Page 2 of A Rogue Cowboy's Kiss

He paused outside the door, listening, his senses attuned to the night for a breath that was out of place, a leaf that shouldn’t be moving, an alert from the animals who made this mountain their home…

But there was nothing.

So Falcon tried the door.

Locked.

He quickly remedied that, and then eased the door open.

He waited for someone to shoot him or stab him, but no one moved.

After one more check behind him to make sure he wasn’t walking into a trap, he leaned around the corner, shining his penlight, gun ready, scanning the interior.

There was a man on the floor, sprawled face down.

Falcon studied the man for a long moment, but his face was turned away. He didn’t know if it was the man he’d come for. But his heart started racing, and he felt like it was. Like it washim.

But Falcon had to be sure before he pulled the trigger. Had to be sure he wasn’t going to perpetuate the legacy of his father by killing an innocent.

He stepped into the room, fully alert to every sound, scent, and whisper of information on the wind, but he could sense no threat.

His boots silent on the wooden floor, Falcon approached the inert figure. He saw a photo in one of the man’s hands…a photo of Falcon less than a year ago, with Bella Hart, the sister of the men he considered his brothers, none of whom were related by blood. Only by heart.

His gut congealed at the sight of Bella’s face.Fuck.He’d stayed away from her to keep her safe, and this monster had known all along that she was his kryptonite?

Sudden rage burst through him. With a roar of fury, of twenty years of pent-up rage, Falcon leapt across the floor, grabbed the man by his shoulder, and hauled him to the side, rolling him over so he could see his face.

Falcon’s gut contracted when he saw the face, the face of his memories, the face that had taunted him, hurt him, scared him, and haunted his every moment for so long. The face of the man who had stolen everything from Falcon.

It washim.

But his glazed, unfocused eyes and the emptiness of the air around him told Falcon that someone had beat him to it.

He was dead, and Falcon hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.

It wasover.

After twenty years…it was over.

Falcon’s legs gave out and he went down to his knees, suddenly too weak to stand. He bowed his head, fighting to control the emotions running through him, the images flashing through his mind. He fought off the memories, fought off the past, fought off both the relief and disappointment that he hadn’t been the one to end it.

It took only a second, maybe two, before Falcon raised his head. Whoever had killed him might still be around. There was no time to process. He had to get out.

He shoved the man away from him, grabbed the photo of Bella, and then staggered to his feet. He did a quick search of the cabin, tension wrapping tighter and tighter as he found more pictures of himself, of Bella, of the Harts, and their ranch in Oregon. This monster had known so much about him, toying with him for so long. Except for the initial photo of himself and Bella, Falcon took every last bit of evidence of the Harts and himself and shoved it into the wood stove. He lit it, and stood there, watching until the pile that represented his heart was consumed by flames.

He stood, staring into that fire, into the orange flames, fully focused on what he was doing. On making sure the people he loved were safe.

Once the pictures were gone, he closed the wood stove, strode to the door, and walked out, not turning around, not looking back, walking away from the past that had trapped him for so long.

He made it halfway down the mountain before he dropped to his knees and bent over, his knees sinking into the mud, his chest burning with pain, his mind spinning as his brain fought to grasp the truth.

The purpose he’d had since he was ten was gone.

The man he’d had to be since he was ten was no longer needed.

The life he’d endured for so long had no purpose anymore.

Who he was…was over.

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