Chapter Sixteen

L ivia rolled as she struck the ground. Tires whirred inches from her head as Smythe drove off.

Pain slammed through her head and body. Gravel cut into her skin, giving her road rash on every body part not covered by clothes.

Her mind blanked for several seconds. She couldn't even think, blankly staring up at the dark sky. About a million stars twinkled.

What happened?

She tried to piece together the events.

She'd been taking stock of the alcohol in her bar so she could prepare an order for delivery the next morning.

Then…

The thuds of fists and crashes of a fight in the stockroom. Carver fighting for his life.

She had been kidnapped and stuffed into a vehicle. Driven to god knew where and tossed out.

At least she was away from that evil man.

Overhead, the tiny lights of an airplane flew. A single tear seeped from the corner of her eye and rolled down her temple.

She was lying on the gravel road. What road? She didn't have a clue, but she needed to get up before a car came along and ran her over.

With a groan, she rolled onto her side and slowly sat up. Her head spun, her thoughts fragmented. Sharp rocks dug into her palms, and she winced as she pushed to her knees. Slowly, she gained her feet, swaying.

Then she really looked at her surroundings.

That bastard had left her in the mountains.

She had to be miles from Eden, or even the nearest house.

She patted her jeans, feeling for her phone. It wasn't on her.

It was gone.

She tipped her head back, staring at the sky again, wanting to scream down the heavens in anger, fear and frustration.

And grief—she couldn't forget her loss.

Fresh tears blinded her for long minutes, and she couldn't catch her breath through the sobs. Carver. She'd just found someone who understood her, and now he was gone.

She took off walking as if her feet had a will of their own and wanted off this mountain. Fury kept her from collapsing. The jagged pain in her heart spurred her faster.

She was going to find someone to help her hunt down Jered Smythe and kill him. Colton, Hunter…any of those ranch hands at the Gracey. Even that unknown man who wouldn't meet her gaze when they all realized Carver was dead.

Hurt whipped at her, and she wrapped her arms around her middle to hold the broken shards of herself together as she walked.

Again, she looked to the sky for answers to her latest problem—where was she?

Her daddy didn't teach her how to navigate by stars—he only taught her how to run a bar.

And not even to make the rum he'd wanted so damn much.

She should walk away from Badlands, leave it all behind. It wasn't worth fighting for anymore, and her father probably owed the loan shark more than the place was even worth.

Let Smythe have it all. For all she cared, he could burn it down.

Livia could leave like her sister did. She could keep on walking right off this mountain, right out of this town, and start over.

But how, without Carver?

The pain seared her all over again. If he had been in the bar, he would have made his way to her. His men would have found him.

But they hadn't, and she'd been alone.

Her boots crunched on the gravel road. The pines lining the sides cast black shadows for her to walk through. The needles brushed her shoulders in spots when she swayed too close to the side of the road.

Was she moving toward Eden or away? Did it matter anymore?

Her head throbbed, and her nose was running. She used the hem of her top to wipe it, but not even that human action improved her spirits.

She walked for what felt like miles. The sky changed colors, from the deep black of night to purple. It was cold out here too, and she only wore her Badlands T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

When she spotted a road branching to the right, she paused, staring in shock at the object on a wooden post. A mailbox.

She couldn't be that far from town if the resident had mail delivery.

The person who lived here could be a rapist or serial killer. None of those thoughts deterred her from walking down that eternally long driveway and up to a dark house in the middle of the woods.

After knocking on the door for what felt like another hour, a man finally came to the door wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt. She told him that her car broke down and she'd walked a long way and she'd lost her phone.

He allowed her to use his phone, but once she had it in her hand, she stopped.

Who could she even call? She had no one left. No parents, a sister states away.

No Carver.

Her heart lurched, and fresh tears blurred her vision as she dialed the only number she had memorized. The Graceys'.

The male voice on the other end of the line sounded like it had some age to it.

