That afternoon, Jake and I sit across the table from a man I barely recognize.
The last time I saw my brother was four years ago, and since then, he’s been moved to a unit that allows contact visitations on the weekends.
No glass partitions. No telephone receivers. Still no touching, except for a brief hello and goodbye hug.
I’ve been tongue-tied since the moment I walked into the visiting room and spotted him.
He and Jake fall into the easy camaraderie that’s always existed between them. Meanwhile, I can’t stop staring at the hardened, gruff-voiced man before me.
He sounds like he smokes two packs a day, and he looks like he spends all his time punching a heavy bag. Or other inmates. It’s not that he’s overly muscular. He just seems really strong. The mean kind of strong.
His sunken cheeks accentuate the blade-sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Dark circles underline his dark green eyes, and an undercurrent of violence hovers around him. His demeanor threatens anyone who dares a peek in his direction.
What has this place done to him?
“Conor?” His head cocks, eyes narrowed.
“Hm?”
“I asked you a question.”
Jake shifts beside me and rests an arm along the back of my chair. “Of course, I’m taking care of her.”
“He’s helping me through some things.” I tap my fingers on the table, wondering how much Lorne knows about Jake’s attempt at psychotherapy.
Lorne glances at my nervous twitching and meets my eyes. “When did you get the ink?”
Relieved by his question, I update him on the tattoo sessions, my schooling, and Miles York. “I played your guitar.”
“Yeah.” His cheek bounces with an almost smile. “Jarret told me. Wish I could hear you play.”
He asks about my classes, and I dive into the details of my lab work. The more I talk, the more I relax. He interrupts with the kind of inquiries and responses I expect from Lorne, and I start to feel like I’m chatting with my brother and not some convicted murderer.
I’ve never labeled him as such, even though that’s exactly why he’s here.
He murdered a man.
In less than two weeks, I intend to do the same thing.
Except the man he killed was innocent.
“Do you regret it?” My whisper creeps across the table and shivers along the dull concrete walls.
“No.” He sets his forearms on the surface and leans forward. “Your life is worth more than a hundred years served in here. Ten years is nothing.”
“My life? What does that have to do with—?”
“Tell her.” Lorne glares at Jake. “Soon. She needs to understand my position on this.”
“I will.” Jake rests a hand on my thigh.
“I need to understand all of it.” I push his arm away and tick a furious glare between them. “The three of you have been plotting and scheming and riding roughshod over my life, and I’m done with it.”
“We’re trying to help you.” The heat in Lorne’s eyes is fiercer than my own.
“I don’t need help.”
“You have PTSD, Conor.”
I know he’s right and bury the thought. “Help me by telling me the truth. You guys say you’re protecting me, but I don’t know why I need protection in the first place.”
I glance around the room, knowing we can’t discuss this here. Conversations are monitored and recorded.
“Convince him to tell me.” I thrust a thumb at Jake. “Did you know he’s holding information for ransom?”
“What’s the progress on that?” Lorne asks Jake.
“She’ll know everything within the next two weeks.” Jake looks at me sidelong. “If she behaves.”
“You can both kiss my ass.” I huff out a breath, exasperated. “I’m not standing on any more stumps. I’d rather hang my saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it.”
“I don’t envy you.” Lorne grins at Jake, and that smile sucks the irritation right out of me.
The back-road curve of his mouth brightens his eyes, returning the brother I remember, the happy boy who teased me as much as he protected me.
“I miss that smile.” My hand itches to reach for him, but touching isn’t allowed. “I miss you.”
He has four years left to serve. If he keeps his nose clean in here, he might get paroled in two years.
“I miss you more than you know.” His smile vanishes beneath darkening eyes and a furrowed brow. He lowers his stare to the scar on his palm and presses a thumb against it. “I wish I could be there when you honor our pact.”
“Me, too,” I say.
Jake grips my hand under the table, and I let him.
Lorne looks up, his expression soft. “I wish I could be a part of your healing process. Someday, I hope you forgive me for keeping you away.”
