Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Justin reached the safety of the old shack and fell in through the door, cursing as he hit the floor. His vision blurred, the pain stabbed into his thigh, and his knee was on fire from where he'd slammed it into the metal cabinet in the kitchen.

Fucking stupid, because the bowl had smashed and he'd had to run. Stumble, anyway. Two hours, maybe more, to make it this far, falling and staggering back to safety.

For the longest time, he'd stood outside the open kitchen window in the dark, waiting to see what shit was going to rain down on him. But all the man inside did was find a weapon in a knife from the block, look around the place, take inventory, clean up, and then leave. But not before locking the window Justin had been using for ingress. Justin had taken great care to let himself in and wedge it a little so it looked shut but was actually unlatched.

And now he was fucked. He wouldn't be getting in that way again, and hell if he knew where else he could safely find food. He lay back on the floor, staring up and seeing the blackness of the sky through the large hole in the ceiling.

Thank God the snow had gone and they were into the Montana summer; that, he could handle. Trying to hide in this shithole with snow and rain was just asking to fall sick.

Okay, so he'd come here to die, but some stubbornness had him thinking he could at least make the effort to live.

Who else was going to kill Jamie Crane? Who else was going to right the wrongs done to Adam and him? The need to be alive just for that one last thing had forced its way through the pain, and he'd decided he was going to survive.

He'd dug out the bullet and screamed the pain to the emptiness around him, tied a T-shirt around the area, and tightened his belt over it to hold the makeshift dressing in place—and that had just been day one.

His head throbbed, the pain in his thigh was intense, and he couldn't stop feeling sick. The betrayal, the bullet… he didn't know which hurt worse. Revenge was what drove him here, but he could die up in this cabin and no one would know and probably never care.

He had to move. His stomach told him he needed to eat, and his dry mouth insisted he find water somewhere in this godawful run-down heap of a shack.

At least three warrants were out for his arrest. Not for Justin Allens, but for his cover names. Still, they were there. He doubted there was any kind of "be on the lookout" out for the man who killed Saunders and Webb. How could you place a BOLO for a man who didn't exist anymore? A sheriff was sniffing around the ranch yesterday—one of the Carter brothers, Ryan—asking Adam questions, no doubt, and trying to get him to remember things.

Or maybe they were cutting to the chase now, and Adam had told them Justin had spoken to him.

And how fucking stupid had Justin been to do that? To see the man he thought dead, the boy he'd loved as a kid, standing there alone with Justin's horse, Easy, was like a punch to the gut.

Adam was alive.

And all of Justin's life had been a lie.

A vicious, hate-filled, fucker of a lie.

He'd killed for Saunders, taken his revenge on so many, gone so deep that for years he'd forgotten his own name. And now? Now he was home, and he couldn't go down there, couldn't take his pain to their doors.

Couldn't even think.

Justin's head pounded. He rolled onto his side with care and then crawled to the small packing box where he kept his entire world. No wallet, no ID, no link to the past, no suggestion of a future. He owned a satellite phone that he didn't dare use—and anyway, the only number in there was for Rob—his gun, a notebook without a single word, a pen, and three remaining bullets. Oh, and there—the small box of strong migraine medication he'd found in Adam's house.

Justin had only taken what he needed, trying not to look at the things that lay around Adam and Ethan's place. Only what they wouldn't notice, just some pain pills.

He didn't want to face evidence of his brother, or Adam, or both of them together. He couldn't. Not yet.

He had no access to antibiotics, but if he was desperate, he could probably get something from the stables.

How much do I want to live?

He dry swallowed two pills and ended his crawl in the corner of the shack, well away from the hole and the unpredictable chance of light rain. He'd worn the same clothes for the last two days, layered in filth and turned brown with dried blood. He hadn't showered or slept properly since he'd killed Webb and Saunders; only adrenaline had gotten him down to the ranch and back again.

Justin curled up as best he could, pulling his jacket up and willing himself to stop shivering. If he'd willed himself to become a man he wasn't meant to be for so many years, he could surely stop himself shivering.

Justin woke from shaking too hard, cold, but his skin hot, and popped more pain pills. He stretched out from the position he'd been lying in and attempted to stand.

