She knew. She knew everything.
All these years of being thrust together, living in the same town, attending the same parties, both in love with the same man, yet strangers still.
Not anymore.
Her gaze dropped to my swollen belly. In a mindless instinctive reaction, I raised my hands to cover it. To somehow protect the life inside me from what I knew was about to transpire, to shield its innocence from the ugly secrets that were about to be ripped from the darkness and sent, screaming and bleeding, into the light.
Tentatively, I took a step backward and was about to take another when movement at her side caught my attention.
A flash of light.
A glint of metal.
Shrieking, I turned to run, but above my cry heard a booming crack. As if I’d been punched, my head snapped backward, knocking me off my feet.
Then I was falling and people were screaming. There was so much screaming, it was all I could hear, and yet it sounded far away, off in the distance.
“Dorothy!”
Voices echoed all around me.
Hands grabbed at me.
A face hovered directly over mine.
I knew that face, I knew her, she was my . . . she was . . .
Tears streamed down her cheeks and her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I couldn’t hear anything. Why couldn’t I hear anything?
I tried to ask her why I couldn’t hear, but my mouth wouldn’t work.
Another face, a man with pretty blue eyes, appeared beside the woman, wildly shaking his head back and forth. I knew him. I couldn’t remember who he was or how I knew him, only that I knew him.
Like the woman, he too was crying and his lips were moving, but still there was no sound. I tried to lift my arm, to reach out to him, to . . .
My vision began to blur, distorting and warping the faces around me. I blinked furiously, trying to see, trying to understand.
Something awful was happening, I knew that much, something horrible. And these people, whoever they were, I wanted to help them.
But I couldn’t move, I couldn’t hear, and black spots floated over me, quickly growing larger, taking over my vision.
I was tired. So, so tired.
I just had to . . . close my eyes . . . for just a second . . .
Darkness enveloped me.
And then, there was nothing.
Not even darkness.
Chapter Two
Seven years later
I missed the snow. In Montana, it always snowed on Christmas.
In San Francisco, it rained instead. And rained. And rained.
Curled up on my living room couch, a cup of coffee in one hand, my cell phone in the other, I watched the rainwater as it sluiced down the glass in thick rivulets, distorting and blending all the colors of the outside world into one gray mass.
A sort of symbolism in relation to my life, a little too colorful of a life, I mused, twisting my lips sardonically. A life that had started out naive, full of pinks and blues, but as I grew older became full of brilliant reds and yellows, and then later filled with stormy, sorrow-filled grays.
Since my recovery I’d done what I could to wash most of that color away, leaving behind my chaotic life in Miles City, Montana, and starting over in San Francisco, California.
A necessary step in letting go, forgoing the brilliance for softer colors, neutral, relaxing shades. Because when you’d lived through nearly dying, you learned to appreciate the quiet, calmer colors of life.
Letting my cell phone fall into my lap, I lifted my hand, pushing back my thick mane of wavy red hair to finger the long, thin scar that ran the length of my skull.
The lone bullet meant to kill me and the child I’d carried inside me had failed. My son, Christopher, and I had thankfully survived. Christopher had been unscathed, but the trauma had left me with a blank canvas. For a long time, I’d had been without the knowledge of my life, who my children were, even my own name.
Thanks to my great doctors, therapy, and a strong dose of luck, I’d eventually regained the knowledge I’d lost. And when I had, I’d wished I hadn’t.
They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and while that might be true for some, for me it had the opposite effect. At first I couldn’t face what I had done, the pain I had caused so many, let alone face the people my actions had directly impacted.
For shooting me, Chrissy had been convicted of first-degree attempted murder and had been sentenced to prison. And Jase had nearly taken his own life while in the throes of grief. Their three daughters had subsequently been left without their mother, with an incapable father, forced to transition into adulthood on their own.
And Hawk, after finding out I’d been shot, flew into a very public fit of rage that had shed light on Christopher’s true paternity. His disloyalty to his brother now exposed, Hawk retreated even further into himself, and his visits home to Montana became more infrequent.