My heart squeezes. “Can we talk on the phone? Can I call you?”
“I’d love that.”
We catch up on little things until our hour is over. Then we end the visitation with the quick hug-and-release contact we’re allowed.
Jake collects his hat and belt from the security desk and walks me to his truck.
Thirty minutes into the drive home, he hasn’t spoken much, but I feel him watching me in that way he does. Monitoring, assessing, trying to read my thoughts.
“You should keep your eyes on the road.” I swipe through my playlist, looking for a new song.
When he returned my phone this morning, he informed me he called Miles and arranged to have my belongings packed up. I don’t own much—just a laptop and clothes—so there should only be a few boxes. Since I don’t have a place to live at the moment, I didn’t argue when he said the boxes would be shipped to the ranch.
“I need to find an apartment.” I continue to scroll through my music selection, dismissing all the cheery songs.
“It’s only an hour drive between the ranch and school.” He glances at me. “When we were kids, that was our plan. You were going to stay with me at the ranch and drive to school every day.”
“I’m not moving in.”
“You already have.”
“You’re delusional.” I keep my gaze on the phone, protecting myself from the enchantment of his gorgeous brown eyes.
“I know I haven’t earned your trust or forgiveness, but I will.”
I pretend to ignore him.
His hand clenches on the steering wheel, and he punches the gas pedal, jerking me back against the seat. “Stop fucking with your phone and look at me.”
My search for a song ends as Not Ready To Make Nice by Dixie Chicks crosses my screen. I press play and throw him an arched eyebrow.
As he listens to the lyrics, a black cloud shifts across his face. The cords in his neck stretch. His lips pull back, and his hand snaps through the space between us. “Give me the phone.”
I angle it out of his reach.
“Now!” He roars, making me jump.
Anger flashes in his eyes, and something akin to fear carves through me. I quickly hand it over.
He powers it off and secures it in the console, with his elbow resting on the lid. Then he turns his gaze to the road.
Swallowing past a tight throat, I find my voice. “What just happened?”
“I’ve been too soft on you.”
“Too soft—?”
“You needed a couple of days to adjust to being home and around me again. I gave you that.” His eyes lure and capture mine. “My goodwill has come to an end. It’s about to get very real for you.”
A chill whispers across my skin. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Expect more of that. More discomfort with a whole lot of tears and pain and catharsis. Cross those arms all you want. You’ll stand up to the challenge, because the Conor I know never backs down.”
I uncross my arms. “I’m not that girl.”
“That’s right. You’re stronger, fiercer, and so goddamn ornery it makes me hard. Really fucking hard.” The hoarse rasp of his voice curls through me like a slow burning flame. “I fell in love with your resilient spirit, and you’re still in possession of that. If you weren’t, I’d do this another way.”
My reflexive reaction is to punch him in the nuts, but I’ll save that fight for when he tells me what he’s planning.
“In two weeks,” he says, glancing between me and the road, “we’re going to commit the same crime that put your brother in prison.”
“Except Lorne killed an innocent man. Wyatt Longley lost his life for no reason.” I hope to God Jake isn’t getting cold feet. “Levi Tibbs doesn’t deserve to breathe.”
With one hand on the steering wheel, he places the other on the seat between us, palm up. “Give me your wrist.”
“No.” The hair on my nape stands on end, and I scoot closer to the door. “I can’t do that.”
“Put your wrist on my hand and I’ll explain how Lorne killed a bad man.”
“What?” My scalp tingles. “What do you mean?”
“Your wrist.”
My pulse thrashes, like the wind whipping against the windshield. The tone of his voice is so damn demanding, but that isn’t what moves me. It’s the love in his eyes, assuring me without speaking, protecting me without taking.
Something dormant in me answers, compelling me to gamble on that love.
I lift my arm and rest my wrist on his palm.
The strong muscles in his hand remain slack and loose, his fingers slightly bent but not clenched. I wait for the memories to rise, but Jake’s words distract me.