But that wasn't happening. His thigh was on fire, his head pounded, and this could well be day three.

He was fucked. He'd managed two trips down to the restaurant, and one of those he'd taken the opportunity to get into the Strachan house, a round trip of two miles at least. He wasn't going to be able to do it again, that much was obvious.

What am I going to do? What part of this is okay?

Stay alive. You have work to do.

He closed his eyes again and slipped into sleep. He had to stay awake, but when he slept, there wasn't any pain.

The sound of the wind passed his head as he throttled back on his motorbike and sped down the Pacific Coast Highway, his favorite ride, the scent of the sea on the breeze.

He could feel the vibration, hear the engine, and knew that this was a dream so real he could almost touch it…

He snapped awake.

Noise.

The sound of a bike.

Justin grabbed his gun, lying just beyond his hand, and let out a muffled yelp of pain. Every single muscle ached. He released the safety, only three bullets, and waited.

If this was him being found, then he wasn't going down without taking at least three fuckers with him, headshots the lot of them.

Shakily he curled up to a sitting position, rested his hands on his right knee to steady the gun, and concentrated on thinking about how he was going to stand up.

No one could have any idea he was there; no one would even think to step inside what was left of an old drover's place. The cabin had long since disappeared into the undergrowth, covered up and swallowed until it was nothing more than a gap in the trees with a damaged roof.

The engine died outside.

Absolute silence.

And then he heard it, or at least imagined it enough to tense. Someone outside the place, the noise of shoes scraping on the stony ground, and Justin finally moved. He clung to the wall as support, moving around as quietly as he could until he was right behind the door.

Light flooded in as what was left of the door was opened, pushed in.

A person entered, and Justin put the barrel of the gun to the back of the man's head. Pressing hard and not caring when the other man nearly fell at the shove. The guy was carrying a duffel and another bag over one shoulder. He wore a leather jacket—but that was all Justin made out before his vision blurred.

"Drop your weapon," he spat, "or I'll shoot." He used all his remaining energy just to hold the gun and get out words that made any sense.

"Fuck," a distinctly male voice said. "I'm unarmed."

"Drop the bags."

The man stepped away from him, holding his hands up and turning to face Justin. Very carefully he dropped a hand and eased the duffel and the bag off his shoulder, placing them deliberately on the floor.

It was the guy from the restaurant, the one who'd locked the goddam window on him.

That was way too close to home.

"Step back." Justin gestured with the gun and moved away from the door.

"My name is Sam Walter," the man said.

He still had his hands up and Justin quickly appraised the situation. Sunlight spilled in through the hole in the roof, making a weird halo around Sam's head. He was shorter than Justin, by maybe four inches, and slight, with stubble, short brown hair, and really blue eyes.

"I'm the chef at Crooked Tree," Sam said in a soft, almost reassuring tone.

Justin faltered, the name "Crooked Tree" sending a chill skittering down his spine. "What are you doing over here?" he asked. Although he had other questions in his head—how did he find Justin, what did he want, that kind of thing. They were a mess he couldn't get out.

"I came to find you."

Fear sliced into Justin. Someone from Crooked Tree had come; did that mean everyone else was looking for him? He'd told Adam to forget him.

And then you got shot, and what did you do? Told yourself you were going to die on Montana land. You went to the one place you felt safe—the only place you actually aren't safe at all.

"Why would you… do that?" Justin's tongue felt too big for his mouth and pain kept arcing up his thigh. His vision blurred further, but he didn't falter. If anything, his grip on the gun was harder than ever.

Something passed over Sam's face. Uncertainty? Sadness? Justin couldn't tell, but whatever made Sam find him had been something more than idle curiosity.

"Found your blood in my larder, the open window, thought you might need help." Sam tilted his head. "Can I put my hands down?"

"Who else knows you're here?" Justin waggled the gun again and fear passed over Sam's face.

Too late Justin realized that question would make Sam think too long about what he should reveal. Sam could have the whole ranch coming up after him, in which case he would probably say he was alone.

Or he could be alone, but pretend others knew.

