Page 88 of Recurve Ridge

23

ROBE

Brandon: He moved us on. No police, men in all black holding automatic weapons. A few broken ribs, maybe a bone or two, and a whole lotta bruising.

I rereadBrandon’s message for the third time, my phone creaking in my grip. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and already the day turned to shit.

“I’m out.” I tossed my phone onto the bar as I strode through the kitchen and grabbed my jacket off a hook on the wall. “I need a bike.”

“Whoa, Robe. Slow down.” Alan popped up from beneath the bar, a half-empty box of beers clutched in his arms. He leaned down to read the message before the screen blacked out. “Shit. Hold up. I can be there in a second—” He looked around for a place to unload his burden and ended up dumping the box on the floor.

“No, stay with Mari,” I snapped. “Will, Miller. You’re with me.”

“Sir.”

I didn’t know who said it, nor did I care. Only that they did what I required.

“Maybe you should think about this.” Jon gripped my shoulder. “He expects you to retaliate.”

A deep growl rose in my chest as I faced Jon head-on. “I’m not retaliating. I’m looking after my damn people.”

People I let on my land, promising them security.

A friend I’m responsible for.

Now Brandon’s protesters who relied on him—and by proxy, me—for protection were hurting.

“These aren’t your men, Robe. They knew the risks when they asked to form a picket line on your land.” Though Jon kept his tone light, it belied the reproach in his eyes. “Be smarter. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

“I gave my permission, which makes them my responsibility,” I grated. “Get out of my way.”

Jon held my glare for a breath. His broad form filled the space between me and the exit, a blockade I’d break, though having his permission would be easier. His frown deepened as he folded his arms over his chest in a show of discomfort.

My rage boiled over, and I wondered what it would take to make him move without doing permanent damage to the man who’d had my back since I walked out of New York City with nothing but the clothes I wore and twenty bucks in my pocket.

A sigh gusted from between my clenched teeth, frustration and understanding mingling in the pensive air between us. Jon dipped his shoulder to let me storm out of the cabin, Miller and Will trailing at my back.

As I hit the veranda, where I shoved my feet into my boots, a small commotion drew my attention back to the bar. A glance over my shoulder confirmed that Mari stood rubbing her eyes in the doorway to my bedroom, her sleep-mussed hair looking sexy as fuck.

“What’s happening? Where is he going?” She spoke to Alan, but her gaze found mine and locked on.

My heart tugged at the mix of confusion and betrayal written on her face. I pushed a residual dose of guilt away and focused on the people who needed my attention right now. Broken bones meant a hospital, which entailed leaving our relative security on the ridge to head into the public eye. My personal vendetta had been revisited on innocents. Guilt gnawed at me from the inside.

Without a second glance, I walked away from Mari and the hurt straining her face.

* * *

The bikes were housedin a camouflaged shed at the back of the house. Like our weapons hidden around the property, the bikes were checked and maintained under the cover of night when the rest of the ridgeline’s scant residents slept or went about their own business. Not that a little night vision mightn’t stop Gideon or his team of mercs from getting a glimpse into our own nocturnal activities. Perhaps the turnabout was fair play, after all.

The midnight blue finish glittered beneath the dappled light as I pulled the cover off and ran my hand along the machine’s familiar curves. The leather seat felt like an old friend as I settled over the dirt bike—a road bike in our section of the woods would be worse than useless. Hitting the mountain tracks cleared my head like nothing else.

It didn’t take long to work my way down the mountainside, followed by Will. Miller, as usual, took his own route, crossing that boundary line into Gideon’s land we were supposed to honor.

An aggressive rubber profile churned over dirt and stone beneath me. I didn’t bother to look for Miller, keeping my eyes on the faintest track in front of me. I’d made my way down the rock face enough times over the years, and Will covered our tracks so the path disappeared behind him, even when I knew where to look.

I paused at the edge of a short cliff face outside visual range of the house. Shouts echoed up the rock strata, the picket line closing out in the attack’s aftermath. I cursed myself for not foreseeing the event that was right on brand for Blackthorne. At least I didn’t hear the gunshots I expected, which left me cloaked in relief—for now. I tipped my wheel over the edge of a granite block and stopped, scanning the ground below.

No path appeared where it should have been. For the life of me, I couldn’t see beyond a breakneck drop and a sudden stop with a mortal end written all over it.

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