Bubba stalked the step it took to get back to Dalton and landed another kick before Wings, Stoney and Pop were on him, pulling him back.
“Where are the fuckin’ cops, this is what I wanna fuckin’ know!” Steg shouted, standing in the grass, staring down at Dalton.
Wood had no answer to that and it occurred to him that Tate had not moved nor spoken in the last two minutes so his eyes moved to his friend to see Tate still staring at the ground even though Dalton was no longer in his line of sight.
Pop saw it too because he called, “Buck?”
“Two sets of tracks,” Tate muttered.
“What?” Wood asked, getting close to his side as Pop got close to the other.
“Warm winter, ground not frozen solid,” Tate was still muttering, his eyes pinned to the dirt. “Two sets of tracks. One back and forth. One just forward.”
Wood looked to the ground and stared but he couldn’t see it. Then again, he wasn’t a tracker like Tate was.
“What are you thinkin’?” Wood asked the ground then looked at Tate to see his head was up and he was staring into the distance.
“She was on the run,” Tate whispered. “He’d been shot.”
“Tate, son, let us in on what’s goin on up there,” Pop urged, his finger jabbing impatiently toward Tate’s head but Tate turned abruptly and headed back to the Explorer. Sirens could be heard in the distance but Tate had opened the driver’s side door.
Wood wasted only the second it took to catch his father’s eyes then he sprinted to the passenger side door. He was still swinging himself in when Tate accelerated so fast, the tires skidded, spewing mud which was good because it gave Wings the second he needed to yank Dalton’s body clear of the track as the Explorer barreled forward.
Wood got his ass in the seat, slammed the door and turned to Tate. “Talk to me.”
“Someone else is up there,” Tate said.
“Who? A partner?” Wood asked.
“No,” Tate answered, “a hero.”
*
Lauren
I opened my eyes. It was dark. I smelled hospital. I felt no pain.
I turned my head to the side and saw Tate.
He was awake, sitting in a chair pulled close to the side of my bed, his elbows to his knees, his eyes bloodshot, he looked wiped.
“Hey,” I whispered and I felt my lips form a small smile.
His eyes dropped to my mouth then they closed, so slowly it felt like it took ten minutes watching him do it.
Then his head dropped and he muttered to his knees, “Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Honey,” I whispered and his head shot up and then he filled my vision because his mouth was on mine, gentle but firm and his big hands had spanned either side of my head, holding me still.
He broke the connection of our lips and he rested his forehead against mine.
“Baby,” he whispered.
“Jim-Billy?” I asked.
“Okay, knife did more damage on him than you, went through his stomach, but they patched him up.”
I closed my eyes this time then opened them to have the only thing I saw be his.
“Thank God,” I breathed then asked, “Jonas?”
“Outside sleepin’ on a couch with Krys and Stella and Sunny and Wendy and half of Carnal.”
“Half of Carnal?”
He nodded, his forehead rolling against mine. “Half of Carnal.”
“Must be a big waiting room,” I whispered, realizing this was taking it out of me, my eyelids were getting heavy and I fought it. It was the first time I didn’t want to sleep.
Tate saw it and his head came up a couple of inches but both of his hands slid down to my jaws.
“Go to sleep, honey,” he urged gently, both his thumbs lifting up, stroking my cheekbones, “I’ll be here when you get to the other side.”
“Don’t wanna,” I muttered, my lids lowering and, with effort, I pulled them open again.
“Go to sleep, Laurie.”
“Tate,” I whispered, my eyelids falling again and I couldn’t pull them open.
But before sleep swept me away, I felt his lips on mine form the words, “Sweet dreams, baby.”
*
Jim-Billy
Jim-Billy woke feeling something he hadn’t felt in seven years.
A soft, warm female pressed to his side, her hand under her cheek at his shoulder.
With effort, he looked down to see the top of Laurie’s blonde head, her shoulder covered in a hospital gown, the rest of her body covered in a thin hospital blanket.
He sensed movement, his head settled back on the pillow and his eyes turned to the bright, Colorado sunshine coming through the window where Tate stood, Tate’s eyes on the two people in the bed.
“She asleep?” Jim-Billy asked, his voice a soft rasp.
Tate nodded.
“Made me bring her in here, wanted to be with you,” Tate whispered, his voice barely audible.
Jim-Billy nodded.
“She okay?” Jim-Billy asked.
“Better than you,” Tate answered.