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“Elias Finchley.” I extend a hand to the deputy I’ve never met. “I called in the trespassing and requested an ambulance. I’m also the attorney for Colt’s father and Miss Ranger.”
“Why does Miss Ranger have an attorney?” Number two asks haughtily.
“For several reasons. Wills and probate, business ventures, licensure, family issues, but to disclose our particular arrangement would violate attorney-client privilege.”
Brighton is talking to Colt whose eyes are finally heavy after crying himself out. And, it’s in that moment that an ambulance comes flying up, sirens whirring. She turns pleading eyes on me. “Please ask them to turn those off. And the lights. Colt doesn’t need any more, and the horses are agitated. It’s not good for Marron’s milk, and their ears aren’t used to it.”
I leave her with the three deputies and the body and do as she asks, returning with two paramedics.
They move to the figure, clad in tactical gear. The first to his knees beside him checks for a pulse before they yank his hood off as they lift him onto the stretcher. The blood from the wound at his neck smears up his pale face. They speak in medical code over the nondescript man as they rush back to the ambulance.
Sirens whirl again. If I never hear those again, I’ll be good. Luna’s low howl from deep in the barn reminds us this shitty day will leave a mark.
The deputies continue their questioning and eventually retrieve the assailant’s pistol in a clear bag.
Without warning, the color drains from Brighton’s face, and she sinks to her knees. She’s texting wildly with one hand, spending more time with the backspace key than typical, but cradling Colt, rocking him… not for his comfort but her own.
She mutters, “No. No. No,” on repeat and rocks Colt, her knuckles white, her eyes wide.
When I hear more ambulance sirens—not those leaving, but those arriving—I understand. We’ve lost someone.
When my phone rings what feels like forever later, my worst fears are confirmed.
“Eli, Pop was hit. He’ll be in the ambulance that’s still on the ranch. Have Bright close the gates behind him.”
“What’s the status of Kimp?”
Brighton’s face whirls to mine. I hold her eyes as I listen.
He gives me the basics. Nothing he says comforts me. We talk further, but my mind can only tunnel to the man who’s been a father to me, who’s brought me into the fold, made me a Ranger, even—or especially—where his daughter is concerned.
His next words shake me back to reality. “As my attorney, I may or may not have taken out two people today. I’ll only cop to one and that’s because the body is preventing Pop’s front door from latching shut.”
My mind spins as my face turns stoic. The staying-out-of-the-public-eye plan hasn’t just gone pear shaped in the last couple of hours. It’s fucking crashed and burned. The fallout will be massive and the future of the ranch is in far more jeopardy than it was mere hours ago.
More than Brax could know.
More than I can fight on my own.
I’m no heartless bastard as I gaze down at the woman who is my future. It’s not about the place or the land it sits on. It’s her name, her heritage, her future… our future. Our children’s legacy.
She rocks on her knees, as silent cries wrack her body. I see the pain of the last six months, maybe more.
Her strength.
Her fortitude.
Her agony.
Her fear.
Her grief.
But I, more than anyone on this planet, know her joy. Her resilience.
And I know Kimpton’s fighting spirit, the one he passed to his daughter, won’t let us down now.
“Brighton?”
