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After Brittany’s death, I swore it would only be me and my girls.
I’d never put them in danger.
Not for money or fame or a stranded tiger attached to the most gorgeous, kindhearted woman who blew into my life.
I keep my promises, no matter how much the toll costs in heartache.
17
Claws and Effect (Willow)
Yes, I get what he’s saying.
Yes, I agree.
And a big fat hell yes to how much I hate knowing I brought this down on him.
But at the same time, I can’t squelch the idea that he’s regretting things.
Regretting me.
So maybe I am, too, but only because there’s an open cut in my heart, and I bleed every time I glance at Grady’s face. Behind his chiseled, angry hero man mask, I sense the agony.
The conflict.
The fear.
And the brute knowledge that I’m the person responsible.
Ever since that last call from Faulk, it’s like he’s retreated deeper into himself and fortified his heart. A defense mechanism, just like how he was when I’d first arrived.
He’s protecting himself as well as Sawyer and Avery. I don’t blame him one bit.
My own grief isn’t his problem.
Neither is the crazy notion that I...
...I don’t want to leave.
God, I’ve been such a flaming idiot. Letting myself get so attached was stupid, leaving my heart ripe for the stabbing.
Now, it’s time to pay the price.
“I don’t need Weston to take us to Wyoming, you know,” I say, knowing my truck must be long fixed. “I can drive myself. I’ll leave tomorrow morning with Bruce, bright and early.”
“In the stolen trailer and truck? Without backup?” Before I can respond, he continues. “Not gonna happen, darlin’. If the Feds don’t know about the truck and trailer, your old bosses do. They’ll all be out looking for it, and for you.”
Crud.
I didn’t think of that.
“Does Weston have a trailer that’ll work?” I ask, still hating the idea.
“No.” He pulls into the bar parking lot, which is nearly empty, and parks near the back. “He has a truck, and we’ll wrangle up a new trailer somewhere. Not Drake and Bella’s this time. I can’t be making their names mud if something goes haywire.”
“Whose?” I ask as he opens his door.
“Plenty of folks with trailers around here.” He climbs out and closes his door.
I follow and meet him at the door to the bar, feeling like I’m wading through cement.
“Don’t you think you’ve already involved enough people? It started out with just us, then Faulk and Weston, and Ridge and Dr. Walton, Drake and Hank, Bella and Tory and...Jesus. Why don’t you just post it on Facebook?” I regret the words as soon as they’re out.
He jabs me with a wounded look.
I grab his arm. “Oh, Grady, I’m sorry. I feel so guilty asking for so much from everyone. I just can’t stand to see anyone hurt or in trouble with the FB-freaking-I.”
“Me either. I wish I’d been focused on that this whole time.” He opens the door and nods for me to enter ahead of him.
His words sting because I know the distraction he means is us.
What we’ve been doing every night.
Every kiss that tasted like perfection and shredded my heart.
Now, our love—did I really just think the dreaded l-word again?—is nothing but a ruthless liability.
We sit at the bar in our encroaching misery.
Weston is tending the place tonight and a young dark-haired woman waits on the few tables where a couple customers are seated. Grady talks to him about bar business for a while and orders us platters of chicken tenders with fries and coleslaw before he brings up Weston’s schedule.
There’s a noticeable shift in their voices then. They go quieter, discussing who can cover the bar so Weston can help with another job over the next two days.
“Sure, Uncle Grady.” Weston agrees with a slow, accepting smile before he even asks what the job is.
He’s a young man in his mid-twenties or so with a muted sadness in his face that makes me wonder what put it there. The family resemblance is mostly in the face, the strong jawline, and the smile.
Grady’s nephew has short sandy-blond hair and restless blue eyes that grow wide when his uncle tells him he’s just been drafted to drive me to Wyoming with Bruce.
“Shit, the tiger?” he whispers, tilting his head.
“The one and only,” Grady echoes.
“Man, that’s a big job. I’m game to help out, but I’ve gotta ask...why me?”
“Why not you, West?” Grady fires back, slapping a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’re one hell of a mechanic, and you’ve been through some shit like the rest of my crew. Unlike them, you’re not tied down with a woman and kids—not yet.”
“Lucky me. Winding up tiger meat because I haven’t tied the frigging knot.” Weston shrugs and gives back an aw-shucks grin. “When?”
