Knotted Page 8

  His enemies and their motivations are so intricately and deeply buried I’ve only scratched the surface. Piecing together what Lorne feeds me, along with the shady shit I’ve uncovered in the ranch’s business records, I have so many suspicions and suspects and theories. But nothing concrete. Not yet.

  Lorne’s intel trickles from his dad, and it’s erratic and heavily filtered. Dalton barely talks to him. I’m certain Lorne doesn’t know about the drinking or the abuse. Of course, Conor didn’t mention it in her messages. She’d rather suffer quietly than worry us.

  And now she believes she’s truly alone.

  Gravel crunches beneath the angry tread of boots behind me. I square my shoulders, brace for what’s coming, and turn to face my brother.

  His first strike hits hard and swift, directly across my mouth. I stumble back, welcoming the spurt of blood. Relishing the pain. I deserve it.

  We read her email this morning and knew she was coming home. But we didn’t know why. The past few hours were a race against the clock, orchestrating a mix-up in cattle records that detained Dad at the stockyards in Oklahoma City until tomorrow.

  Someone wants Conor dead, and I added my dad to the list of suspects the moment he started drilling in the south pasture. Natural gas? Oil? He’s tight-lipped about it. Not to mention all his shady new business partners. He’s running a side business off the books. It’s sketchy as fuck, and Conor and Lorne are tied in somehow. It’s just a gut feeling. One I’ve yet to prove.

  But that’s not why Jarret’s fixing to beat me into a bloody pulp.

  Planting a girl in my bed was my idea. He warned me if I went through with it, he would rearrange my face.

  Conor’s always been like a sister to him, and I see that protective love blazing in his eyes as he rears back an arm.

  I block the punch and deliver one of my own, slamming into his solar plexus with enough strength to remind him I would never fuck Sara Gilly.

  He staggers, crashes against the ground, and springs to his feet, glaring with unwarranted accusations.

  I didn’t sexually or intimately touch Sara. I didn’t kiss her. Didn’t remove my boxers. I didn’t even get wood.

  I’m still a virgin, because I love Conor Cassidy.

  My brother damn well knows that. But Conor doesn’t, and that’s what this is about. Jarret wanted to guard her without hurting her. He wanted her to stay far away without giving her a reason. He wanted the impossible.

  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that would’ve kept her from returning home. Not her father. Not the threat against her life. Not the trails of sin and corruption running beneath the ranch.

  I did the only thing I could to protect her.

  I broke her heart, because I love her.

  Another jaw-crushing punch knocks me backward, shooting pain through my skull. He swings again and again, pummeling my face and stomach. He hits me for hurting Conor. For trusting her dad to look after her. For letting her messages go unanswered. For making her believe she’s unwanted.

  I don’t raise a hand to block his blows. The night air shudders with our combined pain, and I embrace it. I let him beat the shit out of me.

  I’ll bleed for her, because I love her.

  Since the day Lorne pleaded guilty to murder, her brother’s been adamant about keeping her away from the ranch. His imperative became my imperative, his fear my fear.

  Severing communication with her for two years eviscerated me. Driving her away from the ranch today was worse. Did I make a terrible mistake? I’m still not sure.

  Graduating high school and gaining twenty pounds of muscle have given me a facade of maturity I don’t possess. I don’t have enough years under my belt to carve a clear path through this. I’m operating on raw, protective, animalistic instinct.

  The right choice and the hardest choice are the same. Isn’t that what they say?

  All I know is I’d rather Conor live without me than not live at all. But I didn’t come to that realization overnight.

  Dad disconnected our phones the day she moved to Chicago. That bought me time to talk to Lorne, investigate Dalton’s reasons for leaving, and figure out what the fuck to do about the shit I learned.

  Someone doesn’t want Conor and Lorne in Sandbank, and they’ll resort to murder to bring their purpose to fruition.

  I could’ve gone to the authorities. Except the county sheriff and his deputies spend a fuckton of time behind closed doors with my Dad. They’re all on my suspect list.

