Chapter 9: Ruth

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew Jack was gone. I reached over to find his side of the bed empty and cold. I sat up and swung my bare feet to the floor, ignoring the painful hollow spot in my chest.

He's gone.

That thought repeated itself, over and over, in my head.

The only man I'd ever met who was strong enough to let me be me. The one man who might not have tried to change me.

I knew he'd be gone, of course. It wasn't a surprise. He'd been perfectly upfront about his plans last night. But still, it hurts. And damn it, I don't want to hurt over this. Over him. I just don't.

Still, I can't help the what if thoughts that flash through my head.

What if he'd stayed?

What if we'd taken the time to get to know each other?

I knew in my gut that I'd lost an opportunity. Jack was unlike any man I'd ever met. He was so much more.

But despite the feeling of loss, I know it's best this way. I've had enough failed relationships to last me a lifetime. I don't want another one. Besides, I'd rather be alone than fail again.

I leave the apartment and come straight home to clean up. Even though we used condoms—both times—I still feel a bit sticky. Maybe part of me wants to wash away any reminder of what we shared last night. The sooner I forget about him, the better. I don't want to dwell on lost chances.

After a hot shower, I get dressed and fire up the wood stove to take the chill out of the air. Since I didn't come home last night, the embers in the stove have pretty much died out. I have to start over with fresh kindling and coax the flames to life. While the stove is doing its thing, I put on a pot of coffee and cook some eggs.

I try to keep busy because as soon as I slow down and have a moment to think, my mind replays the events of last night. I remember everything—every touch, every taste, every sound. I remember the feel of him inside me, so perfect. The feel of his mouth on mine. I picture him standing behind the bar making me a drink. He looked pretty damn good doing it. I was joking when I asked him if he was looking for a job, but in hindsight I—well, it's pointless now.

He"s gone.

I keep reminding myself it's for the best. If he'd stayed, we might have gotten close, and then I'd have the pain of losing him when everything went south. Like it always does.

After I'm done eating and have downed two desperately needed cups of coffee, I wash my dishes, clean up the kitchen, and then walk out to the small red barn that stands at the edge of the clearing. The barn is as old as the cabin, but it's been well maintained.

When we were kids, Micah and I used to play in the barn for hours at a time. It was our sanctuary. Our place to escape. Back then, we got teased a lot by the kids in school. They used a lot of racial slurs, calling us redskins, half breeds, or heathens. They often called me "squaw." I tried desperately to hide how much that hurt.

I step inside and breathe deeply, taking in the lush scent of leather that permeates the building. I don't have any livestock, so there's no feed in here. But there are three stalls—all empty. And, there's a bunkhouse in the rear of the building, with electricity, heat, and running water.

I check the bunkhouse to make sure everything's okay—there are no water leaks, no animal infestations, no birds roosting in the rafters. It is a barn, after all.

Back in his day, my grandfather used to let tavern employees sleep in the bunkhouse if they didn't have anywhere else to go. Now the barn is mostly empty as I use it solely to store my tools.

When I return to the cabin, the wood stove has done its job. It's toasty warm inside. I put a load of clothes in the washer and sit on the sofa to catch up with my reading.

And I try not to think about Jack.

As I'm trying and failing to concentrate on my book, I hear a vehicle coming up my gravel lane. I don't recognize the low, throaty growl. Curious, I abandon my book and walk to the front window to see who's here.

When a black Impala pulls into view, my heart lurches in my chest. Jack? It's almost as if my wishful thinking conjured him up.

I step out onto the porch just as he parks in front of the cabin.

When his door opens and he steps out, my breath catches. Damn. He's a good-looking man. My pulse kicks into high gear. "What are you doing here?"

He pauses a moment, as if listening, then meets my gaze. "We need to talk."

I step forward and rest my hands on the wooden railing. "About what?"

He takes off his jacket and tosses it into the front passenger seat of his car. Then he closes the driver's door and walks up the wooden steps to meet me on the porch. I note the Glock tucked into a waist holster. I've always suspected he was packing heat.

"There are things you need to know," he says. "I'm not going to sugar coat this, because I know you wouldn't want me to." He pauses, then says, "You might be in danger." He winces. "No, you are in danger. And it's my fault."

The butterflies I felt when he arrived quickly turn to stone. "Danger? What are you talking about?"

When the scent of fresh coffee wafts through the screen door, he gives me a wry grin. "Can I trouble you for a cup of coffee first?"

I nod to the door. "Come in."

He follows me inside, closing the door behind him and throwing the dead bolt. I raise a curious brow, but don't say anything.

While I head to the kitchen to pour him some coffee, he scans the small cabin. It's so small, you can pretty much see everything from here.

I hand him his coffee. "All right. Talk." We're standing on opposite sides of the kitchen counter, facing each other.

He takes a sip of his coffee. "Thanks."

"Jack."

He nods to the small dining table behind him. "You might want to sit down for this."

I shake my head as I try to tamp down the warning bells going off in my head. This isn't a social call. He seems tense. "Just tell me."

"Fine." He sets his cup down. "Here it is in a nutshell. I started my military career as a Navy SEAL, eventually becoming a sniper."

I manage not to show any reaction to his announcement.