"Mr. Gracey?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Livia. I'm friends with Meadow and Ivy. Can you please put one of them on the phone?"

"I'm sorry, but they're not home."

"It's the middle of the night. Where could they be?"

The answer slammed her.

Looking for her.

Looking for Carver.

Her heart squeezed.

"Mr. Gracey, I have a huge favor to ask. Could you pick me up?"

Forty minutes later, a truck with the Gracey Ranch logo pulled up to the house where she waited. She thanked the man for letting her stay and apologized for waking him.

When she was settled in the passenger seat, she battled against her sobs. She was exhausted, alone, battered. Grief was a black shadow hanging over her.

Her friends' father had been through an ordeal with a bad heart, and he'd lost a good amount of weight. She sent him a sidelong look and found him staring at her the same way.

"I guess you should know why I was on that mountain."

"Bad boyfriend? A breakup?"

"No. Jered Smythe kidnapped me—then threw me out of the vehicle in the middle of nowhere."

He almost veered off the road. In the dim light coming off the dashboard, she saw his face pale at her statement.

"You know him."

"Yes." His voice was hoarse.

"Well, it seems my father was friendly with him too. He claims he was going to let the debt die with him, but I ticked him off by fighting off his men, and now he wants a piece of me too."

"Goddamn him."

She studied the older man. "You got in deep with Smythe too."

He drove for a while in silence. Finally, he nodded. "I'm embarrassed to admit I made that mistake. Now I'm about to lose it all."

"I don't care if I lose Badlands. I have nothing left to care about anymore."

"I almost lost my daughters. They're all I have, and now they hate me."

She struggled at the sound of pain echoing in his voice. It made her miss the dad she never had and even sadder for Sean Gracey and all he lost. His wife, his son. His good name with his daughters.

"What did your father need the money for?" Sean asked her.

She shook her head. "I wish I knew. The bar was paid off when I inherited it. I took out loans with the bank to fund the distillery. My father wasn't very smart with business, and he drank too much. It's anybody's guess what he did with the money Smythe lent him." She let out a sigh. "He's going to hold it over me until I give up everything."

He turned his head sharply, piercing her in his gaze. "You can't do that. You have to fight him. So do I. Otherwise, what are we doing?"

Anger washed through her, along with a fresh wave of grief. "That doesn't mean shit. The land you own, my bar. The rum I don't give a damn about. Fuck it all."

He swallowed hard enough that she heard it. "There are too many memories on that ranch. I can't lose it. It's the place where I took my bride when we got married. I brought all three of my children home to that ranch when they were born. I want it for my daughters. When I'm gone…"

Livia's throat closed around the hot ball of tears clogging it. While she had no ties to her family anymore, she did have ties to Badlands.

To her employees. Emory and Big Dan and many more.

She had fun running the place with Carver around. Taunting him by wiggling her backside in front of that camera he set up behind the bar and even that night he wanted to dance with her.

Why had she pushed him away? So many regrets.

She turned her head and locked eyes with Sean Gracey. Whatever the man had done to dig his grave with Smythe, he harbored enough regrets. He was beaten, downtrodden. The stress ended up giving him a heart attack, which he was still recovering from.

Not to mention all the people he'd lost in his life.

Just as she'd lost Carver.

Maybe Mr. Gracey was right. They had to keep fighting. That bastard who had Carver attacked, who'd set those men on him and on her too, deserved to be behind bars.

If they worked together, she and Sean could put him there.

She saw him nod. Reaching out, she squeezed his arm.

And the silent pact was made.

* * * * *

Blood dripped from Carver's bottom lip onto his Badlands shirt. When he grinned at the man who'd just walked into the garage and delivered a kick to the face, he knew that blood stained his teeth.

The asshole shifted his stare away as if he was actually frightened of a man chained to a pole.

Well, he should be frightened. In fact, he should be terrified.

Because Carver was no longer chained.