  I could’ve left home. I could’ve moved anywhere in the country and convinced Conor to join me. But without understanding the threat, I would’ve spent the rest of my life in constant fear, watching her back and putting myself between her and whoever intends to cause her harm.

  I can’t run away and leave this unsolved. I can’t let her enemies go unpunished.

  When I determine who wants her gone, I’ll take them out. And when her rapist goes free, I’ll honor the blood oath.

  I’ll kill for her, because I love her.

  Jarret paces before me, panting and flexing his bloody fists. Rage etches his face, his hunger for justice unquenched. I’m the only one he can take it out on.

  I watch him warily, imploring with my eyes. What was I supposed to do?

  He answers with hollow strikes. No solutions. He has nothing to offer but torment.

  Two years ago, Jarret and I sat down with Lorne in prison, and the three of us made the decision together. Dry up all communication with Conor. No replies to emails. No text messages for her to wake up to. No phone calls to help her fall asleep. Shut her out of Oklahoma. Don’t give her a reason to return. No matter what.

  Conor deserves to know the truth about what’s happening, and a very selfish, desperate part of me aches to chase her down right now and dump it all on her.

  Dalton Cassidy swears on his life she’s not in danger as long as she stays away from me, my family, and this ranch. He turned out to be a weak piece of shit father, but I believe, deep in the barrel of my heart, he wants her to live.

  She has a rigorous eight-year journey ahead of her to become a practicing veterinarian. If I divulge the truth to her, she’ll abandon her schooling, return to the ranch, and risk her life in an attempt to bring down the forces against her.

  I can’t let her do that.

  I’ll make sure she realizes her dream, because I love her.

  I’ll hunt down her enemies. I’ll protect her from afar. I’ll let her believe I don’t love her.

  Because I love her.

  Jarret steps back, chest heaving and hands resting on his hips. He searches my eyes, silently asking if I understand, if I feel his turmoil, if we’re on the same page.

  I nod. “Are we done talking about this?”

  “Yeah, we’re done.”

  I move to walk past him, and he clutches my shoulder.

  After a hesitant moment of silence, he releases a ragged breath and pulls me into a one-armed hug. “We’ll see her again.”

  I think his words are for him not me, but I grip his scarred palm and squeeze it against mine. “Five years.”

  Five years until her rapist goes free.

  Five years to eliminate her enemies and make it safe for her return.

  If there’s anything left of me after that, anything redeemable or worth loving, I’ll focus on restoring her faith and mending her heart. But I’m not stupid. When she discovers my manipulations and deceit, she’ll never forgive me.

  Jarret heads to the equipment shed, presumably to retrieve Ketchup from where we hid her.

  That was another decision I didn’t take lightly.

  If Conor knew her beloved mare was alive and healthy, she would’ve delayed her departure. She would’ve been compelled to visit her horse.

  Every second she spent on the property was a risk, so I reduced that risk. I eliminated the last tie she had to this place. She won’t return for me or Jarret or Ketchup.

  I want to gut myself for hurting her so
thoroughly. But I had to. I had to give her the closure she needs to stay alive.

  Dragging my bleeding, busted-up body into the house, I redirect my thoughts to the gift box she dropped in my room. My strides move faster, my breaths rushing as I reach my room and grab the box.

  I tear at the wrapping on my way to the bathroom. The paper falls to the floor as I absently turn on the shower and open the box with shaking fingers.

  A wide, masculine wrist cuff sits on a bed of tissue paper. Sewed into brown leather is a silver horseshoe, rotated on its side to resemble her initial. I take in the handcrafted detail and meticulous metalwork before I read the note.

  I’m not an artisan.

  Just a girl who misses her cowboy

  with every stitch and solder,

  every hour and mile,

  every inhale and exhale.

  I made this with all that I am

  for the one I’ll never stop loving.