"I was recruited from the Teams by a private organization—think of them as subcontractors." He chuckles, but the sound is bitter. "Anyway, we mostly do jobs for the CIA. We do a lot of their dirty work. We get our hands dirty so they don't have to."

My stomach knots. "What exactly do you do for them?"

"Did," he says emphatically. "I quit six months ago." He pauses a moment, as if reluctant to say more.

"Jack, what the hell—"

"Basically, I was a hitman. My job was to take out designated targets."

"And by take out, I assume you mean—"

He nods. "I killed them. Usually from a distance. These were bad people, mind you. Leaders of drug cartels, human traffickers, mass murderers, dictators. You name it. Everything we did was sanctioned by the U.S. government."

I'm still trying to wrap my head around what he just told me. "So, let me get this straight—you kill people for a living."

"Did. Past tense."

"I see." Not really, but I'm trying to buy time so my brain can catch up. There are a million questions I could ask, but I don't know where to start. I settle on the next one that comes to mind. "Why did you quit?"

He eyes me with a stony expression. "Because it was getting too easy."

"Too easy to kill people? I should hope that would be a problem."

He winces. "You make it sound so tawdry." He gives me a wry grin. "But yeah. Basically, I was finding it too easy to pull the trigger. Too easy to end a person's life. I found myself starting to want something different in life. I realized I wanted to settle down, have a family. As long as I was doing what I was doing, I couldn't have that. I didn't deserve to have that."

"So how does this relate to me? How does any of this put me in danger?"

Frowning, he looks away, glancing out the kitchen window at the front yard. "The last job I did had some unintended consequences. I was tasked with taking out the boss of a Russian mob organization in New York City. As soon as I did, the guy's younger brother, who was next in line, took over. Immediately, he sent his henchmen out looking for me. Yuri Yevgeny—the new boss—either wants revenge for his brother's death, or he thinks I'll be gunning for him next. Either way, he's put a price on my head."

"And were you going to do that? Kill this man?"

"No, actually. As I said, I'd quit. But Yuri doesn't know that, he doesn't believe it, or he simply doesn't care. The bottom line is—he wants me dead."

Jack picks up his cup and takes a swallow of coffee, wincing as he burns his tongue. He sets his mug down and swipes a hand across his face. "Yevgeny's scouts have been trailing me for the past six months. I was about to leave town this morning when I got wind they're here in Bryce, asking questions."

"How do you know this?"

"Your brother paid me a visit at my motel room this morning. He gave me a heads up."

Now I'm livid. "Someone in the Russian mob spoke to mybrother?"

Jack has the decency to look guilty. "Yes. I was literally getting ready to pack my car when I learned they were here asking questions. It's only a matter of time before they find out I've been hanging around the tavern. Eventually, they're going to link me with you."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because they're not stupid, Ruth. There had to be a reason why I was hanging around this town. It won't take them long to find out you are that reason. They only have to ask around town to learn I've been spending every evening in your bar, and well, people talk. I've heard people making comments about me and you."

Suddenly, my knees are weak. I walk around the counter and take a seat at the table before I fall down. "If these mobsters are going to zero in on me, that puts my brother in danger, too. My friends. My employees."

Jack nods. "It's possible."

As a wave of nausea sweeps through me, I glare up at Jack, who's leaning against the counter, facing me. The nausea is quickly replaced by anger. "You said you were leaving town this morning!"

He nods. "Honest to God, I was. But I can't leave you to face this alone. I came here to warn you, and I'll stay to protect you—and to stop these thugs in their tracks."

"You're going to fight the mafia, here in Bryce?" I sound skeptical.

He doesn't hesitate. "Yes. I don't have a choice now."

I shake my head. "You're insane."

He steps away from the counter and reaches for my hand so he can pull me to my feet. His hands cup my shoulders, then slide up to my face. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

I gaze into those hard, dark eyes, reading his resolve. I realize I'm looking at someone who's lethal. Someone who has a long history of killing people.

"I'm staying," he says. "I'll grab my pack out of my car."

"For how long?"

He shoots me a hard look. "For as long as necessary."

I stand frozen to the spot as Jack walks out the door to retrieve his belongings from his car. He returns a few moments later with a huge rucksack slung over his shoulder. There's no telling what he's got stuffed into that bag. I don't miss the two handguns tucked into his waistband.

"Where should I put my stuff?" he asks.

I point to the bedroom on the left. "That's the spare bedroom."

I follow him as he walks in and sets his bag on the bed. He unzips the bag, pulls out some clothing, and then removes three scary looking rifles, a lethal-looking black knife in a leather sheath, and multiple boxes of ammo.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Unpacking."

I eye those rifles with their huge scopes. These aren't like any hunting rifles I've ever seen. These are killing machines.

He carries the boxes of ammo to my closet and stacks them on a shelf above the clothes rod.

"Jack, you can't be serious." I pull my phone out of my back pocket.

He lays his hand over my phone screen. "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling the sheriff."

"No, you're not. Not unless you want him dead."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ruth, you have no idea what these guys are capable of." He pulls one of the handguns from his waistband, pops out the magazine, then checks the chamber. "They won't hesitate to gun down a small-town sheriff. Unless you want your friend killed, keep him out of it. Let me and my buddies handle this."

Feeling queasy, I sit on the mattress as the blood drains from my face, leaving me cold.