Page 125 of Trigger Happy

I shrug. “Now we’re even for lying to me.”

62Sabrina

This is going to be fun.”

That voice doesn’t sound fun. It sounds angry, very, very angry. And why does it feel like someone took a baseball bat to my head?

I try to push myself up, but I can’t. What the—

My eyes fly open.

Someone handcuffed me to a freaking table.

My heart starts racing, but it’s fine. It’s fine. Nothing a lockpick can’t fix. I suck in a breath and nearly gag. “Oh my god, what’s that smell?”

“Don’t mind that. It’s just melted skin mixed with manure,” Mrs. Montoya says pleasantly, two cotton balls shoved up her nostrils.

Manure-scented skin.

Lovely.

Breathing feels like a monumental feat, but panicking won’t help me. I inhale for four, exhale, and then take stock of my surroundings. I’m in a barn, and not the cute rental we stayed in. This one has animals. There are pigs. Chomping on… Nope. Not going to think about what they’re eating. And then there’s Mrs. Montoya—holding a branding iron in a firepit.

My stomach seizes.

Oh, fuck.

The branding iron means she knows about Walker. Why else would I be handcuffed to a table? Lawton must have told her, which means I’m about to get marked with a giant M for Montoya on my ass.

Or worse.

I start sweating, trying to think through every coping strategy I know, but nothing will stop my hammering heart. I didn’t plan for this. I was so busy practicing what I was going to say to Lawton in the mirror, I didn’t have time to think up anything past plan B. Sweat starts dripping down my forehead thanks to the stuffy barn, but I will not lose control. There’s always a way out.

“So,” she begins. There’s a metal scrape. “You’re the one who’s got my son chopping wood ’til his calluses bleed, huh?”

I can barely swallow over the dryness in my throat. “I prefer to be known as the woman who finally got him to wear properly tailored flannels, but that works too.”

She doesn’t laugh.

Okay. Think.

The restraints are too tight to break, so that won’t work. Lawton has to be here somewhere on the ranch, so maybe if I scream loud enough, he’ll come for me, but at the thought, my heart deflates. He won’t come, not after what I did. I need to figure how to get out on my own, which is fine. I’ve been living my entire life that way. Maybe I can get her talking and get her to see the truth.

Mrs. Montoya turns and flames dance across her frown. “You think you can murder my baby boy and get away with it?” Her voice trembles, and for a second, I feel bad for her, but then she twists the branding iron. “You Chastains, you think you can walk through life without repercussions, but you never learn your lesson, do you?”

I press my lips together, trying not to whimper.

“Do you?” she repeats, hitting the brand on the iron firepit. Sparks fly.

I know right then that there’s nothing I can say to cut through her grief. She’s not thinking clearly, and I don’t want to make this worse. I take a deep breath, trying to regulate my heartbeat. What would Lawton do? He’d be able to talk himself out of this situation with a wink and a smile, but I don’t think flirting with his mother will get me out of this one.

“Mrs. Montoya, it’s not what you think,” I say, glancing around the barn for a weapon. I can’t exactly blurt out that she raised a psychopath, so I carefully select my words. “Walker, he—he was trying to hurt me.”

“Walker wouldn’t step on a bug!” she shrieks.

I flinch.

There’s no rationalizing with her, not when she thinks her son was spawned from angel eggs. She plucks the brand out of the fire, so it’s burning a hot, angry red. My stomach collapses. No, please no.