“I said, shut up, bitch!” John swung up his gun, riddled the door with bullets. Light shone through the pattern of holes. She screamed again, in horror and despair, but John was running now, and her voice was jolting in her throat, her torso bouncing and thudding against his back.

They burst out of the back of the barn. She could not see where they were going, just green leaves, the ground behind John’s pounding heels, the fact that John’s belt was loose, his T-shirt riding up, showing acne-spotted rolls of flab hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

The sound of his footsteps changed. A hollow thud, on wooden planks. Haupt hurried along beside them, huffing and puffing.

A bridge. She heard hollow footsteps on wood, saw weathered planks below John’s booted feet. Water murmured below. John swung around, started shooting, a deafening barrage of bullets. Her whole body shook and jiggled with the jackhammer explosions.

Her blood-slicked hand tightened around her splinter. She worked it down in her hand until the sharp part protruded a couple of inches, and the blunt part was clutched in her fist. The point was wickedly sharp. She gathered her nerve for the blow. Everything she had to give: her passion for Duncan, her love for her sisters, for Lucia. Even for Elena. Her reverence for beauty, fineness, love. Her respect for effort and honest sweat. For things that could not be bought. Not for any money.

John turned. The gun rose up. No. Because he had no right to hurt her, or Duncan, or anyone.

He had…no…right!

She stabbed down, driving the splinter deep into the meat and fat that covered his kidney. He squealed. His shots went wild.

Bam, Duncan’s bullet blew John’s gun out of his hand. It flew up, curling and turning in the air. John lunged to catch it one-handed, but it danced off his fingers and down. An eternity later, it splashed into the river.

“Put her down.” It was Duncan’s voice, incredibly cool and even.

John stared back, panting. He laughed. “Sure thing, shitbird.”

He heaved her over the bridge railing.

She flew, fell, down, turning, spinning. Cold green water closed over her head.

Duncan sprinted to the middle of the bridge and pitched himself over the side. The current was strong when he came boiling up for air, the river swollen with the recent rains.

Nell bobbed to the surface, face plastered with hair, gasping for breath. He fought his way over to her, clasped her to him.

When he finally got them over to the shore, he scooped her out into his arms. Her cheek was swollen, her lips split. There was blood crusted in her nostrils. They’d been hitting her. Rage clawed at him, but the fuckers were long gone. No one to catch and punish. Not yet.

Her eyes fluttered open and fastened onto his. Her lips chattered so hard, it took a long time for her to speak.

“Y-y-you c-c-came back for m-me,” she said.

She dropped her face against his chest and shut down. Shock. Her face was so pale. He struggled up the steep creek bank and launched into a heavy, stumbling run through the forest.

Hoping to God that whoever was blowing those police sirens had the presence of mind to bring a goddamn ambulance along.

Chapter

12

Duncan stared at himself in the hospital bathroom mirror. He stank of that foul, bitter antiseptic foam soap in the squeeze bottle over the sink, with which he’d attempted to clean himself up. He supposed it beat out the stench of river mud. But the blend was pretty nasty.

Nancy and Liam had brought him a change of clothes. Liam’s stuff fit well enough, although the shirt was tight around the shoulders. His own clothing lay in a clammy, mud-slimed snarl on the bathroom floor. He shoved the gun back into his jeans, covered it with the shirttail. He was crashing. He felt icy cold inside, and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. His face was a rigid, staring mask.

The doctors and nurses had forced him out of Nell’s room to get her examined, and all the various tubes, needles, and machines hooked up. He’d waited outside the door like a wet, patient hound shivering on the doorstep until they took pity on him and let him in again.

She looked so fragile. So pale. Only her hair had vitality, lying in great curling snarls all over the pillow.

He was so scared, he could hardly breathe. Wondering if he’d earned enough points with this stunt to get another chance with her.

He’d seen the world without her in it. He’d felt that reality to the fullest during that hellacious race against time. Gut-wrenching fear that never eased. The ache of loss. Emptiness, silence. Sick regret.

He couldn’t face it. He’d say any words she wanted to hear. He didn’t give a fuck whether they were true or not, realistic or not. He no longer cared about honesty, dealing straight, any of that meaningless bullshit. She could write out a script for him, if she wanted, and he’d parrot it back to her, get it signed and witnessed and notarized. He wasn’t even ashamed of it. He didn’t have the energy for shame. He knew when he was whipped.

The only reason he’d left her bedside at all was because Liam and Nell’s sisters were there, talking in hushed tones, giving him those worried looks. Vivi had brought him coffee and a sandwich at the lunch stand in the lobby. He hadn’t been able to eat it. His insides felt like they were turned to cold stone.

He kicked his stuff into the corner of the bathroom and walked out, braving the sympathetic glances. Vivi vacated the chair near the head of Nell’s bed. He jerked his chin at it, indicating that she should sit again.

“As fucking if. Sit.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “You’re the one who’s been out there being heroic.”

He slumped into the chair, and took up Nell’s hand again. The one that wasn’t torn up, bandaged into a puffy white ball. Her hand was so cold. But so was his. Clammy with fear. He had no heat to give her.

Vivi put her hand on his shoulder, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head. “Hey. Duncan,” she said softly. “You did good. It’s going to be fine. Try to relax, okay? You’re scaring us.”

He jerked his head and hunched lower over Nell’s hand.

Some time later, her fingers twitched inside his. His heart jumped up into his throat. Her eyes were fluttering open. Dazed.

Nancy and Vivi got up and came over to the other side of the bed.

“Hey, sweetie,” Nancy said, her voice thick with tears.

Nell gave them a tiny smile, as if the corners of her lips were too heavy to lift. Her eyes flicked over to Duncan’s. He stared back, mute. A silence took over the room. An electrical charge that grew. And grew.

“Ah, maybe the three of us can just go take a little coffee break,” Vivi suggested, her voice brisk. “Come on, you guys. Let’s, ah go.”

They trooped out the door, leaving the two of them finally alone.

Nell gazed up, so happy he was there. Both of them, still alive. How marvelous and improbable was that?

Her heart was swelling, so soft and full, it felt like a supernova inside her chest. She was exhausted, limp. And so soft. A fuzzy glow of light lying in the bed. Probably it was whatever they’d drugged her with. Nice stuff.

Duncan lifted her hand and leaned forward, elbows on the bed. Rubbing her knuckles against his cheek. His beard stubble was a delicious cat’s-tongue rasp of pleasurable friction against her skin.

He didn’t look good. His eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was grim.