“Andy and Wyatt Longley shouldn’t have been near the ravine that night. They had no business traipsing around in the south pasture at all.” He scowls. “They were there to help two hitmen sneak on and off the property and dispose of the bodies left behind.”
“Bodies?” My stomach knots. “Mine and Lorne’s?”
“Yes.” Not a single twitch or crease of maybe I’m wrong in his stern expression.
“You have proof.”
“Three years ago, I recorded a conversation between my dad and Andy Longley.”
“You were spying on them?”
“By that time, I was spying on everyone. Their conversation didn’t elude to criminal activity, but something about it made me suspicious. So I confronted Andy and extracted a confession.”
“How?”
“I relieved him of his teeth. With my fist. Then I relieved him of his job.” He sets his jaw. “Only reason I let him live is because he let Lorne live. He was armed the night of your birthday and could’ve easily shot Lorne for killing his son.”
Pounding explodes in my ears. Is Jake in the habit of not letting people live?
“Does Lorne know?” I ask.
“He’s knows everything Jarret and I know.”
“You’re telling me my brother’s serving ten years in prison for killing a man who planned to dispose of his body?” My heart plunges into a pit of despair. “How can Lorne be okay with that?”
“He didn’t know about Wyatt Longley’s involvement when he pleaded guilty. Your dad told Lorne someone would kill you both if you returned to the ranch. That was the impetus for our decision to cut ties with you.”
“Dalton knew?” A ragged breath drags from my chest. “He told me he didn’t talk to Lorne. That Lorne was dead to him.”
“Communication was on and off. Your dad’s focus was on making sure your brother remained behind bars so he couldn’t return home. In the eyes of your enemies, those bars made Lorne a non-threat.”
“Who are our enemies? Your dad and—?”
“I’m not answering that today.”
“Is my life at risk right now?” I toss an angry glare at our surroundings. “I’m not at the ranch. Should I be worried about your dad?”
“You’re with me, and I can handle him.”
I’m not getting anywhere with this line of questioning, so I switch gears. “Today, Lorne said I need to understand his position. What did he mean?”
“His position on serving prison time… One, he doesn’t regret killing Wyatt Longley for the reasons I explained. Two, his incarceration hasn’t just saved his life. It helped me protect yours by keeping you away.”
My mind spins to make the connection. “Because he wouldn’t have gone to Chicago with us. He was eighteen, a legal adult.”
“He would’ve stayed at the ranch.”
“And I would’ve found my way back to him. Because he’s my flesh and blood.”
“Conor.”
“Hm?”
“Look at our hands and remember to breathe.”
I lower my gaze, and my lungs seize.
Fingers lock around my wrist, strong and constricting. I jerk back, and they cinch tighter, compressing, restraining. Like a knot. Rope. It scratches, tearing at my skin, holding me down.
“Let go.” I yank harder, unable to free myself. “Let me go, now! Let go! Let go!”
“Breathe and focus on my hand. It’s just me. It’s Jake.”
Muscles and veins strain against the skin of his forearm. Then black dots move in, blotting him out and taking me to that place, that terrible black tunnel.
“It’s too dark.” I wheeze, flailing and desperate. “Can’t breathe. Let go of me, dammit!”
“Focus on your wrist.” Jake’s voice filters in, deep and commanding. “Tell me what you see.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Tell me what you see!” he shouts.
I blink rapidly and clear my vision. “A hand. A strong hand. Squeezing. Knotting. It’s too tight. I can’t get free.”
“Whose hand, Conor? Look at it!”
The shape of it blurs through my rising tears, but I know those knuckles. Those long, thick fingers.
“Your hand.” I pant, shaking from the inside out. “It’s yours. Jake’s.” Not a knot. Not rope.
“Describe how it feels.”
“Warm. Gentle.” My joints start to loosen, and I stop pulling. “Familiar.”
“Am I hurting you?”
I shake my head, eyes fixed on his grip. “But you’re…you’re holding me. Oh God, you’re holding my wrist.” My breaths pick up.
