts across the field. At his nod I head for the house, seeing the old farm truck parked next to the barn that wasn’t there when we arrived.
“Dad, you in here?” I ask, when entering inside.
When I don’t get an answer, I walk into the kitchen and see he hasn’t been in here either. There isn’t one thing out of place, including the rifle that sits in the corner. He’s always been systematic, it’s how he knows whether anyone has been messing with his things or not. Especially his guns. Don’t fuck with his guns or Old Man Creed loses his shit.
Thatcher spent some time in the military way back before he took over farming from his father. He’s known as the best sniper in military history and is still asked to run training sessions from time to time which is why my brothers and I are as good as we are.
I grin when I think about the first time he caught us in his gunroom. I thought we were going to get our asses beat. Thankfully, Brax’s smart mouth got us out of too much trouble but we were still forced to work out in those fields for hours, the sun burning our skin, sweat soaking our aching muscles while Thatcher rode the damn tractor next to us with a cold beer. It was the last time we ever went into that room without permission. However, it was worth the punishment because afterward was the first time he showed us how to shoot.
A defining moment I will never forget: Know your enemy, but more importantly, know yourself and the honor you possess. Only then can you be a true warrior.
Words of wisdom my brothers and I have continued to live by from that day forward.
When I move for the fridge, I accidentally knock a stack of mail off the counter. Bending down, I pick up the scattered envelopes and freeze, every muscle in my body growing stiff at the single picture that lays on the ground. A young girl who looks oddly familiar stares back at me. A face that looks so much like my own.
What the hell?
Suspicion forms in my gut, a cold sweat starting across my palms as I turn the picture over and read: Hannah J. Creed, five years old. I look at the envelope it slipped out of and the ground falls out beneath me, threatening to swallow me whole.
Ryanne Lockwood
1175 Hebert Drive
Gold Creek, Alabama
My pulse spikes in my veins, roaring in my ears as I read the name of the woman who disappeared from my life without so much as a goodbye.
Now I know why.
The room spins as I climb to my feet, my mind scrambling to comprehend the deceit as I stare down at the little girl’s picture.
“Motherfucker!” An intense rage slips over me, sending my fist through the wall. The slice of my knuckles does nothing to dull the pain ripping through my chest. I charge out of the house, kicking the front door open so hard it flies off its hinges and tumbles down the front porch.
My fury has Knox and Braxten starting for me, coming up on my left as I barrel across the front yard.
“What’s going on?” Braxten asks.
I remain silent, my swift feet never faltering as I race for my truck.
“Justice, where the hell are you going?”
“Alabama,” I finally grit, barely able to speak the one word past the fury gripping me.
“Why would you go there?”
Ignoring him once again, I open my door and climb inside, throwing the envelope and picture on the seat next to me. The beautiful little girl stares back at me hauntingly, the resemblance seizing the air in my lungs all over again.
Knox grips the top of my open window, his expression hard and concerned. “Justice, man. Talk to us. What the fuck is going on?”
My gaze finally meets his and I open my mouth to speak but find I can’t. The words are stuck in my constricted throat.
“Where’s Dad?” Braxten asks next.
Betrayal courses through me thick and rich as I think about the one man I thought I could trust more than anyone. “I don’t know and I don’t fucking care.” Starting up my truck, the loud engine cuts through the air as I hold my brothers’ concerned gazes. “When you see him though, tell him I never took him for a traitor.”
Before they can ask any more questions, I put the truck in gear and take off, kicking dust up in my wake.
On the long drive to Alabama my phone rings nonstop, but I refuse to answer, having no doubt it’s Thatcher.
There’s a child out there who’s mine. A child with the same blood running in her veins, and my father knew the whole fucking time, even helped keep her from me. The knowledge brings on a pain so deep it’s incomprehensible.
My gaze strays often to the picture on my seat, the sight of the pretty little girl triggering a foreign sensation in my chest. A part of me that’s only ever been touched by one woman.
A woman who deceived me, keeping me from the only flesh and blood I have on this earth.
I grip the steering wheel, pain and fury dueling in my veins and it only builds in the hours that pass. By the time I reach the address hours later, pulling up to the small house out in the country, my rage is barely concealed, fighting its way to the surface. I do my damnedest to keep it locked up for the moment and climb out of the truck.
I walk up the steps of the old Victorian-styled home and knock on the door, my fist heavy and hard. All my anger evaporates when the door opens a few seconds later, revealing the face of an angel.
My daughter.
Her small mouth parts on a gasp, recognition dawning in her light hazel eyes, the same color as her mother’s. “It’s you,” she whispers.
Before I can even comprehend what she means by that, Ryanne walks out with a dishtowel in her hand, drying a glass. “Hannah, baby. What did I tell you about opening the door alone? You can’t—” She comes to a cold hard stop, literally flinching as if she’s been struck.
After six long years we come face-to-face, our eyes meeting, and the remorse reflecting in hers does nothing to ease the betrayal tearing through my gaping chest.
“Ryanne,” I greet her, voice hard. “Been a long time. I see you’ve been busy.”