CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Matt
“This needs sutures.”
Matt glared at the EMT, looking at the damage the armor-piercing round did to the muscle on his side under his arm. He had several flesh wounds but one was a particularly deep gash that had bled profusely.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Matt growled. “Can’t you just stitch me up?”
“We’re not allowed to do that,” the EMT protested.
“Are you giving the poor man a hard time?” Kate asked, walking up to the ambulance.
“Weren’t you supposed to stay with Grace?” Matt barked.
“She’s with Millie and Cassie, not to mention it’s Dr. Ryan who is examining her,” she informed him. “I think she’s covered. Grace actually sent me over here to make sure you don’t give the EMTs trouble.”
“Well, I’m done,” Matt announced, hopping down from the ambulance and ignoring the frustrated exhale of the paramedic who threw up his hands in surrender. It had been fortunate that Dr. Ryan had already planned a scheduled stop at Misty Grove to deliver the blood test results and rode with Millie and Cassie to get here.
“You’re still bleeding,” Kate pointedly looked at the gash the emergency response person was supposed to bandage. “I’m not sure you want Grace to see you like this.”
Matt stared dispassionately at his bleeding side and had an idea. He craned his neck to look for Trent and saw that he was busy directing his deputies. Cassie’s husband had been a trained medic with the Delta Force. Well, Colt would have to do. He strode to his SUV and grabbed a medical kit.
“Montgomery!” He yelled at Colt who was talking to Axe.
“What the hell are you doing?” Kate hissed.
Matt didn’t answer his twin but waited for Colt who approached him with a puzzled look on his face. He yanked up the bottom of his shirt and peered at the gash again. Fuck, it really did need stitches.
Without saying a word, Matt shoved the medical kit at Colt.
The rancher raised a brow. “You’re not serious.”
“Serious as fuck,” Matt retorted, walking toward the house that was currently being swept by CSI techs.
“There’s no anesthetic,” Colt pointed out, looking into the case while walking alongside him. Matt noted briefly that Kate was following quietly behind them.
He stared at the SEAL in irritation. “Plenty of antiseptic,” he muttered, entering the house and heading straight for the kitchen and spotted just what he was looking for.
A bottle of whisky. There were several bottles to choose from. Matt grabbed the Macallan Scotch aged eighteen years.
“Hey, that’s evidence!” A CSI tech yelled.
Matt speared the man with an incinerating glare. “Take it up with the sheriff.”
“How does Trent put up with you?” Kate sighed.
“Well, he puts up with Cassie,” Matt smirked. Besides, The Reaper was the cause of all his injuries, including a couple of bruised ribs. Damn straight he was helping himself to his expensive liquor collection if only to blunt the sting of what was to come. If he hadn’t taken the forty-caliber round to his torso, which his vest fortunately stopped, he would have knocked that little shit out in no time.
He pulled out a chair by the kitchen table and pulled his shirt over his head. Of course it stung, but no way he was going to cry about it. He took a swig out of the Macallan and doused his wound on his side with some of the expensive scotch.
“You sure about this, bro?” Colt smirked, crouching in front of him. “I’m not exactly a plastic surgeon. This ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Matt snapped. “Just do it.”
His friend sobered and looked at Kate who simply shrugged.
“Just give him what he wants, Colt, or we’ll never hear the end of his ornery ass,” Kate said.
And that was why he loved his sister.
Matt hissed as the needle pricked his skin.
Several stitches later, Matt strode toward the ambulance where Grace stood with the rest of the gang. There was an anxious look on her face.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “The EMT said you had refused treatment.”
If Matt encountered that EMT again he was going to kick his ass. “No worries, babe, Colt fixed me up.” He clasped her shoulders and stared at her searchingly. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I was more worried about you. You were bleeding and Ric shot you.”
Matt ground his molars at how familiar Grace sounded with the dead assassin. “Ric, huh?” Everyone noticed his disparaging tone as an awkward, gouging silence fell on the group.
“Matthew,” Millie admonished quietly.
What the fuck? He didn’t need anyone getting in between him and his wife. Matt knew if he didn’t get Grace to confess every single detail of her time with The Reaper, he was going to lose his mind and eventually, his temper with her. Grace, for her part, had recovered from her stunned disbelief and was staring at him with fiery defiance, daring him to deepen the hole he’d inadvertently dug himself into.
Matt was not that stupid.
So he ignored Millie and his wife and addressed Dr. Ryan who was looking on with interest. “Anything urgent we need to address tonight?”
“No. Grace is fine. There’s no need to do an ultrasound right now as it’s not guaranteed we’ll hear a heartbeat at six weeks. We don’t want to cause unnecessary worry.” The doctor split a look between Matt and Grace. “Looks like you two have more important matters to discuss.”
