Page 42 of Memories of Us

He nodded but didn't make to move.

“What's wrong with you?” he asked with a single arched dark brow. “Something’s off.”

“Something’s off in general. I don't know—”

My name said in a deep, painful moan cut me off. Both our heads whipped in the direction of the sound. In sync, we withdrew our guns and walked toward the other end of the barn with near-silent steps.

Another agony-laced groan tugged at my gnawing gut. I licked my dry lips and glanced to Brenton, whose intense focus was on the closed tack room door.

My sweaty, unsteady hand gripped the metal handle as I again regarded Brenton, hoping for direction. In response, he raised his gun, stepped forward with a confidence I didn’t have at the moment, and nodded.

After a deep, steadying breath in, I jerked the door wide open. Brenton moved through first, gun at the ready.

“Bradley?” he said once inside.

My held breath whooshed from my lungs. I holstered the pistol as I stepped around Brenton and fell to my knees beside my barely recognizable brother.

“Bradley?” I whispered, raising a hand to touch his bloody and bruised face, but pausing inches from his cheek. “I need a clean rag,” I demanded to the looming presence at my back. “No, wait. We need to get him out of here.”

I shoved off the stained concrete floor in search of a cart of some kind, only to have Brenton shoulder around me. In one smooth motion, he squatted beside the still-moaning Bradley, slid his arms beneath his shoulders, and set him up to adjust his grip. Snapping out of my daze, I bent down to help him pull Bradley up to a somewhat standing position, but my brother collapsed in our grasp. I tucked my shoulder under one armpit before he could fall face-first to the ground while Brenton did the same on the other side.

Each short step we dragged him sent Bradley's limp head lolling from side to side.

“Any idea what happened?” Brenton asked almost halfway to the house. By the way he kept leading our trio and his steady, even breaths as he talked, Brenton wasn't as taxed by hauling a grown-ass man as I was.

“Guess,” I started, out of breath, “something to do with that SUV and... stop. I need to stop.”

“No need. You're slowing me down more than helping anyway.” He didn't conceal his taunting smile as he wrapped an arm around Bradley's waist in replacement of the help I was offering. “Knowing how to haul a grown man fully loaded down with gear out of harm's way is military 101. We perfect it in boot camp.”

Right. New Brenton was a soldier.

A sexy soldier.

Summoning the little energy I had left, I jogged to the truck as I asked over my shoulder, “You did remember to get my gear out of the old truck before you sold it, right?”

The incredulous glare he shot back had me running faster. By the time I had the bag filled with various bandages and supplies, Brenton was climbing the front porch, hauling Bradley up stair by stair.

My stomach dropped at the squeak of the screen door opening and the sight of the man standing in the doorway.

Great, just what we needed.

“Rebeka, what the hell did you do?”

“What did she do?” Brenton grunted, stopping a foot in front of Daddy. By his flushed cheeks and sway, he'd already had too much tonight. “You think your daughter is capable of beating your son to shit?”

“Mr. Graves,” Daddy grumbled in greeting. “This is none of your concern. Sorry my daughter dragged you into another family drama. Leave the boy here and we'll take care of it.”

It, not him.

It.

I held my breath, waiting for Brenton's response.

“I'm right where I need to be.” With that, he shoved past Daddy into the house.

“Second room on the right,” I said at his back. A vice grip around my bicep held me just over the threshold.

“What happened?” Daddy seethed inches from my face in a spray of beer and saliva.

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