Page 61 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

“Stay,” Jessa snapped.

The dog skidded to a stop, whining but holding position.

She turned just in time to meet Noah’s gaze. Everything unspoken passed between them in a split second. Fear. Calculation. Trust.

“Go with Deacon,” Noah said. “I’ve got Corbin.”

Jessa didn’t argue. She broke from cover and ran, heart hammering, weapon up as she headed after Deacon into the smoke and trees.

Noah shifted toward Corbin, weapon trained and voice sharp as he shouted commands. Jessa barely registered it.

She was already running.

Deacon was more than capable. She knew that. He had training, instincts, experience. But he was injured, and that mattered.

Every wrong move could cost him.

“Deacon,” she yelled as she sprinted through the thinning smoke. “It’s me. I’m coming to you.”

Branches snapped under her boots. She heard heavy breathing. A scuffle. The unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground.

Her heart sank.

He shouldn’t be fighting anyone. Not like this. She broke through the last wisps of smoke and froze. And was shocked at what she saw.

Deacon wasn’t facing Wynn.

He was locked in brutal close quarters with a man she didn’t recognize. They were chest to chest, both straining. Deacon had both hands clamped around the man’s shooting arm, forcing the muzzle away, muscles shaking with the effort.

The man snarled, trying to wrench free and get a finger on the trigger.

She raised her weapon, but there was no clean angle. Deacon and the man were too close, locked together, twisting as they struggled for control of the gun.

“Damn it,” she breathed.

Deacon was holding his own, but she could see the strain in his face. The injury slowed him. Pain pulled at every movement. His jaw was set, teeth clenched, breath harsh.

She didn’t hesitate. Jessa rushed in and drove her boot hard into the man’s side. The impact knocked the air from him. He grunted and staggered just enough.

Deacon instantly took the advantage. He wrenched the man’s arm down, shifted his weight, and slammed him back against a tree. The gun dipped. For a split second, it looked like Deacon had him.

But the man twisted fast. Desperate. Wild. The muzzle came up. There was no more time.

Deacon fired.

The shot echoed through the trees, sharp and final.

And the man went still, collapsing to the ground.

Chapter Fifteen

The ranch felt wrong.

Too quiet. Too scraped raw by flashing lights, boot prints, and evidence flags. Deacon was well aware that his home had been turned inside out, every acre treated like a question that needed answering.

Ten hours.

That was how long the CSIs had been out there, combing through dirt, brush, trees, and fencing. Ten hours of measuring, bagging, photographing. Of turning his life into a checklist.