Unable to deal with the overwhelming sorrow and the crippling guilt I felt, unable to figure out how to move forward, I simply hid myself away, going so far as to feign ignorance even after my memories had returned to me.
It had taken another near tragedy, this time involving Tegen, for me to finally see past my own nose, to realize that I’d spent my entire life in hiding. Hiding from my past, from my present, and any sort of future I might hope to someday have.
Refusing to let history repeat itself, and done with hiding, I moved my son and myself to San Francisco, not only to see my daughter through her rough patch, but to start fresh.
My wish was for the three of us to become the strong and solid family we always should have been, to live in such a way that didn’t cause anyone any pain, and for the opportunity to make new memories for us all, this time ones that would be worth remembering.
It took some time, but eventually I got my wish.
Since then, Tegen had moved back to Miles City, was happily married to Deuce’s son, Cage, and Christopher was living the peaceful and carefree life of a seven-year-old. Despite whatever resentments still lay between Hawk and me, he was a regular in Christopher’s life, which was all that mattered.
Our son had that effect on us, no matter how strained our relationship with each other. Christopher was our Switzerland, a span of untouched land covered in wildflowers that stretched between two crumbling cities.
Both my children were safe, they were happy, and they were surrounded by those who loved them. There really wasn’t much more a mother could ask for.
But like a glass that had shattered, while you could glue it back together, it would never again be what it once was.
I was a shattered glass, glued back together. And my children, while their wounds had healed, had been cut by my jagged edges.
Sighing, I turned my attention away from the window, back to the cell phone in my lap.
It was Christmas morning. Christopher would be waking soon and yet Hawk wasn’t here. The last text I’d received from him had been days ago, informing me that he’d be here by Christmas Eve. There’d been nothing since, and every call I’d made had gone unanswered.
However strained our relationship with each other was, Hawk had never ignored my calls, and he’d certainly never missed an opportunity to spend time with his son.
Something was wrong.
Setting my coffee down on the windowsill, I quickly typed out a text on my phone.
I’m worried. Please call me.
Pressing Send, I held the phone in my hand and waited. And waited.
Ten minutes went by and still no answer.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, which was silly since my phone told me exactly what time it was, but old habits die hard and I’d been checking clocks long before I’d had a cell phone to tell me the time.
Six thirty a.m. Which meant it was seven thirty in Montana. Deuce and Eva had two young children, and considering it was Christmas morning, might be up already.
I typed out another next, this one to Eva’s cell phone.
Have you heard from Hawk? He’s not here. He hasn’t responded to my calls and I’m worried.
Then I waited, clutching my cell phone, staring at the lit screen so intently that when it brightened even further, flashing Unknown Caller, followed by the ridiculously loud and obnoxious ringing I hadn’t yet figured out how to change, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Hello?”
“Dorothy.” Deuce’s deep, rumbling voice filled my ear. “You fuckin’ know better than to text shit like that to an unsecured line.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” I said dryly, unconcerned with Deuce’s texting protocols. “Now, where’s Hawk? Why hasn’t he responded to any of my calls?”
“What do you mean he hasn’t responded to your calls?”
For such a smart man, Deuce could really be dense at times.
“What I mean is just that. He hasn’t responded to any of my calls or texts. Not since the day before yesterday.”
Silence followed my words, only serving to worsen the sinking sensation in my stomach.
“Deuce?”
“I’m here. I’m thinkin’ . . .” Another long pause followed, then, “I gotta go, I’ll have Eva call you if I have news.”
“Wait!” I cried, but I was too late. He’d already hung up.
“Dammit!” I shouted, squeezing the phone in my hand with frustration.
Why had I even bothered calling? The Hell’s Horsemen and their seedy business dealings were never something I’d been privy to. And getting any sort of information out of Deuce was the equivalent of demanding answers from a brick wall. Utterly impossible.
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