Page 150 of Wyatt

His brother met his eyes but had nothing for him.

An EMT ran over and knelt next to Tate.

“She has a penetrating gut wound,” Tate said.

The man unzipped his bag. “Keep pressure on it.” He pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it to her chest.

Coco kept her gaze on Wyatt. “Is Mikka—”

“He’s with my mom.”

She nodded and folded her fingers between his. “He has leukemia.”

“I know, baby. We’ll get through this, I promise. I’m so sorry I ran away—I was just—”

“Freaking out. I get it. I’ve done that a few times myself.”

He was crying now, and he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. “No more running, for either of us.”

She touched his face. “I’m ready to go home, Wyatt.”

“Her blood pressure is dropping,” the EMT said, ripping off the cuff. “We need to get her into the ER.”

Wyatt made to pick her up, but another EMT had arrived with a board. He helped move her onto it, strapping her in.

Then Wyatt took one corner as they ran with her to the ambulance.

“Wyatt?”

“I’m here, baby.”

He climbed into the back, glaring at the EMT, just in case he thought he might stop him. Not a chance. Wyatt took her hand. “I’m right here. And I’m not leaving. I promise.”

Because, hello, he’d gone toRussiato find the woman he loved.

And he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight.

Ever again.

Because he was a Marshall.

And Marshalls kept their promises.

She was back on the ranch. Coco knew it without even opening her eyes, hearing Knox’s deep laughter filter up the stairs from the great room. And Tate’s voice, too, as he was probably throwing something at him from across the room.

She sank into the smells of the ranch, cotton sheets and the deep scent of worked leather, the tangy oil from the timber beams.

Safe.

“Boys, don’t be so loud, you’ll wake her.” Could be Gerri, probably with her apron on, making breakfast.

“She’s slept too long anyway.” RJ, her voice soft, almost anxious.

Sunlight bathed her eyes. She’d overslept, as usual, but if she opened them, the sunshine would stripe her bed through the slats in the shades.

“She’s going to be fine.”

Wyatt. Softer still, closer, and something about the concern in his voice tugged at her.

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