Page 1 of Beat of Love
Part One
“If you ever get a second chance in life for something,
you've got to go all the way.”
— Lance Armstrong
1
Rafferty
Lawson’s Landing, early August
During his months in captivity, Rafferty Lawson had ached for home. Yet now, mere moments from stepping onto the land where he had taken his first breath, all he wanted was to be back in the Amazon jungle where he didn’t have to account for the grim downward spiral his life had taken.
Everything he had vowed to fight against he had become.
How could he face his family — his salt-of-the-earth family — when his soul churned with everything dark and rotten?
A tremor wracked his body, and perspiration beaded his forehead, every nerve ending alive, a thousand ants biting.
And his stomach roiled, the ever-present nausea rising, rising. Rising.
“Stop,” he bit out, releasing his seatbelt, gripping the door handle.
His companion slammed the brakes and skidded onto the gravel verge. Rafferty was out of the vehicle before it was fully stationary.
Hands braced on his knees, he emptied his stomach of its meager contents. Pain radiated from the stitched wounds across his torso. It wouldn’t surprise him if he’d torn a couple of sutures from the violent heaving.
He straightened, and with an unsteady hand, accepted the bottle of water Bones held out. Swishing the liquid in his mouth,he blinked several times, clearing his vision of the fucking tears. He spat out the water, rinsing his mouth again. And again.
The stinging sensation eased; the tremors abated somewhat.
But the bitter taste remained.
Not surprising, considering my rancid soul.
He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“The nausea will reduce,” Bones said.
“Yeah.” Closing his eyes, he lifted the bottle back to his lips and drained half. The August sun blazed hot, exacerbating his headache. The air was bone-dry, the kind of heat that sucked the sweat off his skin before it could cool him.
The hairs on his nape prickled.
Just his nape.
Someone was watching.
He lowered the bottle, peeled his eyes open to slits, and scanned past the fence, past the cattle—
They locked on the lone rider.
Ramrod straight, the man sat motionless on the back of his horse.
The distance was too great to make a visual confirmation of the rider’s identity beneath the cowboy hat … but he knew.
It was Aidan.
