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Nostrils flaring, Arrow rears back, fighting my hold on his bridle, readying to run.
Ruby jerks, slips, sags lower toward the hard-packed grass.
Ford swears.
“No!” My left hand clamps around her free wrist and I hold her tighter.
The soft hiss of leather.
Suddenly, Wyatt’s bowie knife is in his hands. Eyes wild with panic, he saws frantically through the leather strap of the rein. The steel blade shimmers in the sunlight.
“Cut her loose!” I holler at Wyatt, my blood pumping. “Now!”
“I’m trying, man!”
Wyatt continues to saw at the strap. He swears viciously as it refuses to break, and then, after a few terrifying seconds, it snaps.
Ruby’s free.
I pull her limp body into my arms.
And then I run like hell for the house.
Iblink, my vision blurring as I try to orient myself. I’m in bed. The room is dim and cool. A burning sensation sears my left wrist. Thunder rumbles, the sky outside dark and stormy. Rolling my head across the pillow, I see Charlie’s dusty Stetson on a chair pulled close to my bed. A glass of whiskey is on the nightstand.
When I push myself up on my elbows, a figure comes out of the shadows, towering over me.
“Charlie,” I whisper.
The bed shifts as he sits beside me. “Sunflower.” His voice—deep, rough—washes over me like a familiar song. He pushes a strand of hair behind my hair and cups my face with a big, calloused palm. I lean into his beautiful touch.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asks.
“I fainted on Arrow,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, his expression dark, pained. “I never should have let you on that fucking horse.”
Blinking back tears, I focus on Charlie’s haggard face. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
The last thing I want him to do is blame himself.
Tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says in a stern voice, pushing my chin up so I look into those fierce blue eyes of his. “Baby, if there’s something I should know, go ahead and tell me now. Tell me before I lose my damn mind.” His voice tears, splits. “Don’t make me guess.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”
My throat burns and I keep my gaze on his face, gathering courage.
I touch my chest, tracking my heartbeat.
We’re almost there.
No more running.
I don’t want to be cynical or angry or hate my heart.
Or myself.
