Home > Filthy Cowboy(7)

Filthy Cowboy(7)
Author: Liza Street

She didn’t understand the danger, the magical barrier that followed the gravel line. Once she crossed it, she’d be stuck here just like the rest of the Junkyard shifters.

She took a step forward, not over the line yet.

“No,” Stetson shouted.

She looked up at his voice, startled, and missed her footing.

That one mistake caused her to stumble forward. Not in danger of falling, nothing so easy as that. But the inertia kept her moving so she could catch herself.

Both of her feet came over the gravel line as she found her balance. She still stared at Stetson, her brown eyes telegraphing confusion, hope. He saw it, then. It was the hope. She’d come all this way for Stetson.

He wished it weren’t true, but he could see it in her face, in her eyes.

“What have you done?” he said, something hot and furious blazing through his chest.

Her lips parted in surprise. Hurt flashed across her face before she straightened her features. And he realized he was angry at the wrong person.

First, he should be mad at himself. It hadn’t been foolproof, his plan to keep them from meeting. He’d known that from the beginning, and yet he’d prayed she would respect the boundaries of paper and ink. He hadn’t told her his name. He’d been purposeful in not telling her much about his life.

But he’d shown her his heart, his yearning. And apparently that had been enough for someone with as big and pure of a heart as Dew’s to finally break that last barrier between them and come looking for him.

The other people he should be mad at? The Cruthers. The two of them were laughing, exchanging high-fives. Stetson was on them in no time, yanking one of them back and throwing him to the ground. Vaguely he heard the other brother shouting, and the woman shouting, too. More was happening behind him as he pummeled whichever brother was beneath him. He couldn’t see through his fury and he let his fists pound into the face of the guy beneath him. Things were happening behind him—the other brother yanking him back. Jase asking what the fuck was going on. The woman screaming—why couldn’t she get out, she wanted to know.

Blood scented the air. The brother’s nose was broken. Stetson’s jaguar urged him to abandon his opponent and run toward the woman, but he was restrained, held back. He growled. Tried to shift, but whoever held him could guess at Stetson’s intent. Pressure came down hard on his throat.

That choking, ever-present ball of emotional pain, tightening like a noose.

Unconscious, he wouldn’t be able to help Dew at all.

But it was too late.

Everything went gray.

The last thing he thought he saw was her face, those beautiful eyes wide and frightened. As he went under, her face melded with Annabelle’s. Pain ripped through him and he realized he couldn’t save either of them.

 

 

5

 

 

The guy who’d been in the cowboy hat, the guy who’d shouted, no, as Dew fell forward—he was carried away by a couple others. Not the two who’d first spoken to her. One of them was leading the second away, blood dripping everywhere. Dew wobbled on her feet. She didn’t do well with blood.

She backed up, hit something solid. Smooth. Looking behind her, she saw nothing.

That couldn’t be right—she thought she’d imagined it a moment ago, when she’d tried to run to her car. The hallucination or whatever had been caused by her panic, she’d thought. But she was still blocked by…air?

Dew frowned. Her aversion to blood had never caused her to hallucinate before. She glanced back to the bloody guy being led away. Bending forward, she took deep breaths. This was too weird, and she didn’t want to faint in front of all these strangers. She didn’t feel like she was in danger, exactly. She was just incredibly, unspeakably uncomfortable.

A woman was suddenly standing at Dew’s side. Red hair, porcelain-white skin. “I’m Blythe,” she said quietly. “Can I touch your arm, to lead you to sit down?”

“Yes,” Dew said on a gasp.

She kept her eyes on the frozen ground while the woman led her forward. Don’t look at the blood on the ground, don’t look at the blood on the ground. She saw something red—blood?—and felt her dizziness renew.

“It’s okay, I got you,” Blythe soothed.

A log, the top of it polished into a bench-like seat, rested against the side of a rusty Volkswagen Bus. People—mostly men, it seemed—murmured in the background, talking quietly. They sounded angry, yet excited.

“Here you go,” Blythe said.

Dew sat carefully on the edge of the log bench. She took great breaths in and slowly let them out. This was fine, she thought. She’d catch her breath, then head back to the car. And S could wait for his book until Garrett made deliveries next week.

This was what she got for trying to push things, for taking chances. She thought she wanted adventure, passion, romance—and look what happened to her when she went for it. This was like trying to teach herself to do cartwheels as a kid. She’d broken her darn finger, thinking all her friends were doing cartwheels with their fingers outstretched.

Risks were stupid.

Now that her adrenaline was fading, she started to feel the cold. Night had fallen. She wanted nothing more than to go home, turn up the thermostat, and snuggle under a quilt with a cup of tea and a good book. Maybe a paranormal romance, but something with comedy. She could use a laugh right now.

“Feeling better?” Blythe asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Dew stood up. “Thanks for the seat.”

She glanced around, well aware she and Blythe had an audience. All men. And they were huge, with muscles that would shame the bodybuilder health nuts she saw flexing on social media. Intimidating, but hot. Not as hot as that scary guy who’d jumped on one of the others. She hoped that guy was all right.

“He’s all right, isn’t he?” Dew asked.

“Who?” Blythe said.

“The guy who jumped on the other guy. I don’t know their names. Obviously. I mean. Both of them. Are they both okay? The man who was beaten, and the one who was knocked out?”

“They’re fine,” Blythe said. “These guys are tough. Some of them could probably stand to be hit a few extra times. Dallas.”

One of the men who’d been taunting Dew gave Blythe a sheepish grin.

It suddenly occurred to Dew just how strange it was that all of these people were hanging out in a junkyard after dark on a weeknight. She opened her mouth to ask what on earth they could be doing, then snapped it shut just as fast. Not her business. Not her business. The sooner she got out of here, the better.

“I’ll get going,” Dew said, starting toward her car. “Thanks again, Blythe.”

There was silence from the red-haired woman, and none of the men standing around said anything.

Dew marched forward.

“If you don’t tell her, I will,” a man said, his voice a growl.

Shivers erupted over Dew’s skin and she pulled her arms in tighter around her waist, holding her coat closed. Still, her car was only a few yards away. She’d just get S’s book.

S’s book. Where was it? Crap.

“Has anyone seen the book I was carrying?” Dew asked, not liking how quiet and small she sounded. “The Ten Thousand Doors of January. A dark cover, with flowers.”

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