Page 93 of Recurve Ridge

“Brandon? Fuck,” I snapped, gesturing for Will to lay my neighbor out on the ground. I pressed my fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse, and finally found one, light but fast. “Wake up, old man.” I tapped his cold cheek as I searched his body for wounds with my other hand. Something slicked my fingers with fluid, and when I withdrew, they came up glistening, even in the darkness. “Get him inside.”

Will nodded, gathering Brandon’s still form and rising without effort. Not a damn thing on him creaked.

Shit, he’s right. I’m getting old.

I shoved the cabin door open with my boot, holding it aside for Will to enter. “Futon. Open it up,” I barked to Miller.

The stocky soldier reacted to the order in a flurry of efficient movement like we had never left the desert. His attention remained on the doorway in a show of situational awareness I needed to remember to praise him for later as he pulled the bedding open and flipped back the covers.

I gave him a nod of thanks, which was all I had time for before Will carried his burden inside the walls that gave us the facade of freedom and security. I remained in the doorway, noting the trail of blood that thickened with every step my youngest tenant took.

Brandon groaned, shifting on the futon Miller had pulled out for him, shooting me a quick glance. Miller’s brow furrowed as he ran his fingers over the man’s pale skin, noting the blue tinge around his eyes. He dove down the hall in the next second and returned with a black plastic case. He held a roll of gauze in one hand as he ripped Brandon’s shirt open and then stopped.

Blood oozed in a constant stream from a jagged slit in the man’s abdomen. How the hell he’d made it up the ridge was a miracle. I didn’t need Miller’s subtle headshake to understand that no amount of gauze could fix the problem. He shoved it in anyway, then threw another thick pad over the top and pressed down.

“Maybe if we—” he started.

I shook my head, but I didn’t need to stop him.

“Too late, young man.” Brandon coughed, spraying blood over Miller’s cheek. The stoic ex-soldier didn’t flinch.

I knelt beside Brandon, cupping my hand behind his head. Will stepped back, giving me space, and headed for my bedroom door as Mari emerged, shoving hair back from her face. She was dressed in a long white cotton nightgown that concealed little, given the amount of material involved.

Will wound his arms around her, and he spoke in a muted tone. She’d be safe with him. I switched my attention back to the old friend bleeding out in my living room.

“What happened?” I asked, noting the sickly pallor in his face.

Miller caught my eye and shrugged. The man had a few minutes to live, and despite wanting him to be as comfortable as possible, I also needed information.

Brandon smiled, a weary expression that chilled me to my bones. “You’re not safe, Robe. He won’t stop.”

“Who?” I pushed, gripping his hand tight. “I need a name, Brandon. Then you can rest.”

Miller extracted a syringe filled with a clear liquid, resting his elbow on the bandage-clogged hole in Brandon’s body, the dressings stained with blood all the way through.

“Wait,” I mouthed to him.

He rocked back on his heels, his expression tense.

“You know who.” Brandon coughed. A weaker dribble of pinkish fluid left his mouth. “Blackthorne is an evil man. He took girls—” He hacked, evicting red spray from his throat.

Miller shoved me aside and plunged the syringe into Brandon’s neck as blood pumped from the wound where he put pressure, a pack of clotting powder exploding in his fist. He was too late; the old man’s eyes closed and his body… stopped.

Silence filled the cabin, punctuated only by Mari’s soft gasp. In my periphery, I saw her pull at Will’s hold, but he refused to let her come any closer. I was grateful for his intervention. She’d already experienced enough trauma and didn’t need anyone else’s ghost haunting her damaged mind.

I couldn’t help raising my eyes to meet hers, Brandon’s hacked-out words rippling around us.

“He took girls.”

I stepped back to let Miller slide into my vacated space. He closed the man’s eyes and began to straighten him with the efficiency of a man who had a triple-figure body count to his name as a medic. We’d lost enough men together both at home and overseas, and I knew he would be respectful in my absence.

Her mouth framed my name, but I didn’t hear her or stop at the tears that flooded her eyes. Not when Will stared at me, his face stricken, and then looked back at her.

I strode from the cabin, murder on my mind.

* * *

The open trunkof a long-deceased oak tree, its reaching, twisted shape rare enough to be memorable in its position at the edge of my land, housed my preferred longbow. I gripped the curved wood that melded to my hand, testing the tension on the string. It would do me no good if it broke when I required its strength most.

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