My head is fucked.

"Everyone knows," Sam said.

But he didn't sound convincing, and Justin had been in way too many situations and he could tell that Sam was lying. "And have you called the cops?"

"Yes." Sam met Justin's gaze steadily, daring him to call him on the lie.

At least that was how it looked to Justin. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

Justin gestured with the gun. "No sense in me staying here alive, then."

"What?"

"I have three bullets; I can take you down with one, kill the next person through the door, and use one on myself. I'll be okay."

Then he very deliberately aimed at Sam's head. "You first."

Sam's mouth fell open. "Fuck, okay, I didn't tell anyone." Justin just stared, and terror skittered across Sam's face. "No one else knows I'm here, okay?" Sam admitted after a moment's hesitation. "I promise you, no one other than me knows you're here."

Then he bit his lip and rolled his eyes at the same time. "Shit, did you just reverse psychology me?"

Justin searched his expression for signs of lying or betrayal, but Sam met Justin's gaze steadily and didn't put his arms down, even though he'd pretty much told Justin no one would know where to find the body if he disappeared.

Is he some kind of idiot?

But still Justin didn't drop the gun or lower his guard. "Why did you come up here?"

"To find you. I already said that." He wiggled the fingers on his left hand. "I brought some stuff." His gaze raked Justin, focusing for a moment on the wound in his thigh and the blood soaked into his jeans.

"Stuff?"

"Some food and medical things, all I could find, anyway. I saw the blood trail you left." He gestured to Justin's thigh.

Justin's free hand went to his waist but didn't go lower to touch the wound. The shot had gone deep. At first he thought he'd gotten it all out, but it hurt like a bastard and there probably were fragments in the wound. He needed a sharper knife to dig out what was in there, but he had nothing there. He'd worked with broken limbs before. Taking down the first man on his revenge list, way back—he'd done that with the burned flesh still twisted on his back. But now, with the raging temperature in his body he was like a freaking baby.

So what now? What should he do with Sam? He couldn't stay here, had to move on. Fucking stupid to even think of coming here. Just by talking to him, Sam was now compromised. Maybe there was something in one of the bags that he could use to cut open his wound, see if there was anything else in there, maybe even some antibiotics to counter the fever that burned through him. And then he could leave, find somewhere more remote on the ranch to sleep.

"Show me," he ordered, gesturing to the bags.

"May I use my hands?" Sam wiggled his fingers again.

"Just get everything out slowly."

Sam glanced up at him as he crouched next to the first bag. "I promise I'm not here to hurt you. So please, can you put the gun down?"

So much sincerity in the man, like an almost desperate need to connect to Justin. He'd seen that before, in people he saved, or people just before he killed them, that need to find some part of Justin that cared. The tiny part of him that they could possibly trust.

But that part of Justin was cold and dead, had been for twelve years; it wasn't coming back. Not even seeing Adam alive was enough to rock his world back onto the axis of normal.

Sam looked away from him and carefully pulled out containers and then some fresh fruit, a few crumpled-up T-shirts, a sweatshirt that looked like it had seen better days, and some wipes.

Then he held up a small box. "All the medication, bandages, and creams I could find. Some of it is out of date. I had bronchitis last winter, but I didn't take the stuff they gave me, and I just thought it could help you." He nodded at Justin's jeans, at the dark patch. "Are you still bleeding? Can I help with that?"

Justin stared at him, steadying his aim. "Doesn't matter how you help me, you know I can't ever let you leave."

Sam nodded. Again, a wave of fear passed over his face, and he swallowed hard, but when he spoke, his tone was even. "Can I just look at your injuries?"

What's wrong with the man, is he deaf?

"I just said I couldn't let you leave," Justin said. Or slurred—was his voice right? It didn't sound right.

"Then I'll stay, and you'll have someone here to help you."

Sam looked up at him with guileless eyes. Seriously, what the hell was his agenda? "Do you know what you're doing?"

Sam didn't look him in the eye. "We did first aid when I was in catering college. I can handle burns, cuts, the usual."

"What about bullets?"

Sam paled a little. "You have a bullet wound? In you? Is that where the blood is from? Shit, I can't do that."

