Page 8 of Last Light

Real trouble.

The other vehicle is on us before I can figure out what to do. It’s an older-model Jeep Wrangler. I stare blankly as it pulls to a stop and a man steps out onto the road with a shotgun.

Travis. With his unkempt hair and his unsmiling face and the sleeves torn off his shirt.

And his shotgun.

I’m ashamed to say I almost whimper in relief.

“What’s goin’ on here?” he demands, positioning the gun against his shoulder and aiming it toward the pickup.

“Thought the pretty lady might need help,” the driver says with a ridiculous grin.

Travis makes a rough sound in his throat and walks over to yank open the driver’s side door. “Get out.”

The occupants stare at him blankly.

He gestures with his gun. “Get out!”

“Don’t hurt them.” I stumble closer to where he’s standing. “They’re just drunk. They weren’t going to hurt me.”

Despite my relief at his unexpected appearance, I’m scared of the hardness in his face and his voice. My instincts are still screaming at me that Travis is a decent man, but I’ve seen decent men do terrible things. A couple of years ago I was helping guard the perimeter of town, and a man I knew and liked shot and killed a ragged wanderer who kept approaching even though the poor man clearly wasn’t right in the head and didn’t have a weapon.

Things I’ve always taken for granted—like normal people acting in normal ways—can’t be relied on anymore.

Travis ignores me. “Get out!”

His voice is commanding enough this time for the occupants of the vehicle to obey him. All four of them fall out of the pickup and huddle in a group on the side of the road.

Travis reaches in, turns off the ignition, and pulls out the keys. Then he throws the keys far into the pasture across the road.

The drunk people stare at him dazedly.

“The keys are over there,” he says like he might talk to naughty children. “Go find them.”

Three of them go running off after the keys, but the driver spits out, “That’s ours. Bastard.” He takes a clumsy swing.

Travis swats him with the butt of the shotgun in a move that’s almost casual.

The man goes down and blubbers on the pavement.

My hands are sweating so much that my pistol is slipping from my grip, so I holster it. I’m hit by a sudden wave of nausea. I jerk and bend over as my stomach heaves. I vomit onto the side of the road. The peaches I ate earlier.

Travis just watches me. When I straighten up, his eyes run up and down my body, maybe checking for damage. “You hurt?”

I shake my head. “They were just really drunk.”

They’re not any sort of threat now. I can see the three still on their feet milling around in the pasture, looking for the keys.

By the time they find them, they’ll probably be sober.

Tossing the keys was a really good idea.

I wish I’d thought of it myself.

Travis gestures with his head toward the Jeep he was driving. I know what he’s saying. He’s telling me to get in. He doesn’t even say the words. Just makes the slight sideways motion of his head.

I hesitate for only a few seconds.

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