Chapter Thirteen

Rueben glanced at the clock hanging on the living room wall and was surprised to see it was ten o'clock already. He guessed that's what happened when he put his nervous energy to good use. Rueben had cleaned every room in the small cabin from top to bottom, then reorganized every closet and storage space. Seth had left nearly five hours ago, and Rueben didn't have a clue what was going on. His burner phone ran out of juice, and Rueben had left the charger at home. His ranch phone was in the truck, but he didn't feel like dodging lightning bolts to get it. A large clap of thunder rattled the cabin as if Mother Nature was privy to his thoughts and seconded his opinion.

Seth would return as quickly as he could, and Rueben had needed to entertain himself the best he could until then. Music was his first love, but the batteries in the radio were dead. Rueben had looked in a junk drawer in the kitchen for replacements, but the only available size went to the flashlight. A power outage was highly probable, so knowing he had a light source was more important than music. The cabin didn't have cable or satellite, and the powerful storm interfered too much with the antennae signal used for local channels, so he'd raided the DVDs kept in the same closet with the games. The storage space was small and poorly utilized, and that's when the cleaning bug had bitten Rueben. He'd hooked up the DVD, started Raiders of the Lost Ark, and took a few moments to appreciate a young, sexy Harrison Ford. When the first movie ended, Rueben put the next one in the player. It was entertaining background noise to keep him from overthinking as he worked.

With nothing left to clean, he surveyed the cabin and said, "Now what?" The lights flickered, and another clap of thunder rumbled overhead. Rueben looked up and said, "I wasn't talking to you."

Knowing he'd go out of his mind if he just tried to watch a movie, he headed back into the kitchen. He'd cooked and shredded the chicken for his enchiladas, but that was as far as he'd gotten. It wasn't likely they'd want to eat a heavy meal when Seth returned, but he could assemble the dish for the next day. Rueben pulled the masa from the cabinet and set to work. His abuela had insisted he shop someplace where they sold authentic Mexican ingredients, and Rueben had recognized the brand of masa she'd used his entire life. Abuela's cousin had shipped boxes of the stuff to her from Los Angeles until the international food aisles improved in the local markets. Even the tiny store in Last Chance Creek had an impressive selection, but Rueben had driven to Colorado Springs to shop at a store dedicated to worldwide cuisine. He'd wanted to avoid Oliver and anyone else who might watch and speculate about what or who he was doing.

Rueben read the directions on the masa package and cycled through the tips and tricks his abuela had given him. He'd assisted her more times than he could count, so the process came back to him after a few missteps. Making homemade tortillas sounded easy, but it was an art form that few people mastered well. He didn't allow himself to obsess over getting a perfect round shell because he was going to fill and roll them, then smother them with a delicious cheese sauce, though he'd wait to do the final step right before he slid them into the oven. Rueben chalked up the first two or three attempts to practice and tossed those disasters away. Once he had a dozen decently sized and shaped tortillas, he turned his attention to cooking them. His deep cleaning and organizing had uncovered a set of cast-iron skillets, pots, and baking dishes. His abuela had fried her tortillas in a skillet just like the one Rueben held in his hand. The trick, he recalled, was using the proper amount of oil and achieving the perfect temperature. If not, you ended up with a soggy, oily tortilla or one that was hard and burned.

He didn't find a thermometer, so Rueben ran his fingers under the tap and sprinkled a few drops of water into the skillet. The oil bubbled and hissed the right amount to show it was ready. "Here goes nothing." The wind howled, the rain pounded the roof harder, and the power flickered again as if the universe mocked his attempts at a family tradition. "You don't scare me." Standing in a dark room with sizzling oil sounded like a recipe for disaster, though.

Rueben eased the first tortilla into the hot grease and watched for the signs to flip it over. He chastised himself for not making extra tortillas in case it took him a few reps to get this part right. When he deemed the appropriate amount of puffiness, he used a metal spatula to flip it over. The tortilla was perfectly golden without looking burned or hard. "Score one for the rookie."