Justin shook his head and dizziness assailed him. He was tired, pissed and thirsty, and every single part of him hurt. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wiped it away with his free hand. His forehead was hot; he felt sick.

Justin didn't do being ill. He'd been shot before, beaten up before, and his body held the kind of scars no man would wish on even his worst enemy, but here he was, swaying as he stood in front of this man, someone who could hurt him.

One-handed, he fumbled with the belt of his pants, and Sam reached for him. Justin shuffled back in alarm, but Sam kept reaching and gently unbuckled the belt and pushed the button through the material.

"Can we push these down?" Sam asked, as the material of Justin's jeans caught where blood had dried. "The denim is stuck."

Sam unbuttoned the rest of the fly, but the material wasn't moving. He began to move the jeans down off Justin's hips, but it was torturously slow. With a muttered curse, Justin shoved his pants down past where the wound was, exhaling on the pain and seeing spots in front of his eyes. He released the grip on the gun, enough so it wavered, and it was gone from his hand.

Into Sam's.

At that moment, fate finally caught up with him. He couldn't move fast enough as Sam stepped away, the weapon in his grip, his eyes focused on Justin.

All Justin could think was that now he was a dead man.

And then Sam placed the gun very carefully on the floor beside himself and turned back to examine Justin's thigh.

"The infection doesn't look too bad, but your skin is on fire." He tutted and pressed the red skin on either side of the wound.

Justin winced but managed to say, "I think there's infection. Metal inside."

"When did this happen?"

"S-S-Sun-day." His words were an uncontrollable stutter, and the pain grew exponentially with each passing minute.

"Was this a hunting accident?"

Justin jumped on that idea. "Yes."

"Then we can get you to a hospital."

Justin reached for Sam's arm and gripped as hard as he could. "No."

"Jesus." Sam sat back on his haunches. "I don't know how…." He stopped and focused on the contents of his bags. "What do I…?" He passed over a bottle of water to Justin and then fumbled with a blister pack of white pills. "Painkillers," he said gruffly.

Sam held the meds out, but Justin couldn't reach for them; he held the water in one hand, but his other hand shook.

Sam stood up, unscrewed the water, and held the bottle as Justin took the pills with his steady hand and then washed them down, passing it back to Sam.

There were more pills then, painkillers, but Justin had stronger ones from his foray into the Strachan house, to what he assumed was Adam's supply, and he took two more of those. He tried to shake off just how damn unstable he was on his feet, and attempted to move toward the gun, hand outstretched.

Sam beat him to it. "You don't need a gun, and you don't need to threaten me."

"I need…."

Sam stared at the gun and then at Justin, sighing. Very deliberately, he held out the gun to him.

"What shit is this?" Justin mumbled.

"Take it. I don't want it."

"F-f-fuck…. Stupid…." Justin coughed as spoke.

"You won't hurt me." Sam sounded absolutely convinced of that and remained still.

Justin took the weapon and made sure to put the safety back on before laying it close enough beside him that he would reach it first. Somehow there'd been a truce of sorts, but fuck if Justin was letting his guard down.

Sam cautiously knelt in front of him, taking a wipe from the packet and holding it out. Justin tried to take it, but his limbs felt so heavy that he couldn't move.

"Can I?" Sam asked.

"Uh-huh."

Sam leaned over him, letting a stream of warm water from the plastic bottle trickle over the wound. The water was both torture and relief, and when Sam wiped gently at the dried blood, Justin gritted his teeth to stop himself yelping.

"You need a shower," Sam said, as if conversation was the best thing right then.

"N-not a p-p-priority."

"No," Sam began as he pushed up the soft jersey of Justin's boxers, a little too close to the wound again, and sent a spike of pain into Justin's groin. "Your clear priority here was dying."

Justin said nothing. He couldn't. His head was a mess, heat racked his body, and anyway, what would he say?

That Sam was right? That guilt and shame pulled him apart and he'd come here to the cabin to die because he wanted to be on Montana soil?

That he wished he'd never been born?

No.

Justin didn't say a thing.

And then he was falling, and he passed out.