AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I nod, praying he’s right.
Undaunted, Ridge kisses my forehead. “Neither are you, Grace. We didn’t know if they’d actually show up at the hotel, so we had several alternate choke points in place. Judging by where they hit your old man, odds are they’re coming here, and we’ll be ready.”
“Here?” My heart climbs into my throat, vibrating like a hummingbird.
“Not ideal, but we’ll manage. They’ll never make it inside. It’s just a waiting game until Grendal shows his hand. Can you be patient a little while longer and follow my lead?” he whispers, his eyes so dark and fierce. “Can you pretend for me one more time?”
I nod, purse my lips, and put on my bravest face.
For him, I mean it, even though I’m still sick to my stomach.
22
No Counting Chickens (Ridge)
An hour later, my phone pings constantly with texts, confirming men are in place at several locations across my ranch.
I see a tree bending outside, a shadow through the window, and tense until I see a burly fist come out and give me a thumbs-up.
Grady.
Thank fuck. He’s ahead of schedule and heading for the roof, ready to give his sniper rifle a VIP spot at this party. I hope like hell we won’t need it.
All this fucking around, waiting for Grendal, feels downright torturous.
I’m utilizing my acting skills and putting on my bravest face for Grace, but I’m concerned, very concerned, about Nelson going AWOL.
Dammit. I bet he panicked.
I should’ve told him more about the backup options if the big bash at the hotel fell through, but part of me feared he’d convince Grace to run now that he’s on his feet and feeling better.
I’m sure it was the FBI rumblings that scared him off. I’d hinted at full exoneration, but in his stubborn way, he swore up and down it would never be possible.
Can’t blame a man for believing he’s being set up after he’s been in the trenches, suffering Grendal’s shit for over a decade.
It’s been almost two hours since they took him so something better happen soon.
Patience has never been my virtue.
I’m stewing when a new text hits my phone, and then a louder chiming sound for a camera notification goes off right behind it. I look down at the screen.
Raven’s here. Got him in sight. Look alive.
I fire back a text to Grady, relieved he’s in position.
Wait for my mark. No fireworks unless he’s getting stupid, I send back. Or anyone makes a move on Grace. Shoot first. No hesitation.
He sends back an elephant emoji.
Christ.
I’m gonna trust that means yes with his gruff locked and loaded attitude. The cutesy crap never was his specialty, and neither was carrying on a conversation by text.
I open the camera app and replay the latest alert, a video showing a bright-red truck beginning its long crawl up my winding driveway, followed closely by a green vehicle behind it.
Goddamn. I didn’t expect them to show up in the same vehicles they used to capture Nelson.
I figured Grendal would only wheel around in the back of a sleek black SUV.
Apparently not.
I turn to Grace, who’s stopped pacing the floor, clutching at a strand of hair hanging over her shoulder. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Whatever happens outside, you stay in here,” I tell her firmly. “The rest is up to us.”
Of course she starts shaking her head.
“I mean it, Grace. Don’t argue.” I look at Jackie desperately. “Keep her inside. Lock the doors if you have to!”
Jackie nods, and fighting the raging desire to shut Grace up with a kiss that pulls the breath from her lungs, I jog to the door.
I don’t need to touch base with Faulk to know he’s on top of his people.
It’ll probably take a few minutes for the furthest agents to close in on the house, the barn. Even on horseback, they’re plodding over rough, uneven ground left scarred by winter.
No doubt whatsoever the recent rains have left the fields washed out with sinkholes of mud that can swallow a horse’s leg like quicksand.
Slamming the door, I head for the barn with my game face on. Those engines are growling closer by the second.
I never thought I’d see the day when my acting skills might save my life, but ready or not, it’s here.
Another thing I never expected: ruining a fifty-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch to pull my balls out of a vise.
Fuck.
I flash back to last night when Tobin helped me put the finishing touches on our big surprise. He had that fancy bottle of Macallan scotch I’d ordered looking like a virgin, never touched, its potent liquid swirling like molten gold behind the glass every time it caught the light.
It’s in my hand now as I pull it from the small crate of expensive bourbons I’d intended to have Tobin load up last if we were still heading into town as planned. Glad I kept it handy.