  C

  Stabbing pain cleaves through me as I press the note to my nose, inhaling deeply, desperate to scent her in the ink. I do the same with the cuff, holding the leather to my face, clinging to the textures, and choking on the flames in my throat.

  She gave me a bracelet on her birthday. A precious, invaluable piece of heaven.

  And I gave her torment, heartbreak, and hell.

  I made her believe I let her go.

  God, if I only could.

  Nothing will stop me from watching over her, but I can’t have her.

  I’ll protect her with my life, but I must forget her.

  Because she no longer belongs to me. I sent her away. I made her a free agent.

  She’s free to move on.

  Free to date.

  Free to fuck other men.

  Free to love again.

  I drop to my knees beside the toilet and puke my guts.

  Exhausted, numb, and penniless, I find a dumpy motel near the OSU campus in Stillwater, Oklahoma. In lieu of my empty wallet, I peel the Help Wanted sign off the door and approach the thirty-something attendant at the front desk.

  The lift of his eyes begins the skin-crawling greeting I’ve come to expect from men between the ages of sixteen and death. The head to toe perusal, fluttering nostrils, heavy breaths—whatever happens in the male brain that triggers these responses doesn’t seem to care that it’s rude and uncomfortable.

  I wait for him to finish the creepy ritual before saying, “I need a room.”

  “How many hours?” He licks his lips.

  “The rest of the summer.”

  He asks for a credit card, and I give him the Help Wanted sign. The conversation that follows would make Susan B. Anthony roll in her grave.

  He needs a handyman and thinks that job requires a penis. I grew up on a ranch and can do anything with my hands. When I phrase it that way, his gaze latches onto body parts I will not be using, but whatever. He gives me the job and a room.

  I don’t have the same confidence when it comes to visiting my brother. Reconstructing myself into an impenetrable, unfeeling robot takes constant effort. I’m a work in progress, raw and untested, and Lorne has the power to disassemble me.

  I expect the same reception from him that Jake and Jarret gave me. He received my messages and chose not to respond. I’m not ready to experience his rejection in person.

  So I put it off and bury myself in distractions. I apply for college loans. Acquaint myself with the campus. Buy a prepaid phone. And fix everything that needs fixing around the motel.

  It takes me a month to work up the courage to drive to Oklahoma State Penitentiary. Then I sit in the parking lot for an hour, reminding myself why I came.

  He’s my brother.

  I love him.

  I have to know if he loves me back.

  Razor wire fences, armed towers, drab white paint, tiny windows—this is where all the executions for the state are implemented. I block it all out as I enter the visitor door.

  When I give my name at the desk, the guard turns to the computer.

  He’s going to tell me I’m not on the visitor list.

  I filled out the visitor application two years ago, but Lorne has the right to refuse me. I know he doesn’t want to see me.

  “Right this way, Miss Cassidy.” The guard leads me to a bay of elevators.

  Stunned, I move through the prison, pause for the security check, and follow the signs and commands from the guards.

  Since Lorne’s unit has non-contact visitation only, I’m escorted into a small narrow room. Plastic chairs sit in a row, each in a separate booth. I lower into the one I’m directed to and wait.

  A moment later, he appears on the other side of the glass partition in a periwinkle blue jumpsuit.

  He’s thinner. Older. Hard green eyes. Black hair that crops close to his skull. He carries himself with a severe edge of intimidation. Still handsome, but unsmiling, in a deadly way. And not a hint of surprise on his clean-shaved face. I’m sure they gave him my name.

  He steps into the booth, and I harden my spine, steeling myself for a brush-off.

  Safety glass prevents him from touching me. Conversation requires the use of a telephone. I don’t reach for the receiver.

  He lowers into the chair, his unwavering stare never leaving mine. An eternal moment passes, the silence hovering like a timekeeper.

  Is he thinking about the ravine? That’s the last time he saw me. Naked. Violated. My body used in ways a brother should’ve never been forced to witness.

