Page 11 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

Corbin, meanwhile, lounged out like this was nothing more than a midnight coffee break. One leg kicked out, an arm draped over the back of a plastic chair, body loose, gaze unreadable. Too casual. Too relaxed.

Deacon didn’t trust him. Not his laid-back act. Not his timing. Not the way he looked at Jessa as if he had some right to her. And he sure as hell didn’t trust the way Corbin had shown up tonight out of the dark without warning.

As soon as Jessa saw Deacon, she stopped pacing. She murmured something into the phone—quick, clipped—then ended the call.

Corbin didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

“Sheriff,” Jack said, stepping forward. “You good?”

Deacon nodded, straightening despite the burn in his side. “Good enough.”

But his eyes weren’t on Jack. They were on Jessa and then sliding to Corbin. Because whatever tonight had turned into—a hunt, a trap, a damn near execution—Deacon was certain of one thing.

The danger wasn’t over.

Jessa slipped her phone into her pocket and closed the distance between them fast. Too fast for someone who usually moved like a controlled blade. For a heartbeat, she looked as if she might forget everything between them. The years. The silence. The hurt.

She slowed only a step away from him, her breath catching, her hands half-lifted as if she wanted to touch him, steady him. Then, she seemed to remember exactly who they were now.

Who they weren’t.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides instead. “You’re… up,” she said, voice low and tight.

Deacon forced a grin. “Apparently I’m a super-fast healer.”

The nurse beside him snorted. “I didn’t say that. He’s probably in a lot of pain. Don’t wait for him to admit it.”

Jessa huffed under her breath. “I know.”

Just two words. Soft. Familiar. And they hit Deacon like a punch to the ribs that had nothing to do with the stitches.

Because he remembered.

He remembered the way she used to say it after he’d stubbornly limp through a door post-shootout, pretending nothing was wrong. He remembered her kneeling in front of him, cleaning blood off his knuckles, murmuring that same little I know as if he wasn’t fooling her for a second.

He remembered her in his arms. Her laugh. Her weight against him after long nights. The heat of her breath when she whispered his name.

And he remembered the day it all shattered.

The day he’d put cuffs on Lauren. The devastation in Jessa’s eyes. The words she’d thrown at him like knives. The way she’d walked out of his office, out of his life, without looking back.

The jolt of those memories slammed into him so hard he had to lock his knees to stay upright.

Jessa seemed to feel it too. The old gravity between them. Because she took a small step back, like distance might protect them from the past clawing up between them.

It didn’t.

Nothing would.

Jessa’s quiet I know lingered in the air, stirring up memories he’d tried like hell to bury. Memories that didn’t stay buried long.

A year ago. That damn murder case.

He usually tried hard to keep the memories of it at bay, but now it came roaring back like a brand-new wound tearing open. The wealthy, corrupt rancher, Clayton Hargrove, who’d been murdered. The rancher’s estranged wife had killed him in what had been set up as a botched robbery, and clues scattered like breadcrumbs straight toward Jessa’s family.

Toward Roman. Toward Lauren.

Deacon hadn’t wanted to believe it. Not for a second. But the evidence had been the evidence—video glitches, phone pings, a boot print that matched Roman’s brand of work boots, a strand of hair found in the rancher’s truck that the lab initially said could belong to Lauren.