Chapter Seventeen

"How's the jaw?"

Hunter swung around at Colton's question and skimmed his knuckles over his bruised face. He ticked his gaze up to the black and purple bruise spreading over Colton's cheek.

"About as good as your cheek. Still better than the other guy though."

Colton bobbed his head in agreement. "I'm still surprised that we just walked into Badlands and found Mills."

Hunter set down the sledgehammer he was using to pound in new fence posts and leaned on the handle. "So am I, honestly. What kind of criminal just gallivants around the local saloon?"

"A stupid one."

"You got that right."

Colton crouched and gripped a heavy wood post. He hefted it into the next hole and held it steady while Hunter swung the sledge to pound it into the ground.

Neither of them spoke more about what went down the previous night, the same way that they didn't need to discuss Operation Nicklaus.

He glanced at Colton's stern profile. His face was set in a mask, giving away nothing about his feelings on what they'd done—what they had to do.

Colton turned his head to catch Hunter's gaze. "I know what you're thinking, brother. You can't second-guess it. We had no choice."

He'd spent all night lying awake, questioning how they could have done things differently. As soon as they took the fight outside, all hell had broken loose and Mills had pulled a gun on them.

But two trained SEALs knew how to swing a fight in their favor.

His jaw flexed hard, shooting pain through the joint. "I would have done worse if you hadn't stopped me. After what he said about Ivy—"

Colton met his gaze. "We neutralized the threat. End of story."

Hunter nodded. "This is a different kind of war than what we've seen."

He hammered the post in a few more times to ensure it was set deep enough and even with the rest of the line. Then he stepped back to survey his work. About twenty yards away, a couple other ranch hands were setting more posts. A small, perfect row of uprights stretched between them with a gap where more posts were to be set in a new, reinforced fence.

All the places the trespassers had cut would soon be closed.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's over. He can't come after Ivy."

"Or Meadow." A shadow of darkness crossed Colton's face.

They quickly set the rest of the fence posts and stretched heavy wire between them. The new electric fence would deter more people from trespassing.

When they wrapped up their portion of the work, Hunter sent Colton a look. "I need to find Ivy." After what he and Colton did the previous night, he'd been avoiding her. He had blood on his hands—blood that had been spilled to save himself in the end. But still, it left him feeling unclean and unworthy of the beautiful bright ray of light that was Ivy.

He felt a shadow creeping in his mind. Over his soul. Even though they called the cops and they agreed that they'd killed Mills in self-defense, it was still another strike against him.

He needed to see Ivy—to touch her. He had to know she was safe.

Colton waved at him. "Go on and take the ATV. After I talk to the guys, I'll walk back."

They both aimed their attention at the other ranch hands, focused on their task with as much gravity as he and Colton had done theirs.

With his sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, he loped to the ATV and started the engine. The ride to the house didn't take long, but he was itching to set his sights on the woman he loved.

The love of his life.

When that motherfucker Johnny Mills had snarled all the horrific ways he'd planned to use Ivy—to torture her—nothing could have stopped Hunter from pulling his weapon and taking aim right between his dull brown eyes.

He searched the house for Ivy. She wasn't there.

He looked around the ranch. Meadow wasn't even in the training ring with some frisky pony, because she'd gone to sit with her father and wait for him to be released from the hospital.

Where was she?

He whirled and scanned the front of the garage where all the vehicles should be parked.

Meadow's was missing, as was one other truck.

"Dammit!" He whipped out his phone and dialed Ivy. Every muscle in his body shook with the urge to move—now.

No answer.

"Goddammit!" He ended the call and stabbed at the app to track her. She was savvy and had all the locator services activated on her device. When she was sleeping, he linked to her phone just in case.

Now what had looked like him being controlling could save her life.

Immediately, her little pin came up on his screen. She was at Badlands.

His chest burned with fear and anger. What made her think that she could just take off?

As he made the call to the saloon, a growl rumbled low in his core.

"Badlands—this is Livia!"

"It's Hunter. I'm looking for Ivy."

Silence filled the line. "Ivy left half an hour ago."

Panic rampaged through him. Fury pounded through his veins along with a rush of adrenaline.

"Go outside and look if her truck's in the parking lot," he shot out to the owner.

"Ok-a-ay." Her voice wavered. "Going now."

His fingers tightened on the phone until he feared he'd crush it with his bare hand. He heard footsteps and then a door swinging open.

Livia's voice shot ice through his veins. "Oh god! Her truck is here. The food she bought is on the ground. The truck is here…but Ivy's gone!"

* * * * *

Ivy's shoulder joints felt about ready to pop from the strain of having her hands bound behind her back. Each time she tugged, trying to loosen the bonds, her shoulders screamed in protest, so she stopped trying to free herself.

The metal back of the chair had her spine screaming from the unusual ramrod-straight position. And even through her boots, her ankles were bruised from yanking on the bindings locked to the chair legs.

Since she was taking stock of her body, she might as well focus on her brain.

Her mind was still foggy around the events that had ended with her locked in this dark, dank basement. At some point, her kidnappers had knocked her out. She'd lost too much time between the time she was getting in the truck at Badlands and now.

All she knew was that one minute she was opening her truck door to put the food inside, and the next, she was being yanked off her feet. She barely recalled being tossed around the back of a van and had no memory at all of being chained up to this chair.

Great. Her knees were beginning to ache as bad as her shoulders were.

