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I’m too mortified to even shudder.
The Ford probably didn’t even have functioning airbags. No updated safety features whatsoever.
Nothing like the new truck Tobin was in when they ran him off the road.
Ridge makes a dash for his phone, rips it off the table, and starts thumb-punching at the screen.
I don’t know why he bothers. It’s too late. There’s no one to help Dad now.
“Here, look at this,” he says, holding his phone in front of my face.
A short video starts up, two pickup trucks, one red and one green, both waiting just off to the side at the end of the driveway as Dad sped by. Of course they pursued.
Ridge clicks on another button.
Bile rises in my throat.
It’s another short clip, Dad being pulled out of our Ford—alive, thank God—and shoved in the back of the red truck. Then another video plays with the green truck ramming the side of the Ford, spinning it across the highway and into the ditch, where it bows up on one side.
I look at him, nostrils flaring, unsure why he thinks these nightmare clips will bring any comfort.
“Those kids who helped Tobin weren’t farm boys. They’re undercover agents Faulk brought in, shaved clean and dressed like townies.” Ridge sits down beside me. “They’re still out there, Grace. They’ll be keeping an eye out for Nelson and those damn trucks.” He puts an arm around me.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “The FBI? I thought you said Faulk was working independently?”
“He also owns his own PI company and still works closely with the Feds.”
My throat burns.
“Awesome. So even if Dad survives, he’ll be arrested on the spot.” I shake my head, thoroughly disgusted. “If Clay doesn’t kill him first.”
“No. Faulk told me they can set him up with a plea deal. No jail time. Full exoneration for cooperating in the case. No ill-gotten assets left to seize in his case, either. They’ve had flashes of the Old Town Boys on their radar for years, but nothing definitive like we’ve dredged up. Grendal, his uncle, and his cousin have been working designer drugs for years, but they could never get anyone to talk. Faulk wouldn’t let us down. Trust me.”
My skin crawls as I shake my head, blinking back tears.
I’m so flipping done with crying.
Tears won’t do anything to end this.
Still, I let Ridge wrap his arms around me, folding me up in the shelter of his body. I bury my face in solid muscle, howling inwardly to get my crap together, to regain the self-control to slog through this.
To help him help me.
Jackie’s right.
Trust in Ridge—isn’t it all that’s left?
And when I’m deep in his arms with his chin tucked against the top of my head so sweetly, so tight…that’s where I find my answer.
The same strength I found in our farmhouse that night, after shooting at Clay. I had to clean up the house, including Mom’s ashes, because Dad was a teary-eyed mess after he saw the carnage.
I was strong for him, for Rosie, for Stern, for Mom’s memory, for me.
And I think I can be stronger now for Ridge.
Fake or not, there’s nothing fabricated about the way he’s stepped into my life and fought to give me a second chance. And even a man with his acting prowess couldn’t fake the passion he gives me around the clock.
It finally happens—a little more hits in every breath—probably because Ridge is so powerful that some of his courage slips into me by osmosis.
I lift my head and breathe.
Hold it.
Release.
“There’s more I don’t know, isn’t there?” I whisper, not even a real question. “Tell me everything.”
His eyes shine down with this kindness as he takes my hand, laying everything out.
He tells me about Bebe ordering drugs for the party, hard evidence the FBI can use to nail their operation.
He gives me the latest on Faulkner’s informants, FBI men who’ve tracked Clay ever since he’d left Milwaukee. And how, right now, those men are coming here on horses borrowed from Drake and Bella Larkin, riding across open country to the ranch, under Clay’s radar so that when he shows, no doubt bringing Dad along as ransom, we won’t be alone.
We won’t be surprised again.
He also mentions Grady, the huge bearded bartender, who’d taken up position across from the hotel with a sniper rifle and the sheriff’s approval. But he’s on his way here now, where he’ll find a new spot to regroup and make sure we’re covered if Clay can’t be captured fast.
“So, wait. All this, Dad leaving, was part of your plan?” I ask, wondering if I’ve missed something.
“No, Nelson bolting was his own doing,” he says, giving me a look that says he hopes there’s some thought behind it. “Seeing Tobin injured was a gut-punch, I bet. I don’t know what he’s thinking, honestly, but whatever it is, he’s not out there alone.”