Frying the second side was trickier. It cooked faster, and you didn't get the obvious signs like you did with the first, so it was easy to burn the shell. He stuck the metal spatula under the tortilla and peeked at the bottom. It looked perfect, so Rueben removed it from the skillet and set it on the cookie sheet he'd lined with paper towels to absorb the extra oil. Abuela had reminded him to let the oil heat back up between each round, so he whistled and hummed for a few seconds to let the skillet do its thing. Noise at the front door caught his attention, and adrenaline flooded his body at the prospect of seeing Seth again. It sounded like he'd jiggled the handle, which was weird since he'd locked the door before leaving. The front door burst open with a tremendous bang, then crashed against the wall. Fear gripped Rueben's heart in a cold, relentless grip and temporarily paralyzed him.

For a moment, the only sounds coming from the house were the noises Indiana Jones made while fighting his way out of his latest scrape. He couldn't just stand there because the wind hadn't jiggled the door handle, and Seth definitely hadn't kicked the door open. Rueben eased toward the kitchen doorway on silent feet, trying to convince himself he was acting paranoid with each inch forward. A reflection in the chrome toaster he'd just polished to a shine told him everything he needed to know. A broad-shouldered stranger was heading straight for the kitchen. The visitor knew exactly where to find him, and the menacing body language promised Rueben wouldn't like what would happen when the man found him. He scanned the room for a weapon, and his gaze fell on the butcher block with rows of knife handles protruding from it. Rueben dismissed it immediately because that required close combat, and he wanted to strike from a distance.

"Might as well come out, you fucking pervert." The stranger's voice was as ominous as the heavy tread of his steps. "Maybe I won't toy with you too much before I kill you and leave your body for your boyfriend to find." He punctuated the threat with an evil laugh that made Rueben want to puke. "Burke took everything from me, and I'm going to enjoy repaying the favor."

Rueben battled through his rising fear to find the perfect weapon. He wrapped a dish towel around the handle of the hot cast-iron skillet and positioned himself closer to the kitchen's opening, staying far enough away to avoid an easy grab. Rueben didn't see an obvious weapon in the man's hands, but it was unlikely he showed up without one. Instinct urged him to hold his breath to avoid making noise, but Rueben forced himself to take soft, shallow breaths. The last thing he needed was to faint from lack of oxygen. The footsteps echoed louder, and the shape of the man in the toaster became distorted as he got closer to the kitchen. Rueben tightened his grip on the skillet handle and vowed to give the next few minutes everything he had. He timed his swing with the approaching steps, and his aim was true. Hot oil arced through the air and coated the intruder's face and upper chest. The sizzle and hiss of scalding flesh and the agonized scream happened almost simultaneously. The intruder covered his face and staggered forward a few steps before he doubled over. Hands alternated between clawing at his shirt, which had stuck to his skin, and trying to soothe the burning flesh on his face.

"Jesus fucking Christ! It burns," the man howled.

"Welcome to hell, motherfucker," Rueben replied and brought the skillet down on the back of his head.

The man dropped to the kitchen floor immediately and didn't move. Rueben whacked him one more time for good measure to make sure he wasn't getting back up again anytime soon. The sickening smell of burning flesh was something he'd never forget, but he also wouldn't regret it. The asshole had come to kill him and leave his body for Seth to find.

Rueben stood over him, panting to catch his breath, with the skillet raised and ready to strike again if necessary. He needed to get his phone from the truck, but he didn't want to leave before securing the prone man. Rueben couldn't risk the stranger regaining consciousness and ambushing him when he returned to the cabin. Leaving without securing the guy first was out of the question. Rueben dropped the skillet and backed away a few steps before he remembered to turn off the stove. He'd just been through every inch of the cabin and couldn't figure out how to bind his prisoner with what he had on hand. Then he recalled fighting with the cords when cleaning the blinds.

The guy was still an unconscious, unmoving mass on the kitchen floor when Rueben cut off enough cord to immobilize his prisoner. He started off by tying his hands behind his back before moving to secure the ankles. Then he took the leftover cord and tied the individual bindings together, making it harder for the man to escape if he woke up. The wind picked up again, and the trees creaked as Rueben stood back and studied his handiwork. As he calmed, he noted the man's build and platinum-blond hair. He had to be the same guy Rueben tried to follow after the town hall meeting. Was this Brother Cain? Fuck, he should've listened to his instincts and told Seth about the potential sightings, but Keegan had been adamant he was probably wrong. The lights flickered once, twice, and went completely out, leaving Rueben alone in a dark house with the stranger who'd wanted to kill him. Had he acted alone? Surely, a partner would've come to his aid when he saw Rueben take him down with the hot oil and skillet. No, it was likely this was a solo attack. The urge to kick the felled man rose swift and hard, but Rueben resisted the temptation.

