Page 34 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

Noah.

Her father. Her father who didn’t even know she existed.

She pressed her hands to the dresser, grounding herself. None of it made sense. None of it connected cleanly. Every piece shoved against the next in all the wrong ways.

She pulled on jeans, a long-sleeve tee and reached for the shoulder holster. Then stopped, staring at her reflection.

It wasn’t just the threats or the grief or the weight of every lie Lauren had ever told her. It was him. Deacon. Under the same roof. Close enough to feel even through walls.

Her body hadn’t let her forget that, not for a second. No matter how she’d tried to shove the heat down, it burned anyway. The almost-kiss. The kiss that did happen. The way he’d looked at her like he still felt it too, like it still mattered.

Focus, she warned herself. Get your head straight. Get control.

The last thing she needed was to tumble back into Deacon’s arms when everything around her was crumbling. That would be a complication of epic proportions and one she absolutely couldn’t handle.

Thankfully, sometime around four in the morning, her mind had beaten down her hormones long enough to remind her of the truth. Deacon complicated everything. Always had. Always would.

She took a breath, ran her fingers through her damp hair, and forced herself back into mission mode. Wynn was out there. Lauren’s killer was out there. Someone wanted Deacon and her dead.

And she needed every ounce of clarity she could get.

Jessa squared her shoulders, opened the bedroom door, ready to face Deacon. Ready to face whatever came next.

The smell of coffee hit her the second she stepped into the hallway. Dark roast, strong, the way Deacon took it. The way she’d learned to take it, too, back when her mornings had sometimes started in this house.

She followed the scent into the kitchen.

Deacon stood by the stove, wearing jeans and a clean black T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. His hair was damp from a shower, but there were shadows under his eyes—exhaustion, pain, stubbornness all woven together.

He lifted a mug toward her without a word.

Jessa accepted it, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Too brief, really. It punched heat through her anyway. Of course it did.

Through the window above the sink, she saw Ranger bounding across the backyard, all floppy ears and enthusiasm. Beyond that, Deacon’s horses stood in the pasture, tails flicking in the morning light. A slice of peace in an otherwise impossible world.

“How are you?” she asked, lifting the mug.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in, quick as a spark, and brushed a kiss against her mouth. Light. Fast. A hit-and-run distraction.

It worked.

Sort of.

Her breath caught before she could clamp it down. Warmth slid through her stomach, through her chest, lower than she wanted to admit. But she figured the ploy was meant to stop her from asking if he was in pain.

He turned back to the stove before she could assemble a proper reprimand. On the back burner, two omelets sat warming, fluffy, loaded, exactly how she liked them. He plated them with one smooth motion, then nodded toward the small kitchen table.

“Sit. Eat,” he said. “We’ve got a hell of a day ahead.”

She sat because, well, she was starving. And because arguing took energy she didn’t have to spare. Deacon slid into the chair across from her, moving carefully, and she noticed the way he stifled a wince.

“You’re hurting,” she said, breaching the subject he’d no doubt hoped to avoid.

“Stitches pulling a little,” he shrugged, stabbing a fork into his omelet. “I’m fine.”

She watched him take a bite, jaw tightening at the stubbornness. He’d take a bullet and walk it off if pride gave him half a chance.

They ate in silence for a minute. Coffee, eggs, the ordinary cadence of a morning that wasn’t ordinary at all. Every second pressed down with what they knew. What they didn’t. And what they were about to face.