Page 101 of The Cowboy and the Stray

We waited.

Reid loaded his rifle, slow and careful, then slid an extra mag across the table to me. Tess saw it, caught his eye. Reid just nodded at her.

“He won’t fight fair,” he said. “You don’t get to either.”

She tucked the mag into her pocket, then took my hand under the table. Her palm was hot and slick with sweat, but steady.

We were ready.

46. TESS

It started with the headlights. There was nothing for hours, just the dark and the drone of bugs and the way my skin stuck to the inside of my shirt. Even Ash stopped making jokes by midnight.

I waited at the table with my gun in both hands and the safety off, counting my pulse by how the sweat pooled under my armpits.

The first pair of lights hit the tree line just before one. No engine sound, just that floating white, then the low crunch of gravel. I set my elbows on the table so they wouldn’t shake. Calder was on the floor behind the ratty sofa, but I didn’t need to look to know he was ready.

The truck stopped ten yards from the porch. Nobody got out. I watched the windows, tried to pick out shapes behind the glass. Then a second truck rolled up, this one idling louder, paint the color of dried blood. I recognized the front grille from Las Vegas. It was Lance’s. I would’ve known it anywhere.

The headlights cut out. There was a five-count of silence. Then the driver’s door opened, and Lance stepped into the moonlight, alone. He didn’t have a gun in his hands. He was wearing a black tee, and jeans that cost more than my whole wardrobe back in Vegas. He looked up at the house, dead center, then spat into the grass.

The other truck door opened. Two men got out, one heavy, one thin. Both had rifles and looked like they knew how to use them.

Lance signaled and the two men started fanning out. I tracked the skinny one, watched him walk to the porch and look for tripwires. He found the first, laughed, and stepped right over. The fat one was slower.

Lance waited until they were in position, then started walking up the drive, hands empty, face calm. He came up the porch steps and knocked on the door. I almost laughed, because it was so damn polite.

“Hey, Tessa,” he called, “I know you’re in there.”

He knocked again, harder. “You want to talk, or you want me to burn this place down? Your choice.”

I kept my breathing slow, focused on the trigger. Through the window I could see his face, all pale and pretty in the moonlight. He looked smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I was bigger now.

“Last chance,” Lance said.

I was so focused on him that I missed the heavy guy’s move. He lifted the shotgun and blasted the front window, just above my head. The world went white, then black. Glass tore past my cheek. The table jumped and kicked me in the knee. Calder yelled my name, and I hit the floor just in time for the second shot.

All hell broke loose. The wolves came from both sides, a blur of gold and black fur. Reid and Gray hit the porch from opposite ends, fangs out. The skinny guy screamed and fired, but he was slow. Gray was on him before he could reload, knocking him back into the railing.

The shotgun went off again, but Buck, who must have been hiding under the porch, the psycho, took the man’s leg out from behind and pulled him down. There was a wet, ugly crunch. I didn’t look.

Lance didn’t move. He stood in the center of it, like he’d expected all of this, and watched the wolves rip through his men. He didn’t flinch when the fat one started screaming. He didn’t look away when Gray tore a chunk out of skinny’s shoulder. He just smoked his cigarette, like he was watching a TV show, not a bloodbath.

Ash shot from the side window, clipping Lance’s arm. Lance barely flinched as he dropped the cigarette and went for his gun, but Calder was through the door before he got it out. I watched it in slow motion. The way Calder shifted mid-run, the sound of his body folding and splitting, the way the man and the wolf were both there for a second, then neither. Lance fired once, missed by a mile, and then Calder was on him.

The fight lasted less than a minute. Kind of anti-climactic really. Calder hit him so hard they went through the porch railing and onto the grass. Lance landed on his back, gun lost, wind knocked out. Calder circled him, teeth bared, hackles up. He didn’t bite. He just waited.

Lance spat blood, looked up at me standing in the ruins of the window.

I didn’t say anything. I just aimed the Ruger at his knee and fired. The pop was smaller than I expected, but the sound of Lance screaming filled up the whole world.

Ash came out and finished off the other two, just to be safe. Buck stood over the fat one, licking blood from his paws. Reid dragged the skinny one into the yard and let him bleed out slow.

When it was over, Calder shifted back and limped to the porch.

I stepped over the busted glass and knelt in front of Lance, who lay on the grass, sobbing. “Please,” he said. “I just wanted you to come home.”

I stared at him, at the blood pooling under his leg, at the way his hands curled into fists even when he was scared shitless. I tried to remember the good times, but all I could see was the way he’d chased me down, bullied me. Controlled me.