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She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Let’s get youmore.”

Then she dives right in and doesn’t let up again until its pitch-black out and she’s certain I’m fully prepared for the battle ahead. She was the same way last time around. Even with a guilty verdict, things would have been so much worse if it hadn’t been for Devyn. And it’s no secret why. Devyn is a survivor of domestic abuse herself, but her mother wasn’t so lucky. And she would defend me to the death for doing what I did, because there isn’t a day that goes by she doesn’t wish her mother had done the exact same thing I did.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RIKER

It’s been almost two weeks since Kirsten was here. By the time she left, I was determined to go after Quinn. I was all packed and ready to go when I realized what I was doing and unpacked again. She has enough on her plate. It doesn’t matter how badly I want to be there for her if she doesn’t want me there. Showing up, fighting her on this...it would only add to the turmoil. And I don’t want to be one more asshole who brings her heartache.

So, even though being stuck here while she’s fighting for her life again is killing me, I’m staying put. Waiting. Counting the seconds as they pass and hoping that I’m getting closer to seeing her again with every tick of the clock.

To keep me from losing my shit altogether, Sid’s keeping me closer than usual, making long-ass to-do lists that I know I’ll never finish, mostly because I keep redoing the same shit day after day. If she has me move that damn wash rack one more fucking time, I’ll probably tell her to shove it, even though I know she’s only doing it to keep me busy and distracted. It’s not working. No matter what she has me do, Quinn is all I can think about. And it’s not letting up now that Harley is staying with me while Kirsten’s in California.

“You have a phone call.” Sid’s standing over me while I’m lying on my back, half under the tractor.

“Here?” I can’t think of single person who would try to reach me at the ranch. Everyone I talk to has my cell number. And that list is short. Half of it is standing next to me.

“Yeah. It’s some lawyer. Said she got this number from Kirsten.”

I jerk up so fast I hit my head. “Shit.”

“You okay?” Sid’s leaning down, searchingfor me.

Holding my forehead, I slide out from under the tractor. “Yeah, I’m fine. Office phone?” I’m already on my feet and headed that way.

“Yeah. The one on my desk,” she calls after me, and I give a backward wave to let her know I heard her.

A second later I’m in the office, rushing for her desk. I grab the phone lying on a pile of shot records for one of the horses. “Hello?”

“Is this Riker Shepherdson?” It’s a woman.

“Yeah. Is Quinn alright?” I don’t even care that I sound desperate.

“Alright might be a stretch,” she says dryly. “My name is Devyn Hartley. I’m representing Quinn in the wrongful death suit brought against her by Jackson Murphy’s family, but I’m sure you’re already putting that together for yourself.”

I close my eyes to focus my rapid thoughts. “Thank you.”

“For what?” She sounds surprised.

“For taking care of her.” It seems like such a stupid, empty thing to say, but I mean every word.

“I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job right now. Quinn’s not making it easy.” Of course not.

“What can I do to help? Please. You can’t give up on her.” I’m still rubbing my forehead where I hit it, but it’s no longer from the pain. Just the anxiety of not knowing what’s happening out in California.

“Trust me, I’m not giving up on her. Ever. But I do need your help.”

I sit down, the sensation of relief moving in just from knowing there’s finally something productive I can do. “Anything.”

“Kirsten tells me you and Quinn were involved, and since that would make you the only other man she’s ever had a relationship with, I need you to come and be a character witness.”

I yank a pen from the old coffee mug Sid uses as a pencil holder and search for a piece of paper to take notes. “I’ll be there. Just tell me when.”

“Hold your horses, buddy. First, we need to discuss the nature of your relationship. I can’t take you into court unless I’m sure you can actually help the case.” I hear papers being shuffled on her end as well. She probably has a list of questions all ready to go. I only have one.

“Why do you think my testimony will help at all?”

“Because the last time Quinn was on trial, Jackson’s family did a bang-up job of painting her as the aggressive one. Everyone, including her best friend, his sister, got up on the stand and told the jury about Quinn’s scary temper. How she had mood swings that would turn violent and that it was actually Jackson who was constantly having to defend himself against her.” She sounds pissed, like she’s spitting the words instead of speaking them.

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