Page 147 of Stay for Me

“Where the fuck am I?”

Panic clogged Lucas’ throat then, the lump almost as painful as the way his body stretched. “L-let me go, man,” he stammered. “You won. I’ll leave her alone, alright? Just let me go.”

Silence.

Lucas held his breath, his eyes narrowing as the cigarette bud was tossed onto the grown, a shadow covering it, putting it out.

“P-please,” he rasped, his voice cracking.

After a few minutes of silence, a chilling voice floated out from the shadows, and Lucas knew then—-he knew he was in hell.

“You left bruises on my woman.”

The shadow in the corner moved, getting closer and closer. Lucas’ heart was about to burst from his chest, fear coursing through his veins, hotter than boiling water. He was burning in the hell he’d made for himself. There was a single sliver of moonlight in the middle of the room, coming from the crack in the roof, and when Lucas saw the outline of a black cowboy hat, his stomach dropped to the floor, his bladder loosening. The scent of fearful piss surrounded him now as the cowboy’s head slowly tilted to the side.

“P-please,” Lucas blubbered.

The cowboy said nothing, walking over to the wall of tools. He grabbed something off the wall, but Lucas had no idea what it was.

“L-listen, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” the cowboy rumbled, “but you will be soon enough.”

Panic was in control now. “You can’t! You can’t do anything to me! It’s against the law.”

A slow, dark chuckle came then. “Cowboys are above the law here, boy.”

Lucas didn’t have a chance to respond before a sharp pain hit his side, stabbing him. He cried out, his body flailing, his own blood, lukewarm, soaking his shirt. The pain consumed him, and when his voice was raw from his screams, his body bleeding and bruised, his head bent, he whispered, “Mercy.”

The last thing he heard before everything went black were the cold words of a lawless cowboy.

“Mercy doesn’t exist on Hallow Ranch.”

Epilogue

Mags

Summer. Hayden, CO.

Theengineofmynew-to-me truck rumbled lowly, parked on the side of Main Street a few doors down from Harper Law. I’d been sitting here for long time, watching the locals live their lives, my presence not effecting them whatsoever. The sun was high, the sky cloudless and blue, the trees green, the sidewalks dotted with flower pots and farmer's market signs. My chest rose and fell in a steady beat, the old radio blasting static-laced rock music, a melody I hadn’t heard in ages.

I pulled my wrist from the top of the steering wheel and reached over to the glove compartment, popping it open. Inside, I had three things: my pistol, a fake registration courtesy of Red Snake, and a navy blue velvet box. My throat worked as I pulled the delicate box out, perching it in the palm of my hand, heart pounding.

This wasn’t the plan.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

I was set to propose to Diana next month in Astoria. Carrie and I had spent the last few weeks planning out every detail. That plan went to shit this morning when I came home after doing morning chores to tell her goodbye. Something was wrong; I knew it in my gut the second I found her in the kitchen, staring off into space. There were a lot things we were both still healing from, but some days were harder than others, which warranted an extreme amount of patience and love from both of us.

We managed.

We opened up.

We grieved the time we lost.

We moved on.

We grew, not only as individuals, but as partners.

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