“Ranch tomorrow?” Matt asked.
The doctor nodded. “I need to return to Atlanta by three in the afternoon for a meeting with the CDC and Homeland Security, so any time before noon.”
“Let’s shoot for ten,” Matt replied. “That okay with you, Grace?”
“Sure,” his wife shrugged. A bland expression washed over her face but her eyes shot lasers at him.
Yes, they were definitely discussing The Reaper tonight and putting that fucker permanently out of their lives.
*****
They’d spent most of the drive back in silence. The relief of having Grace back was shadowed by what was still ahead of them. How would his wife handle her abduction? Matt had seen the room where The Reaper held Grace. The CSI tech had been bagging Grace’s pajamas. There were ropes on the bed, a ripped shirt on the floor, and she’d been dressed in that fucker’s shirt. Fury ratcheted up inside him again, but he managed to beat it back. All that mattered was sitting right beside him—the woman he loved to distraction.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you.”
“Don’t—” Grace cut in sharply. She took his right hand from the steering wheel and held it on her lap. “Please don’t blame yourself, baby,” she said tenderly. “I survived. You saved me and killed that psychopath.”
Matt didn’t say anything.
“Are you going to get in trouble for killing Ric?”
His jaw tightened again at her familiarity with the kidnapper. Why couldn’t she just call him a psycho.
“Trent said it’s going down as self-defense. I did stab that motherfucker with his own knife which he intended to use on me. Add to the fact we have one dead deputy and a couple more injured. No one’s sorry to see The Reaper gone, but Trent will still need to take my official statement.”
“Matt, about Ric …”
“Not here,” he growled. He kissed the back of her hand before letting it go to resume his grip on the steering wheel.
“But …”
“I need to get you safe—”
“But Ric is dead and the Carillo Cartel should be thankful to you—”
“From me, Grace.”
“Wh-what?”
“I’m a hair trigger away from losing it, gypsy,” Matt said quietly. “He nearly succeeded in taking you away from me. I can’t talk about him while I’m driving.” His face hardened as he glanced her way. “But make no mistake, once we get back to the loft, we’re talking about what happened.”
“Matt, maybe we should wait for a few days to discuss this.”
“No.”
“What if I can’t talk about it just yet.”
Fuck!
Instead of pulling sharply to the shoulder, Matt slowed down before he parked the SUV on the side of the road. He slammed out of the vehicle though and walked to its front. He stared back into the car and could have kicked himself for putting the troubled look on Grace’s face. But dammit, she had to push the issue.
Fuck!
She opened the door and jumped down. Matt was grateful to whoever gave her a new shirt because he would have ripped The Reaper’s shirt off her, and fuck knows what else he would have done.
“Get back in the car,” he ordered.
“What’s wrong with you?” Grace snapped.
“He took you from me!” Matt roared. “The heat cams on the drone,” he broke off as a wounded growl escaped from his throat. “I saw what he was doing to you and I was helpless to stop it!”
Grace eyes widened, all color leaching from her face. “Nothing happened,” she whispered and his eyes drilled into hers. She looked away. Some shit definitely happened.
Matt paced the front of the vehicle like a caged tiger, his voice turning guttural. “Don’t lie to me Grace. Don’t fucking lie to me.”
He stopped walking, rested his hands on his hips and stared at the night sky. He exhaled deeply. Getting those troubling thoughts out of his head had restored a measure of equilibrium within him, but he was far from okay.
“You’re right,” Grace concurred. “We need to talk about this at home. Not on the side of the road.” Without another word, she climbed into the vehicle.
Matt saw Millie’s vehicle slow down beside them, but he waved the diner owner through, indicating that everything was fine. He got in beside Grace and they resumed their drive back to the loft in charged silence.
When they arrived in Misty Grove, he felt her stiffen, and when he pulled up at the garage, her breathing had become ragged.
“Roger?” she asked, her voice muffled as if clogged with tears.
“His funeral is the day after tomorrow.”
“He didn’t deserve to die.”
“No. He didn’t,” Matt agreed. The pain of losing his friend pierced him where he was already vulnerable. He’d never felt this raw, like a blade had scraped him from the inside out.
“His death was so senseless,” Grace’s voice hardened. “Makes me not regret that Ric killed that two-faced Cristiano. Does that make me a bad person?”
Matt glanced at her sharply. This was so unlike her to be so cold. If there was one thing about Grace, she saw the good in people. Just like that guy in Dallas who had helped the accountant.
Too much. This was getting too much for both of them. Something had to give.