As the Sheriff pulled up, Tristan recognized another person in the car with him. Joshua Miller, Sr. had always been an interesting figure in Tristan’s life. Sometimes, the old man seemed to almost like him, but mostly, Senior was interested in protecting his son, and he wouldn’t be amiss to view Tristan as a threat.

There had never been a moment in Tristan’s life when he was more relieved to see the Sheriff and his friend. Sanchez might have had best intentions with him—court martial, most likely—but Tristan didn’t trust that he wouldn’t also drag him out to beat him in the desert, and report back with a dead body. Sanchez hadn’t liked him since Tristan had spoken to their superiors about Garcia, and the hatred was mutual. Neither the Sheriff nor Senior held Tristan in high regard, but they were both good men. Tristan might just get out of the desert alive.

“What the hell is going on here?” Sheriff Briggs demanded as he got out of his police cruiser.

Eva was already back in her truck, and her tires growled against the sand as she tore off. Tristan felt himself get dizzy again, and then sick, and he turned and retched, his wrists straining against the cuffs that Sanchez held so tight. He hadn’t eaten, and nothing came up but stomach acid, sour in his mouth.

Senior had made his way out of the car, and over to Tristan, close enough to see he was bleeding and pale.

“Tristan? Tristan St. John, you stupid son of a bitch, Josh is gonna kill you, son.”

Tristan smiled deliriously up at the kind man as he knelt beside him and looked at his wound.

“That bitch,” Sanchez said, “shot Tristan and tussled him up like this, and then tried to sell him to me. Not cheap, either. Not sure what she thinks a dying soldier is worth.”

He kicked Tristan lightly in the back, but the toe of his boot against his spine made Tristan’s sensitive, aching body convulse, fire shooting through his every nerve.

The Sheriff turned to watch Eva’s truck in the distance.

“Better track her down,” he decided. “Sanchez, you take St. John back to the nearest military base.”

Sanchez’s gloved fingers tightened on the chain connecting his cuffs, yanking Tristan’s arms higher by his burning, chafed wrists.

“Silver!” Tristan managed to get out. “Silver, silver,” he whispered through dry lips, fighting his heavy eyelids as they threatened to take him back to unconsciousness.

“John,” Senior called over Sheriff Briggs, “He’s poisoned, he’s not gonna make it that far. We have to get him to the hospital.” He frowned, glancing up at Sanchez, and then staring closely at Tristan’s wrists. “And these cuffs are silver, too, get them off of him!” he demanded

Sanchez shrugged, smirking a bit. “Don’t have the keys. They’ll have to cut them off at the hospital, I guess.” He tossed Tristan’s naked, fainting body into Senior’s arms, and the man caught him, lifting him into his arms to carry him into the back of the Sheriff’s cruiser.

The Sheriff was already in the car, and he wouldn’t chase after Eva that day. Instead, he sped back to the highway and into town, and rushed Tristan to the emergency room. Tristan was in and out for most of it, but he briefly remembered opening his eyes and looking up at Senior, who looked so worried, and so much like Josh. He had never realized it until that moment, how the men shared their brow, their green eyes, their locked jaw. He knew exactly what Josh was going to look like in twenty years, and he wanted, more than anything, to get to see it for himself.

Unconsciousness took him again, and the next time he opened his eyes, he was actually looking up at his omega.

* * *

After two years away, Tristan had come back on leave, and the first stop he made was the Miller’s bar. He wanted nothing but to see Josh. It had been a mistake, leaving him again, extending his stay in the military, and he knew that, but he hadn’t been able to turn it into a letter. He had to tell him in person, apologize face-to-face.

When he walked into the bar, Josh wasn’t there. Just Senior, who looked at him curiously.

“Long time no see, St. John.” There was a question beneath the words, he was asking what the hell Tristan was doing there, and Tristan sighed, settling down on a stool at the bar.

“Hey, Senior. Where’s Josh?”

The old man frowned. “Gone,” he said simply. “Went to live with his mother for a while. He and I had a falling out. Over you, actually.”

Tristan was surprised to hear that.

“You did?”

Senior offered him a beer, and Tristan took it gratefully, his chest heavy with disappointment. He’d really been excited to see Josh.

“Yeah. I told him that you’re his alpha, and that he just had to let you come back to him, but you would. And looks like I was right.”

Tristan sighed. “Josh didn’t like that,” he realized. “And he’s right. I never should have left.”

Senior shrugged. “You… you shouldn’t have hurt my kid. He’d be better off without you. But I see it, when you two are together. I always have. You’re fated, a classic case. What do I know about that, though? My omega left me, and I deserved it. Maybe you deserve it too.”

Tristan felt himself slump against the polished bar, his fingers numb on the condensation hugging his cold beer bottle.

“I do,” he admitted miserably. “And now he’s gone. Where does Shannon live now, anyway?”

“The city,” Senior said. “She has her own place there, and apartment above her salon. It’s called None of Your Beeswax.”

Tristan snorted softly, but he sat up, having some hope. Maybe he could find Josh, and convince him to forgive him, after all.

“The salon is actually called that?”

Senior laughed. “I know. I’m not kidding.”

Tristan went to dig out cash, but Senior shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. And listen. Don’t go and convince Josh you’re good now if you’re only going to break his heart again. If you pull him back into your life, you’d better be ready to commit.”

Tristan looked at Senior nervously, but he nodded.

“Yeah, I am.”

He thought Senior might just shoot him if he said otherwise.