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He’s right. Jack would do something before all of us.

The world is better off without monsters like Ernest Doyle. We’re not saints. But if we can take one sick motherfucker out of the world, we’re going to do it.

“Please don’t kill me.” Ernest sobs.

Adrenaline floods my system. My hands shake as I raise the gun. Vengeance, anger fill the space where everything else has been. It’s all I want. All I have to do.

But I hesitate.

Warren sees. “I’ll do it.”

I hear my brother’s words. But then I hear Wells’s soft, pained whimper.

River rocks Wells against his chest. “We got you, sweetheart.” His voice breaks.

Decided now, I step forward, red fading the edges of my vision. My raw, pure fury grounds me to this moment in time. All I see is that closet where my brother was kept, the binds on his thin wrists, the bruises on his emaciated body, River wrapping him in a blanket as he stared up at us with unfocused little eyes.

All I feel is guilt. Guilt that Warren and I couldn’t find him, that he was left to live in that shithole for months, thinking we weren’t coming for him. That we had abandoned him.

I want my face to be the last thing Ernest sees.

Anger allows me to lift the gun.

Ernest whimpers. His eyes wild and white and wide in the dark of the night. “Please, please, ple—”

I pull the trigger. The gunshot rings out. A spray of blood arcs over the forest floor. Ernest topples on his side, a neat hole above his eye. A sound comes from his throat, then he stills. For a few seconds, the woods seem to scream a warning, an omen from Tempest, a message that we’ve delivered on what it wanted.

“Good.” Warren stands over Ernest, his face blank and unreadable.

“Fuck. Fuck.” Ezra paces, hands in his hair, crying. I’m hit with a pang of regret that Warren and I let our younger brothers come along. They’re just teenagers. They shouldn’t have seen this.

I move forward and push Ernest’s body to the side with my boot. I roll him to the edge of the mine and give him a hard shove. He disappears over the edge into the Pit. If anyone finds the body out here it’d be a miracle.

I look at my brothers. “It’s done.” Reality sets in as we all stare at each other. A live wire of tension crackles beneath my skin.

“Here.” Warren slides a small, serrated blade from its sheath. “A promise. Brothers don’t turn on brothers.”

Jack’s words.

Heads bowed, we huddle together. Warren lifts his blade, hissing a deep breath as he carves a W into the soft flesh of his palm.

I hold out my hand. Across my palm, Warren cuts the same W. The pain is deep, but it reminds me to be strong. Reminds me of the hell that Wells experienced. Reminds me to focus on the only people that matter. My brothers.

Ezra and River are next. The only one we leave untouched is Wells, still cradled in River’s arms.

Warren comes up and stands next to me, watching as Ezra and River head for the truck. My hands flex and release as I hand him the gun.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“We forget and we move on.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, and when he speaks next, his voice is almost unrecognizable. “We focus on the whiskey and each other.”

My throat closes. I want to do that more than I have ever wanted to do anything else in my whole life. But in less than a week, I’ll be back on the rodeo circuit.

31 Delilah

Cole exits the Beanery at the same time I exit the Blind Pig café. He heads my way, handing over a steaming cup of coffee. “Here, baby. Coffee for the road.” Tucked beneath his arm, like it weighs nothing, is a bag of feed.

“Thanks.” I give him a bright smile. “You’re spoiling me, cowboy.”