  If I hadn’t sneaked off with Jake that night, if I hadn’t been such a rebellious little slut, Lorne wouldn’t be sitting on the other side of that glass. God, how he must hate me.

  He picks up the phone.

  I don’t move. It’s too scary. Too painful.

  He flattens a hand against the glass partition.

  I stare at the scar on his palm, at the fingers that used to hold mine when I cried. I don’t trust what he’s offering. I can’t reach for it.

  He waits.

  Then he mouths, “I love you.”

  I close my eyes and block out the rising burn in my throat. I block out the partitions and the guards’ squeaky shoes and the ten years my brother will spend behind that glass in that stupid blue jumpsuit. I block it all out and open my eyes. Because I’m happy to see him.

  He didn’t turn me away.

  With a steady inhale, I lift the receiver and bring it to my ear.

  “Conor,” he breathes, and his hand makes a winding slide down the glass, as if tracing my outline.

  “Lorne.”

  “God, you…” His gaze roams my face, softening with each pass. “You’re so beautiful. You look just like Mom.”

  I don’t remember her, but I used to have pictures. I’ve seen the resemblance.

  “You’re not answering your phone.” Lines appear on his brow. “Do you have a new number?”

  “You called me? When?”

  “Every day for the past week.”

  My hand clenches around the phone, my voice low. “You haven’t tried to reach me in two years.”

  “I know.” A muscle bounces in his jaw. “You were supposed to stay in Chicago.”

  I clamp my molars together, vibrating with things I refuse to feel.

  “I know why you didn’t stay.” His gaze lowers to my ribs. Then my stomach. He stares so hard it’s as if he can see the faded bruises beneath my shirt.

  I suck in a breath. “Jake told you?”

  He nods, curling fingers into a fist on the counter.

  “He visits you?” I ask.

  Another nod. “Conor, I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Sorry for which part?”

  “For Dad. If I’d known—”

  “You’re sorry for Dalton?” I tilt my head, swallowing against the sharp pain in my throat. “What about for ignoring me? For not calling? For not taking time out of your busy schedule to ask how I’m doing?”

  “I couldn’t, Conor.” He averts his eyes and twists
a finger around the phone cord. “I can’t keep in touch with you because it reminds me that I’m in here and you’re out there and I can’t protect you. I can’t hear the sadness in your voice and maintain the air of confidence I need in here to survive.”

  He’s talking with his tongue out of his shoe. He’s always been a terrible liar, and I know all his tells—the looking away, the fidgeting, the rambling on with too many words.

  “You want me to leave,” I say quietly. “You don’t want me here.”

  “You’re right. I want you to leave Oklahoma. Start over. Go to school in Illinois where you qualify for in-state tuition and—”

  I lower the phone from my ear, and a hollow thump echoes in my chest.

  He knows Oklahoma State University has always been my dream. Why does it matter to him where I go?

  Because he doesn’t want me near him.

  With numb fingers, I move to put the phone away.

  “Wait,” he mouths, surging from the chair.

  He presses a hand against the glass then holds it up, extending his pointer finger. One second. His eyes widen with urgent demand.

  I return the phone to my ear and meet his gaze.

  “Chicago Mercy Hospital contacted me last week.” His palm flattens against the glass, his tone dropping to a cautious hush. “Dad’s landlord found him.”

  “Found him?” Something cold and hard forms in my stomach.

  “Dad’s dead, Conor.” His throat bobs. “There was so much alcohol in his system it shut down brain function and other things, like his gag reflex. He vomited…”

  “He choked to death.” I stare at the floor.

  “Yeah.” Silence whispers between us. Then his voice crackles through the phone. “Say something. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “I feel nothing.”

  Returning the phone to the cradle, I walk away.

  ONE YEAR LATER…

  I push through the days and nights in a blur of sleepless dedication. With twice as many credit hours as the average student, my life revolves around schoolwork. I throw myself into studying, maintaining a perfect GPA, and proving my self-worth.