Page 30 of Rush Turner
I hated that he was worried about us, and that he felt that it was necessary to redo all the locks and add more cameras.
Hated that he felt he had to do it. Hated more that he was right.
I tucked Jill in one last time — she clung to my arm, sleep-heavy eyes blinking up at me.
“Is Rush gonna sleep here tonight?” he mumbled.
I smiled and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Probably, baby. Go to sleep. I’ll be right down the hall.”
He hummed something that might’ve beengood, then drifted off.
I foundRush at the back porch, crouched low by the step, tightening something on a fresh door brace he’d installed.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. “You planning to booby-trap the chicken coop next?”
Without looking up, he said, “Already did. Trip wire. If Tornado triggers it, too bad.”
I snorted a laugh, but my pulse still hummed with unease. “Rush…”
He straightened, the porch light catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the scar at his temple. There was no softness there — only that steady, deadly calm that should have scared me but didn’t.
“You done lecturing me tonight?” he asked, voice low.
I stepped up to him, close enough to breathe him in. “No. But I’m tired, so I’ll save it for tomorrow.”
His hand slid to my leg to my hip, firm and possessive. “Deal.”
We went inside.I locked up behind us, double-checking every window just like he’d taught me weeks ago. We didn’t talk much — didn’t have to.
I was halfway to telling him to come to bed when a noise cut through the silence.
A soft, metallic clink — from outside near the barn.
Rush froze. One hand lifted, palm out, telling medon’t move. His eyes went sharp, dark.
Another faint shuffle. Hoof steps? A raccoon? Or—
He crossed the kitchen in three strides, grabbing the small black pistol he’d stashed above the fridge days ago.
My breath caught.
“Stay here,” he murmured, his voice so quiet I barely caught it. “And if someone tries that door — you don’t yell. You shoot.”
He pushed the gun into my hands, kissed my forehead once — hard, fast — then slipped out the back door like a shadow.
Rush
I stepped off the porch slow, boots rolling silent over the dirt I knew better than my own damn house.
Past the oak. Around the garden. Toward the barn where the faint metal rattle had come from.
My gut saidnot Tornado. Not tonight.
I spotted the figure by the corner — small, hunched, hands moving clumsy at the padlock I’d installed that afternoon.
One more step and I had a clear view.
Not Kyle — he was rotting wherever he’d fallen. This was someone else. Skinny. Nervous. Too desperate to know he was already caught.
