Page 210 of Ride the Sky

In awe, horror, I watch as moist, red intestines spill from his gutted torso. Mouth gaping, he stares at me and then looks down at himself.

Again, Fallon.

I step forward, driving the end of the cane deeper into Tripp’s stomach. More squelching noises. Blood runs down the cane onto my hands, my arms. Tripp slumps to the ground, his mouth wide in shock.

I hold the cane there, impaled in Tripp’s stomach, until my chest aches, until my hand’s numb, until the light in Tripp’s eyes dies out.

“Put it down, Fallon.” Wyatt’s deep, urgent voice drills into my ear. “Baby, put it down.”

Blinking, I let go of the cane and jump back.

Breathing hard, Wyatt kneels beside Tripp’s body. Jaw clenching and unclenching, he slips off his wedding band and puts it back on his own finger. His face is dark. He could burn up the Earth with the fire in his eyes.

“Piece of shit.” He kicks Tripp, casting a withering glare at his dead body. “You fucking piece of shit.”

Pain sinks its teeth into my hip, my leg, as I slowly limp my way to Wyatt. I reach up to touch his temple. “You’re bleeding.”

He pushes at my clothes, searching for my injuries. “I don’t care where I’m bleeding, are you all right?” Wyatt traces my burning throat with trembling fingers. Tears line his eyes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Wetness on my cheeks. A sob escapes me as my defenses start to crumble.

“C’mere. C’mere, baby.” Wyatt crushes me to his chest. Trembling and bone cold, I melt against him. Then my legs give out.

“I have you.” With that, Wyatt picks me up, looping one arm under my back and another under my knees. I rock in his arms as he climbs the steps.

Wyatt’s breath rattles, his heart pounds in his chest. Exhausted, I hook my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. Blood on my face, tears on his. I can’t let him go.

We fought for our lives. Fought for each other.

We step out the front door. Cool night air hits us.

“Holy shit,” Wyatt rasps, his deep rumble vibrating through my chest.

I sit up in his arms and gasp. It’s my street. We were in Tripp’s house, just yards away from mine.

The screech of tires fills the air.

“Cops?” I wonder aloud.

Wyatt grins. “It ain’t the cops.”

Then, out of the wilderness, out of the night, come the cavalry. Three pickup trucks fishtail wildly into the driveway. Davis and Charlie and Ford.

Brothers. Cowboys. Help.

“Breakfast,” Dakota cries amid the chaos happening around us.

“Koty, cool it,” Fallon sighs, limping into the kitchen.

“No.” Dakota rounds on her sister and me. “Sit your butt down and shut up. Both of you.” Tears well in her eyes, and she presses a hand to her heart.

Fallon grumbles. “I don’t need to sit. I’m fine.”

I glare at her. “You ain’t fine.”

“You’re the one with a head injury,” she snaps back. “You sit.”

The last few hours have been a blur. Me and Fallon in one hospital bed because we wouldn’t let go of each other. Davis ordering the doctor around. Getting stitched up. Pain in my temple. Scrubbing blood off Fallon’s hands. IV fluids to flush the drugs from her system.

---