Page 88 of Mountain Hero

Please let Winter be okay. I haven’t heard anything aside from Winter’s voice, but still. Without seeing her, I can’t be sure.

In position by the window, I carefully crack open the window and inspect the area below. When I spot Thomas still standing twenty feet from the house, with the gas cans now on the ground and the gun tucked back away, my legs go weak in relief.

And Winter kept her promise; she’s still talking to Thomas from the porch—I can’t see her, but judging from the direction of her voice, she hasn’t moved from the front door.

“Thomas. You don’t have to do this.” The tremble in Winter’s voice slays me.

“Yes! I do!” Thomas’s voice pitches up. “This is how it’s supposed to be! You’re supposed to be with me!”

“Where?” Winter asks. “How is this going to work? People will be looking for you.”

“We’re going to Canada. Way up north. And when we get there, I’ll teach you how to be a good girlfriend again. Not like how you are now.”

Canada? With my Winter? Over my dead body.

As I aim my rifle, I strain my ears, listening for the sound of approaching sirens. Nothing.

But I guess it’s no surprise. While it feels like this has been going on for hours, it’s only been a matter of minutes.

“Come on, Winter!” Thomas makes an impatient gesture. “I’m tired of this. We need to leave now!”

Enough.

It’s time.

I shut everything else out. It’s just me, the rifle, and my target.

The fear dissolves; replaced by confidence.

And I fire.

Once. Twice.

Not to kill, though I wouldn’t regret it. But I don’t want to traumatize Winter by killing a man in front of her, so I aim for less lethal but still effective locations. First his right arm, the one that once held the gun, and then the left, so he can’t start flinging around those gas cans again.

Thomas drops to his knees and lets out a horrible shriek of surprise and anger and pain.

I turn and race back downstairs, still holding my rifle, just in case.

At the front door, I blow past Winter—I want to hold her, but dealing with Thomas has to be the priority—and quickly say, “Zip ties. There are some in the kitchen drawer with the scissors. Grab as many as you can and bring them to me.”

When I reach Thomas, the first thing I do is flip him over and pin him to the ground. Then I take the gun from his waistband and toss it safely to the side. He’s moaning and I think he might even be crying as he whimpers, “My arms. My arms. Oh, it hurts. You asshole, it hurts. I’m going to lose my damn arms.”

“Hardly,” I snarl, and tighten my grip on him. “If I’d wanted to shoot your damn arms off, I would have.”

Winter comes running over and hands me a bundle of zip ties. In a shaky voice, she asks, “Is this enough? I can look for more.”

“It’s plenty,” I reassure her as I restrain his wrists and ankles tightly. Thomas whines, “My arms! You can’t pull them like that! Stop it!”

Winter growls—yes, growls—and she kicks him hard in the leg. “Shut up,” she hisses. “You deserve worse than this.”

Finally, the sound of sirens emerges.

Satisfied that Thomas is fully subdued, I stand and pull Winter into my arms. She starts shaking; full body tremors so violent her teeth are chattering. It’s delayed shock, and I hug her to me, crooning, “It’s okay, hun. It’s okay. He can’t do anything to you now.”

Winter just shudders against me, her arms snaked around my waist, her face pressed into my shirt.

The sirens get louder, as do Thomas’s whines and moans.

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