He felt the link give. Victory burst in his chest along with a heavy dose of adrenaline that drove him to his feet. Before the asshole could take a step to get away, Carver whipped the chain around his neck and yanked.

The man's death was too quick and painless—he deserved far worse. But today Carver wasn't in the revenge business. He wanted to get the fuck out of here and find out if any of the people he cared about had survived.

He couldn't allow his mind to touch on Livia for too long. He'd seen that man grab her from behind and drag her away right before the others took him down.

Standing over the man he'd just killed, he dropped the chain on the concrete floor and swiped the back of his hand over his bleeding mouth. It didn't do much good when blood ran down his hands from his wrists he wrecked while yanking on his bonds.

He bent and patted down the body, searching for a weapon. When he located a set of car keys and a pistol tucked in his baggy jeans, Carver took the weapon and checked the clip. It was full. It would get him by.

Striding to the exit, he threw out his senses, listening for somebody approaching the building. He'd spent hours chained to that pole, searching the space for any indication of where he was. A sign or a cardboard box with an address label would have given him some hint about where they took him.

Since he'd been unconscious at the time, he was clueless. He could be in Eden or across the border in another state.

His gut burned with acid and bile. Livia. Where the hell was she? What had those bastards done to her?

With one hand on the doorknob, he opened it a small crack and placed his ear to the opening, listening. His senses were still sharp as hell, but that didn't make him feel any better. He'd fucked up and let somebody take Livia.

Hearing nothing but the low chirp of early morning birds, he opened the door fully and crept out. As he reached the corner, he checked that it was all clear before running in a crouch to the car parked in the driveway. He didn't see or hear anybody around, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. It was unlikely Smythe would only set one guard on Carver, especially knowing how he'd fucked up four of his men before they got the better of him.

He silently opened the car door and slipped inside. Keeping his eyes peeled for danger, he put the key in the ignition and turned it.

Click.

Fuck. A dead battery.

He tried again. After a third failure, he moved to plan B. He'd have to make his way out of here on foot.

It would be rougher travel. The assholes had taken his phone, and the dead guy didn't have one on him for Carver to take. He set off into the trees. Safer to cut through and find a road rather than walk right down the one in front of the garage.

The blood dripping off his hands made his skin itch, and he stopped to wipe off as much as he could on his jeans before rushing on. The woods weren't thick here—not even as dense as the patch he and Livia had ridden through that day of their picnic brunch.

More regrets flooded in. He hadn't spent nearly enough time telling her how he felt about her. Now it may be too late.

No—he was a goddamn SEAL. He didn't give up until there was damn good cause. And he didn't have enough information to make that call.

Until he learned otherwise, Livia was alive, goddammit, and he was going to find her.

The light of dawn pooled in spots on the ground, but shadowed other parts, making it easy to trip up on tree roots or fallen logs. He could run fast in any terrain—had proved it during his time in the military—but he was battered and exhausted, which rendered him clumsier than usual.

A twig snapped on his right. He froze, listening. Then he saw a flash of brown as a deer picked its way around the trees.

In stealth mode, he continued on. All sense of time evaporated. He followed one bright light in his mind—Livia. He had to reach Livia.

And his men. He couldn't forget about them. Right before he took the knee to the temple that knocked him unconscious, he thought of better times with them. Even in the deepest of peril, they still found something to live for. Then the strike came and all that faded to black.

He hadn't gotten nearly enough time with his brothers since coming to Montana, but the times they had spent at the bonfire and even just texting with each other reminded him of all he had to live for.

Through a break in the trees, he spotted a cabin. Dropping to one knee, he studied it. Small, probably a hunting cabin. It didn't give any intel as to his location. He could be anywhere this side of the Mississippi.

No movement in the yard or around the structure. Abandoned.

Shoving to his feet, he took off through the last of the trees then pitched up against one, spine flush against the trunk. The scratchy bark dug into his skin, and he used the sensation to help him focus.

