Page 54 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

I broke through the tree-lined lane, got to the ranch house, parked close to the porch, and shut the truck off. Turning to her, I asked, “Are you feeling better?”

“Oh yeah,” she lifted the cup of lemonade. “This did the trick. I’m just tired.”

“Go inside then,” I said. “You’re room is waiting for you. I’ll be up in a moment. I hope Marie has some leftovers somewhere.”

She left the truck, and before I followed her, I sagged into the seat and closed my eyes. Goddamn, I was the unluckiest bastard alive, wasn’t I?

Love, attention, affection—I probably was fated to have none of it. This was a kick in the teeth, wasn’t it? I’d finally found someone to dust off the dirt and cobwebs from my heart and open the rusty hinge—only for the lid to get slammed down again.

A chirp.

Looking down, I found that Zara had left her phone in the cupholder and a text had come in.

Xtra large pepperoni pizza was destroyed accidentally. We will offer a $20 coupon for next purchase, simply reply, yes to this text.

I frowned. “Pizza? What the hell is she doing with the number of a pizza place out here?”

The text shut off before I could spot the sender, but then I shrugged. It was probably a fluke on the pizza place’s part. I got strange texts all the time.

Taking the phone with me as I left the truck, I headed inside and made a note to drop the phone off to her before I went to my room. I stopped on the top step, braced an arm on the post, and looked out.

Zara did not live here; she was bound to go, and I knew there was no way I could cut ties with this place, this land, my blood another time. This—whatever it was—between me and Zara was already doomed to die.

Something shifted inside me as I leaned on the post, and I’d never felt more alone and insignificant in my life.

Chapter Eighteen

Zara

Ifelt sick.

Sitting in my room in Warrick’s home, I stared down at the half-finished plate of delicious food Marie had slapped together for me—but it tasted like dirt in my mouth.

I hated lying to Warrick.

I hated lying to these good people.

I hated lying to myself.

But even worse, I hated knowing that I had caused Elise’s death.

…Elise Munroe was found dead in her house.

…shot execution style.

…Five Families of the New York Italian mob.

She had warned me that this would not end well, and when she decided to nix the story, what had I done? I’d gone to the Feds myself. I’d given them everything I had, thinking I was doing my duty to humanity—only to know that I had jumped from the frying pan into the fucking furnace.

The Feds had gone crazy, shutting the clinic down, getting subpoenas for the managers—managers who had suddenly vanished—and alerting the government about the scam that had run under their noses for seven years.

Who else was going to die?

I shoved the plate to the nearby table, drew my legs up to my chin, and gripped my hair, feeling a scream bubble up inside my throat.

Her blood was on my hands.

I’d done this.

---