Page 71 of For Cowgirls and Kings
“Then I can’t wait to love the new you, too,” Stetson states, her voice resolute. My throat bobs, thick with emotion at the sincerity in her words.
The door opens once more, Gus sticking his head in. His curls are especially unruly this morning, his eyes sharp but tired looking, the bags under them saying more than I know he’ll ever say out loud. It’s a knife to the heart.
I clear my throat. “You can come in too if you want.”
He eyes me, and then shakes his head. With him, I know it’s not personal. I remember all those months ago, when he was here with Stetson, she mentioned he had a weird thing about hospitals. And even though I don’t know the details, I’ve a feeling, what he’s doing now is even more than he thought he was capable of.
“I, uh, the police are headed this way. I heard a nurse talkingabout it.” His eyes flick to Mateo’s before finding Stetson’s. They’re like magnets—always finding each other.
“Thank you, Gus,” Mateo mumbles.
I turn to look at Mateo, confused by the nervousness lacing his words. Gus only huffs, the noise sounding awfully full of bitterness, before he straightens, letting the door click closed behind him. I look at Stetson next, and then Faith, eyebrows raised.
Stetson squeezes my hand once more, before letting go. “You’ll have to talk to Mateo about that.” And then she retreats toward the door, Faith following behind. They leave, more and more questions swirling around in my head, fighting for a spot on my tongue.
“What—”
“I’ll explain that later. Right now—” He pauses, stepping into my vision once more. “We found two of the men who attacked you.”
My heart rate instantly skyrockets, the machine beside me blaring with each accelerated beat. They were after me then, I barely escaped.I was being hunted.
“Dale, breathe for me, it’s okay.” Mateo leans forward, brushing a piece of hair from my face. “You’re safe. My guy, he got jumped by two of them, but was able to get them. He—” He licks his lower lip, cringing. “He killed them, Dale. You’re safe. They can’t hurt you anymore. The police are here to take your statement, even though I told them to fucking wait.” He bites out the last part, bitterness evident.Not bitterness, protectiveness?
My lip quivers, but I nod. Part of me knows I should be appalled that they’re dead. But the bigger part of me, the dark part I never give the time of day, doesn’t even cower at the thought. In fact, it writhes within me, full of disdain that I wasn’t the one to pull the trigger. As much as I’ve alwayswondered if I could do what Stetson did with Gibson, exacting her own vengeance in the name of self-defense, I know now I could. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to before, but that part of me that had reservations is broken now.
Like a dam holding back the black inky waters of my own anger and demons, Marco and his brothers shattered it, and all I feel now is the current dragging me under.
My eyes snap up to his. “Wait, you said two. There were three.”
His head and shoulders droop, before he nods. “I know, you said that right before you collapsed. But my guy stayed out there all night, and he never found anyone. Never even saw tracks for a third person. He found the house you were at”—he blows out a puff of air—“it was completely abandoned. Everything was cleaned out, gone.” I shiver, the memory of the basement one that’ll stay branded on my mind forever.
My eyes search his, and I open my mouth to ask him about the two that were killed—did Rafael get away? Or one of the others?
“What is it?” His brows push together.
“What, what did the two look like?”
His head quirks. “I don’t know. I can call my guy and ask.”
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. Rafael might not have been as bad as his brothers, but he still hurt me. He still kidnapped me, and abused me.
“I’ll never be safe,” I whisper, my mouth instantly feeling dry.
“Yes, you will. I’ll make sure of it. Until we can find the third guy, or can prove that he’s gone, you’re going to come live at my house.” There’s no room for argument in his tone, but when has that ever stopped me?
“I have a job,” I say, even though the thought of returning to teaching sounds like my own personal hell.
“And it’ll be there in the fall, or whenever you’re ready to go back. But you have to heal; you have to get better first.”
I bite down on my tongue, that annoyingly familiar rush of anger surfacing once more at the word “better”.
What if I’m never better?
TWENTY-SEVEN
MATEO
February 20th, 2025