He was used to fighting in extreme conditions and going long periods of time without food or drink, but his brain wasn't as dialed in as he liked it to be. If he could find a way to break into that cabin, he could hope for a little food or bottled water.

And a landline.

After several minutes of staring at the cabin, he determined it was safe. He took off at a fast clip across the span of yard. The grass needed a good cutting and the growth of weeds around the flowerbeds told him that no one had visited in a long time.

All the better for him.

He ran up to the front door and knocked first. When nobody answered, he felt around under the porch mat. More often than not, people kept a spare key in a place it could be easily found.

But maybe not this owner. He ran his fingers along the perimeter of the mat and thought he was going to have to use brute strength to break in, when his fingers brushed metal.

He plucked the key out and surged to his feet. It fit the lock in a smooth glide, and he was in.

The place smelled musty and slightly damp. Daylight streamed through the windows, filling the space with enough light for him to search the place.

After a quick sweep, he checked the small refrigerator and was relieved to find water. He took two bottles out and drank one after another, aware that his parched state had more to do with shock of what had happened to him over the past eight hours than physical need.

With his pulse leveling out, he swept through the simple and sparse kitchen. A gun rack hanging above the door was missing the rifle, and it pointed to this being a hunting camp just like he thought.

In one cupboard he found a couple bags of rations. A stew—just add water.

Any good SEAL knew that they should eat when they got a chance, even MREs. He reached up to pull a pot off a rack hanging above the stove and filled it with water from the tap. When he lit the burner under it, some of the fight went out of him.

His adrenaline level dropped, and his pain level rose. He started searching again. A small bathroom had a first-aid kit under the sink, and he rummaged through it for pain pills. He popped four and swallowed them without a sip of water. Then he grabbed some rolled gauze, wrapping it around his wrists and using his teeth to tear off strips of tape to secure them.

The water still wasn't boiling, so he went on another sweep of the place, looking for a phone. He had no idea how remote this cabin was, but typically hunting cabins were off the beaten path. He hadn't seen any phone lines running through the clearing either.

After several more searches, he opened a closet. And there, next to some bed linens on the shelf, was a lantern and a satellite phone.

His heart rocketed into his throat. With an unsteady hand, he snatched it up and dialed a number he memorized the minute he took on the role of bodyguard.

He called Livia.

Heart pounding, he listened to it ring several times before going to voicemail.

"Livia." His voice grated so roughly that the syllables almost didn't come out. He tried again. "Livia, it's me. My god, honey. I hope you're all right."

He struggled for a moment and then ended the call.

Replacing the phone on the shelf, he returned to the kitchen. The water was bubbling, and he dumped it into the open pouch of stew mix. Then it all hit him hard.

He braced his hands on the short counter, head bowed.

The struggle inside him wasn't something he dealt with on a daily basis. He had a certain amount of PTSD, like every other SEAL he knew, but most times, he was able to stuff that shit down.

Maybe it was how close he'd come to losing more people he loved.

Hearing Livia's voice on that voicemail recording damn near ripped out his heart.

With the pouch of food and a spoon in hand, he sank to the small wooden chair at a round table to eat, feeling like Goldilocks. A stack of old newspapers sat on the table, and he took the one off the top and opened it to read while he ate.

As he brought the food to his lips, he scanned the headline.

"Local Marine Sacrifices Life for his Country."

Carver's breath lodged in his throat. He stared at the familiar SEAL's photo, his young eyes still filled with promise…and he lost it.

Forest Gracey. Oh god.

A rough cry burned up his throat.

He never fucking cried. Not since that day.

Now he couldn't staunch the flow of tears.

His shoulders shook with the force of emotion he never, ever released. Long minutes passed while his food cooled and the knot of pain inside him loosened.

It didn't fade away—it would be with him forever—but he now had enough ease to go on fighting.

"Livia, I'm coming. I will find you."