He blinked grit and film from his blurred gaze as he glanced up the thick rope meandering over a distant tree branch and snaking down the gnarled bark to a square knot at the trunk.

Shit.

He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life, but what had he done to land here?

Panic rising, he scanned the area, illuminated by the full moon, to find dense shrubs and trees and a patch of dirt too rough to be considered a road. He didn’t recognize his surroundings, but a lonely isolated feeling banded around his chest. Wherever he was, it was far from another human. Texas had hundreds of thousands of bleak acres where a man could die and never be found. A coyote howled in the distance.

Dread kicked and scratched his insides. Shit. Shit. Shit. He struggled to free his hands, but when they refused to budge, he couldn’t silence his fears.

“Help!” He shouted his plea over and over until his throat burned inside and out. No one came.

Breathless, he craned his neck trying to better identify his surroundings, but as he leaned forward his foothold slipped and he nearly skidded off the tailgate’s edge. Every muscle in his body tensed as he scrambled and threw his weight back until he was on firm footing. He was hyperventilating now, and minutes passed before he calmed enough to think.

This time his gaze roamed wildly and landed on a picture nailed to the hanging tree. It was an old picture, crumpled, tattered, and faded. Recognition flickered instantly. He’d carried the picture in his wallet for a dozen years, and he’d cherished it. More nights than he could count he’d stared at that picture asking for strength when life shit-kicked him in the gut.

Tears filled his eyes.

The aging image captured a grinning teenage Rory, tall, straight, and broad-shouldered. His thick sun-kissed hair skimmed piercing blue eyes. Tanned skin accentuated a crooked melting grin. His arm wrapped around the shoulders of a petite, young blond girl. She was pretty, not overly stunning like Rory, but her smile could be electric.

At first glance Rory’s embrace around the girl appeared casual and playful. Two young teenagers in love. However, closer inspection exposed a wrinkle of tension creasing Rory’s forehead and the pointed edge of desperation behind his gaze. The young Rory held the girl a little too close and a little too anxiously.

On that long-ago day, he’d been so worried about himself and his immense burdens. He’d never bothered to look past the girl’s forced smiles. Not once had he asked about her feelings. Not once. If he had really noticed her, he’d have seen she hadn’t been happy. Yes, she smiled, but her full lips often thinned into a strained line, and her blue eyes reflected the weight of her own demons. She clutched his shirt as if knowing one drowning swimmer couldn’t save another.

If he’d been a little less selfish, he would have seen her sadness. Instead of whispering empty compliments in her ear or kissing her when she needed to talk, he could have soothed her wounds. He could have done so much for her. But he didn’t.

Twin weights of regret and failure settled on his shoulders as he begged for her help one last time. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. Save me. Just one more time, please. Don’t let me die. Save me.”

Laughter crept out of the darkness and rumbled behind him. “How many times is Elizabeth supposed to save you, Rory?” The deep, clear voice made him bristle. “Don’t you think Elizabeth deserves a break from your incessant whining?”

Shocked by the voice, Rory twisted his bound hands against the tight rope. “Who are you?”

Silence.

“Why are you doing this?”

Laughter.

In his peripheral vision, a strike and a flash of flame cut the shadows as the stranger lifted a match to a cigarette’s tip.

Rory craned his neck, trying to see the stranger’s face but the ropes cut and burned until he stilled. The smoke’s acrid scent wandered out from the shadows. “Who are you?”

As if he hadn’t spoken, the voice said, “How many days of sobriety did you wipe out last night? Two hundred and five or six?”

Two hundred and six days of sobriety had bolstered his confidence and plumped up his pride. He believed he’d never go back. And yet he had tossed away those months so easily. He stared at the sparse land as barren as his promises to get clean and sober. Shit. Why had he been so reckless?

The demons, which had stalked him for many, many years, murmured familiar words. Loser. Stupid. Failure.

Shit. He thought he’d licked the drinking. Pooling tears spilled down his cheeks.

Loser. Stupid. Failure.

The words beckoned him to step off the tailgate and let the rope end his suffering. Who would notice? Who would care? Likely no one.

And still he clung to life. “I don’t want to die. Whatever I’ve done to you, I’ll fix it. I’ll make it right.”

“How are you going to fix it?”

“I don’t know.”

The stranger chuckled. “Don’t you see? The true fix is death.”

Rory swallowed. His throat burned. “It’s not too late. It’s not. I can make amends and fix what I’ve done. I’ve a brother who has money. He’ll make it right. Just tell me what you need.”

The stranger moved out of the shadows toward the tree, giving Rory a glimpse of a red ball cap and a heavy blue jacket obscuring a lean frame. His tormentor tossed his cigarette on the ground and summer grass dried from drought crackled under his feet as he ground out the embers.

Rory cut his vision to the left toward his tormentor who remained just out of sight. “Come on, man.” Pure desperation emphasized the words. “I can make it right.”

“You can kid yourself, but you can’t fool us, Rory. You’ll never get it right. It’s not in your DNA.”

His slight body trembled and he pissed on himself. “What the fuck do you want?”

“We don’t want to hurt you, Rory. We want to end your suffering.”

“I’m not suffering!” He managed the strained smile of prey facing predator. “I’m living my life as best I can.”

“It’s a sad miserable life, Rory.”

His wrists strained against the unbreakable bindings. “But it’s mine, and I’ve a right to live it. I’ll get back on the wagon. Start over.”

“I know you’re scared.” The stranger’s voice gentled. “I know you don’t have the courage to see this through. Look at that picture, Rory. Even then when your chances were at their best, you clung to young Elizabeth who could barely take care of herself.”

“I don’t want to die!”

“Do you really think Elizabeth would think your life is worth saving, Rory?”

“Elizabeth was kind and gentle. She’d want me to live.”

“Really? You hurt her badly. Disappointed her when she needed you most. And then you proceeded to screw up all the good works your family did for you. You’ve been in one crap job after another for the last decade, and you managed to piss away two hundred and six days of sobriety in one night. You talk of your brother, but in recent years he’s refused all your calls.”

Rory had burned the last bridge with his brother last year when he’d missed their mother’s funeral. “I’ve never claimed to be a straight arrow.”

“It’s as if you feel you don’t deserve any bit of happiness.”

He’d never wanted to be a suit like his brother or be jailed by the family business. “I like happiness just fine. I have fun all the time.”

“Where do you think your trouble began, Rory? When did your life go off the rails?” The stranger’s voice was soft but clear. And a little familiar now.

Rory rummaged through his memory trying to isolate the voice. When had they crossed paths? He’d been in that bar in East Austin last night. He’d had a lead on a job and had not wanted to go inside but the promise of work had been too tempting. Who?

“Just because I’m not a choirboy doesn’t mean I’m bad.”

A click of a lighter and then more smoke from a fresh cigarette. “I think you were done the day you were born, Rory. I think you could never hold a candle to your brother. He’s the one your parents loved. He’s the one who got all the attention and support.”