Page 125 of The Rancher Who Swore Off Love
“Didn’t dig deep enough. Won’t make that mistake twice.”
“And Grace?”
“Insurance.” Ace pressed the flat of the blade a fraction harder. Grace sucked air through her nose. “You or that useless brother of hers get in my way, she pays the price.”
Grace’s gut clenched.
He’d said it so casually… like breaking a woman ranked somewhere between chores and breakfast. For all that she’d grown up around men like this—dock bosses, the ward runners, men who measured people in what they could take from them—no one had ever beenthisrelaxed when talking about murder.
“You lay that blade on her—”
“Already layin’ it.” Ace grinned with the gaps in his teeth. “She bites, by the way. You oughta know that about your wife.”
Damn right she’d bitten him. Gotten a mouthful of dirty coat sleeve and the taste of tobacco and cheap whiskey for her trouble, but she’d left marks. Four crescent-shaped welts, right through the fabric. Ace had rolled his sleeve up to inspect them, and the sight had given her something warm to hold onto during the cold hours that followed.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen.” Logan’s voice went low. “You’re gonna take that knife off my wife. You’re gonna hand back her money. And then you’re gonna get on those horses and ride till I can’t see your dust.”
“Or what? You shoot me and hope this blade don’t slip?” Ace chuckled. “Nah. You ain’t gonna risk that. I can see it in your face.”
The two goons flanked the front of the room, one on each side of the door Logan had come through. The skinny one gripped his knife. The other held a pistol in his lap, aimed nowhere in particular.
Mason stood just inside the doorway on Logan’s left, training a rifle on the goon with the pistol. Jonah hovered behind them both with his fists balled at his sides, locking his one good eye on Ace.
“Tough spot you’re in, Cowboy.” Ace tilted his head. “Can’t shoot. Can’t rush me. That Winchester’s about as useful as a—”
Jonah moved.
He came past Logan like a bull through a rotten gate, head down, shoulder dropped, straight at Ace. No strategy. No plan. Just a body launched at the man who’d, apparently, owned him since Mulberry Street.
Logan’s eyes widened. “Jonah, NO—”
But the angle saved her. Jonah hit Ace from the left—the opposite side from the knife—driving his shoulder into Ace’s ribsand knocking him sideways off the crate and away from Grace. The blade swung wide, scraping across the wall instead of her ribs.
Ace caught himself, shoved Jonah off, and drove his knee into his gut. Jonah folded. Hit the dirt wheezing.
Her brother. Her stupid, reckless, brave, lying, loyal, infuriating brother who’d starved himself so she could eat, sold her to a criminal, and then taken a beating trying to protect her garden. On the floor getting the air kicked out of him because he couldn’t keep his temper for more than five minutes.
But he’d knocked Ace away from her. That mattered. That mattered more than anything.
The goons scrambled. The skinny one lunged at Mason. The one with the pistol aimed at Logan, but Logan shot faster. The Winchester stock cracked. The bullet bit right through the man’s forearm, and the pistol fell from his grip.
Mason grappled with the knife man against the makeshift table. The planks buckled, one sawhorse snapped, and then the whole thing collapsed into splintered wood. Then Thomas burst through the back wall—literally through it, shoulders first—right into the goon scrambling for his dropped pistol. Tackled him flat.
Grace pulled.
She yanked with everything her wrists could give. The knot shifted. Half an inch. But the loop around her right wrist loosened just enough to fold her thumb flat against her palm—double-jointed, always had been, Jonah used to make her do it at parties as a kid because people shrieked—
Her right hand slid free.
The relief hit her wrists first, blood rushed back like stepping into hot water after a cold night. She clawed the rag out of her mouth. Air hit her tongue, real air, not filtered through coal oil. She spat the taste out, or tried to, as the chemical tang had soaked into her gums and the back of her throat, where it would probably sit for days.
Ace turned.
Two strides. He grabbed her arm above the elbow hard enough to grind bone, fingers digging in, dragging her sideways. Her shoulder wrenched, shooting fire straight into her neck. She swung with her free fist. Connected with his jaw—not hard, her fingers still tingled too much—but enough to snap his head sideways. The impact jarred up her arm into the wrenched shoulder.
It was worth it, though—the look on his face alone. Obviously, nobody had hit Ace Pike and meant it in a good long while.
“You little—”