“Keep talking. Don’t take your eyes off our hands.”
For the remainder of the three-hour drive, he keeps his grip on my wrist and makes me endure the nightmares his touch evokes.
I fight and regress into memory, surrender and produce bursts of words, and he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t relent. Not once.
By the time he parks the truck at the ranch, my throat is raw from overuse and exhaustion liquefies my limbs.
The hand on my wrist slackens, and his fingers intertwine with mine. Strong, callused fingers that know their way around rope.
I roll my head and find him watching me.
Dark brown eyes glow with gold flecks in the sunlight. His sculpted features convey concern and alertness. He cares what I’m thinking and feeling, perhaps more than I do, and it moves me.
He could’ve spent the last three hours blaring music and enjoying the drive. Instead, he attacked my trigger, lowered me into the darkness, and joined me there.
Something clicks inside me, like a turning key. I’ve been wandering aimlessly, so lost and far away from myself. But I just found the door that leads me back. He’s the other half of me, and he holds the pieces that will make me whole again.
“You cured me?” Tears threaten, and I swallow the salty taste.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The Stetson sits low on his brow, and he nudges it up. “This isn’t about a cure. We’re just learning how to control your thoughts and feelings about the trauma and how to work through the memories during a panic attack. You still need to talk about the ravine.”
“What if I can’t? Will I have flashbacks next time someone grabs me?”
“Most likely, yes.” He slides his hand to my wrist and latches on. “Going forward, your arms are no longer off limits. I will touch them, grip them, and bind them. Same goes for your other triggers. I’m going to trespass all over your nightmares and walk through them with you for as long as it takes. It’s not going to be fun, Conor, but you won’t be alone. Never again.”
With his hand around my wrist and his thumb stroking my skin, I lean into the tenderness of his touch.
He took off two weeks of work to do this for me. To accompany me in the darkest corners of my mind.
“Jake, I…” I can’t express my gratitude with words.
Unbuckling the seat belt, I crawl across the bench seat and climb onto his lap. His eyes widen, and his arms go around me.
I remove his hat and run my hands through his sexy brown hair. Touching him is an irresistible impulse, and I indulge in it with greedy fingers, traveling along the chiseled shape of his face and caressing the thick column of his neck.
Leaning in, I inhale the scent of his scalp, his whiskers, his breath. He smells like leather and steel, testosterone and sex. He smells like the man version of the boy I fell in love with.
He watches me heatedly with erratic gasps, his body rigid, cock hard, and muscles vibrating with raw, hungry power. There’s no better feeling in the world than being desired by a man like Jake Holsten.
And that desire bucks restlessly between us. It feels cinched and saddled, like it’s ready to be kicked into a gallop and ridden hard.
I gravitate closer, sinking into the trap. Beneath that molten chocolate gaze prowls ruthlessness and danger. He’s not safe. Not where my heart’s concerned. Of all the men who have hurt me, his cruelty was the most damaging.
“I’m scared.” I cup his face, my eyes fixed on his seductive mouth.
“I know.” He drifts toward me slowly, intently, until his breath licks my lips. “But you never run from fear.”
He swoops in and kisses me, quenching my senses with his overpowering essence. His lips move urgently against mine, his tongue searching and plundering the hidden places in my mouth, as if I harbor the answer to everything he seeks.
I want to give it to him. I ache to surrender anything he demands. Because he makes me feel loved. Because he follows me into the dark. Because he dulls the pain pumping through my veins.
He slants his mouth and deepens the kiss, his tongue wild and demanding, his arms tightening my body against his.
His lips taste like happiness—the smoke and heat of a campfire, the sun over the meadow, and the birth of young love.
Our love.
I found my way home.
In a new pickup truck with a grown man, we recapture our irreplaceable bond. It arches between us, bigger, stronger, and more formidable than ever, extending from one heart to the other.
The bridge between us wasn’t lost. The pieces have always been here. They just needed to be fitted back together.
I lean up and touch my brow to his, reveling in the connection. “I never stopped loving you.”