At least she'd managed to spit out the cloth they stuffed in her mouth to silence her screams. It left an oily residue on her tongue, which turned her stomach as much as the sight of the ugly man watching over her.

He probably thought his greasy blond hair was edgy, but he looked like he'd just crawled out of the sewer. His small cruel eyes had roamed all over her body at least a dozen times in the short span of time she'd been here.

The shirt he wore might have once been white, but it had been dulled by filth and now looked like a gray rag. His jeans, too, had seen a better life on a much larger relative. The thing she couldn't bear to even glance at were his feet. He wore no shoes. His feet were black from whatever he'd walked through. And the state of his toenails made her stomach pitch and heave.

Forcing down the bile pushing against the back of her throat, Ivy cleared it twice before attempting to speak.

She craned her neck high. "I would like some water."

He shifted his gaze from her breasts to her face.

She gave him her haughtiest look. "You know what a drink is?"

He heaved himself off his chair. Like his muscles were stiff. Let him try sitting in this damn unforgiving chair.

Wordlessly, he walked to the flight of chipped concrete stairs and began to climb them. She shuddered to think of how that rough material must feel on his bare feet.

What was wrong with the guy? Besides being a criminal capable of kidnapping a woman from a parking lot—and wasting good food she bought for her friends too—he was either on drugs or had mental issues.

She watched him go. At the top, the door opened, sending a spear of white light into the basement. Then he closed it so quietly that she had to peek to see if he was actually gone.

Throwing out her senses, she focused on the world she was stuck in. The wall opposite her was damp and dark with moisture and mold. She didn't even want to think about what breathing that in was doing to her lungs.

Then there were the noises coming from above. Low voices, obviously male from how deep they were, droned on. Occasionally one would raise in an outburst, which made her wonder if they were arguing over what to do with her.

Put a knife in my hand so I can cut myself free and then slit your throats.

In her life, she'd rarely felt anger this intense. It was white-hot. Blazing. It seared through her. Was this how her brother felt in battle? How Hunter felt when he faced down an enemy?

She swung her head to look at the corner. She really did not want to think about where that chewing sound was coming from. Something told her it wouldn't be a fat, cute little mouse in a beret come to chew her bonds off her and bring her hand-picked flowers and delicious fruit as gifts like in a child's cartoon.

The door opened, and light beamed into the basement. She heard the slap of bare feet on concrete steps. Her warden appeared carrying a glass.

Stomach twisting, she stared at it. "Not that water."

He trained his gaze on her.

"Sparkling water." She tipped her chin upward.

His lips twisted in a sneer. "Would Perrier do?"

"If you don't have it, Sparkling Ice will work."

She saw his mouth move as if he repeated the brand of drink she requested. Not that she expected a guy like this to know the difference between bottled waters and tap.

She pushed harder. "I also expect to be reimbursed for the food you ruined when you grabbed me."

His dull expression transformed to something vicious. Evil gleamed in his eyes. For the first time, she feared she'd underestimated how stupid this one was.

Leaning close, he glared at her. "Do you even know what you stepped into, little girl?"

Those menacing words made Ivy's heart flip. But she steeled herself and thought about Hunter. What would he do in this very same situation?

He'd know a maneuver to break his bonds and would snap this guy's neck before he ever knew what was coming. Since she didn't have the same training, she would need to use her wits.

With her head high, she stared her captor down like he was a bit of manure stuck to the bottom of her boot. "I know you work for the loan shark."

The loan shark's crony resembled a homeless man. But now she saw what she hadn't been certain of before—how strung out he was on some substance. She recognized the twitchy way he moved as a sign of addiction.

He snorted. "Guess you have something besides a pretty face, don't you?"

Her skin crawled at his compliment but she held her tongue. She needed to get this guy on her side so she could manipulate him into letting her go.

As he pushed closer to her, she caught the scent of unwashed clothes and fought to keep her nose from wrinkling.

"Very pretty. Sexy too." His gaze dipped to her breasts. During her struggle, her top had been torn and it now hung low, revealing her bra and the rounded tops of her breasts.

"Get away from me, you vile man."

So much for getting him on her side. With her mouth, she wasn't capable.

His eyes narrowed more. "You're lucky you're not floating in the swimming hole."

Her bowels turned watery. For a pounding heartbeat, she battled more nausea.

That could be her floating in the family pond where they cooled off on hot summer days.

Then it struck her. Her daddy got them all into this mess with his gambling problem. It was all about money.

"You took me to get to my father."

His lips twisted in some semblance of a sneer. "You're finally catching on, little girl."

"How much to let me go?"

He issued a rough laugh. "You can't afford it."

No matter how much she wanted to shift her gaze away from his, she held that ugly glare and forced him to see the strength inside her.

"Try me. I have money. Go get my purse. I'll fix this right now."

He eyed her, smart enough to realize she could be bluffing. She was too—she'd seen her father's finances. He owed so much more than she had.

This guy didn't know that, though. To him, she was a ranch princess. Pampered, affluent, rolling in hundred-dollar bills.

"Get me my purse," she demanded again. "I dropped it back at the truck along with the food."

Undecided, he scratched a blunt fingertip into the stubble on his weak jaw. Then he started to turn for the flight of stairs again.

Heart thundering with relief that her ploy worked—that she'd just bought herself a little time to figure out her next move—she watched him mount the stairs. Just before he reached for the door handle, she called out in her best sparkling princess voice, "And don't scuff the Italian leather!"