The only illumination in the room came from the intermittent lightning flashes, but Rueben used it to help guide his way to the junk drawer to retrieve the flashlight. He needed to get to his phone and find a better weapon just in case this was the first attack, not the last. Rueben recalled a baseball bat in the hallway closet with the games and DVDs. He preferred something that would put more space between himself and danger, but it was better than nothing. He'd just taken a few steps to retrace his path down the hallway when he heard loud footsteps on the front porch. The front door was wide open and hung crooked from its hinges from where big, bad, and burned kicked it in. Rueben hadn't stopped to do damage control during his mad dash to the hallway for a weapon.

He turned off his flashlight, tucked it in his back pocket, and crept forward as quietly as possible. Rueben positioned himself near the end of the hallway and raised his bat, prepared to swing for the fences as soon as the next asshole stepped into the strike zone. From the sounds of it, more than one goon had arrived to assist his fallen brethren.

"This is silly," a familiar masculine voice said. Cash. "Just call out his name, Nick. We'll either scare him to death, or we'll end up hurt."

Rueben's shoulders relaxed, and he nearly dropped the bat in relief. "I'm right here."

Rapid movement came from the living room, followed by a bright light piercing his skull. Rueben lifted his hands to shield his eyes. "Bad guy is down in the kitchen."

"Rueben!" Cash cried out. "Seth called when he couldn't get a hold of you. He said you could be in danger."

Still blinded, Rueben couldn't see his mentor move, but he could hear him. Between one heartbeat and the next, powerful arms wrapped him in a bruising hug. Cash's familiar scent washed over him, and Rueben buried his nose in the older man's chest and breathed deep, chasing away the foul stench of scorched flesh. "Thank you for coming for me." Now that he was safe, Rueben was on the verge of losing his shit.

"Always."

And there went the dam on his emotions. Rueben heard Nick talking in the kitchen, but between his sobs and Cash's soothing assurances, he couldn't make out what the former FBI agent said.

Nick rejoined them a few moments later. "Help is on the way."

"S-S-Seth?" Rueben stammered.

"He's leading the charge, buddy," Nick said. "I'm pretty sure you took down the mastermind behind one Carson's murder and the other's jailbreak."

Rueben couldn't believe his ears. "Jailbreak?"

"Well, technically, Quinton escaped when his transportation got ambushed."

"I didn't know any of that," Rueben said.

"You would if someone could've reached you by phone," Cash admonished.

The electric came back on, flooding the cabin with light. Rueben blinked a few times to bring familiar faces into focus. He hated how distraught Cash looked and figured he'd obsess much longer on that than the damage he'd caused to the man in the kitchen. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the promise of seeing Seth went a long way to soothing his frazzled nerves.

"Let's go look at your handiwork," Nick said.

Cash hooked his arm around Rueben's shoulders, and they followed Nick to the kitchen. "Whoa, dude," Cash said when he got a good look at the man's disfigured face. The skin was red and blistered and looked quite monstrous. "Acid?"

"Hot oil," Rueben said. "He might have a concussion too. I hit him with the skillet twice afterward."

Nick turned and looked at him with a raised brow. Was Rueben's reaction overkill?

"The oil only slowed him down. He said he was going to kill me, and I wasn't giving up without a fight."

The sirens went from a distant wail to a deafening scream as the cavalry arrived. Rueben pulled free of Cash and waited in the living room. Seth was the first one through the door, but he wasn't alone. Lyndhurst and the agent who'd originally worked the Salvation Anew case entered behind him. The look of relief on Seth's face made Rueben's knees weak. Strong arms wrapped around him again, but this time, they belonged to the man he loved.

"I'm so glad to see you," Rueben said.

Seth murmured assurances for several moments before he pulled back enough to cup Rueben's face and hold his gaze. A throat cleared behind them, and Seth smiled. They couldn't deny a deeper connection between them now. As if Seth read his mind, he lowered his head and kissed Rueben.

"What are you doing?" Rueben whispered when he pulled back.

"Announcing to everyone that you're the keeper."