But she didn’t.
He put both hands on her shoulders. “I understand why you’d start seeing patterns, but I’d never hurt you. I care about you. It’s why I?—”
She pulled back. “I. Am. Not. Interested. In. You. I don’t know how many more ways I can state that.
He didn’t let go. “Now, Greta, I know you’re not serious…”
“How’s this for serious?” She got her hands up between his forearms and shoved out and down, breaking his grip. She stepped back, rotated, and put every pound she had into the right cross.
Her knuckles connected with the side of his face.
His head snapped. He staggered back into the bear spray display, canisters clattering off their hooks and hitting the floor like a dropped card game.
Her hand screamed. She’d hit his cheekbone instead of jaw.
Atlas barked from her Jeep. It was his deep, pissed-off bark. She wanted to go soothe him, but she had to make sure her point landed first.
“I’m done being polite about this,” she said, hands on her hips. “The next time you come near my house, my shop, my trailer, or my dog, I’m not calling Hank. I’m calling the state police.” She kept her voice even and her eyes on his face. “I have a folder. Every voicemail, every note, every slashed tire, every incident with dates and photos. I will put it in front of people who aren’t your brothers, and I will ruin you.”
Daniel touched his jaw.
She’d expected the charm to reassemble. It didn’t. A flatness came over his face, and she suddenly understood with cold clarity that she had just handed him exactly what he’d been escalating toward for months.
She’d hit him.
He had a reason now.
Daniel came at her fast, and his hand closed around the front of her throat.
He slammed her back into the wall between the elk mount and the door, and her skull cracked against the pine paneling, and the world went bright and sharp for two full seconds and then swam.
She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at his hands, and could hear Atlas outside, frantic now, and the bell over the door was jangling— the wind, or the latch not caught, or?—
And then his weight was gone.
twenty
Bear didn’t remember going through the door.
He remembered seeing Greta tear out of her driveway like her ass was on fire. Remembered knowing deep in his gut that something was wrong and telling Logan to stay with King. He remembered following her, pulling off to the shoulder of the road when he saw where she was headed. He remembered seeing Atlas hit the Jeep window hard enough to rock it on the chassis…
And then he saw nothing but red.
Now his left hand had a fistful of Daniel Goodwin’s collar, and his right had the back of his waistband, and the man came off Greta with a strangled noise.
Bear threw him like he was nothing more than a haybale.
Daniel hit the display at the back wall—racks and hangers and a whole season’s worth of hunting jackets—and went down with it. The crash was enormous in the small shop. Canisters bounced. A rack folded. Half a dozen jackets settled over him in a heavy pile, and Bear turned his back on the sound.
Greta was against the wall between the elk mount and the door. On her feet. Hand at her throat. His flannel—the one she’d walked out of his house in three hours ago—was open at thecollar, an angry red ring marring her skin where that fucker had put his hands.
He saw red again and spun toward the sound coming out of the hunting-jacket pile. Daniel shoved himself out, coughing like a kicked dog.
“Bear,” Greta said softly. “Don’t.”
Daniel got his feet under him. One hand on a shelf, bruised and awkward, the other holding his side where Bear knew he’d left a mark. His nostrils flared. “You fucking piece of shit.”
“You want more,” Bear said, “stand up.”
