Page 10 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

He nodded, even though he knew damn well moving was exactly what he’d end up doing. Selma gave him a look that said she knew it too, then stepped to a small table to start filling out some paperwork.

Deacon let out a hard breath and leaned back against the exam table, careful of the fresh bandage. Pain radiated through his ribs, deep and rhythmic like a heartbeat out of place. He could handle pain. He’d taken bullets before. He’d been slammed into the ground during rodeo days, thrown from horses, punched in bars, hit by more than one whiskey bottle. Pain was familiar. Predictable.

But tonight hadn’t been.

Tonight had been something else.

A sniper in the trees. A scope glinting in the dark. A bullet carving the air just inches from his head. And Jessa— Damn it. Jessa.

He pressed a hand to his eyes, but the memories surged anyway: her hauling him through the cold, her breath ragged, her body pressed tight to his as bullets tore through the clearing around them. The fear in her whisper. The stubborn set to her jaw. The way she’d put herself between him and the rifle again and again.

The way he’d nearly gotten her killed.

His stomach twisted hard.

Wynn, or whoever the hell it had been, probably hadn’t missed by accident. That first shot had been meant to wound, not kill. To send him off the road. To bring Jessa running.

No doubt to draw her out.

He felt the fury rise slow and hot, heating his blood until it had a pulse all its own.

Being a target came with the badge. He accepted that. Hell, he’d been threatened, punched, and shot at over the course of his career. Occupational hazard. Comes with the hat and the badge and the long nights.

But this? This was different.

They weren’t just trying to kill him. Someone had hunted them. Stalked them. Played them. And they’d come damn close to putting Jessa in the ground.

His jaw clenched until the muscles popped. A low, rough growl curled in his chest, because the only thing stronger than the pain slicing through his ribs was the promise forming in the back of his mind.

Whoever had fired those shots was going to regret it.

Deacon swung his legs off the table, ignoring the flare of pain, and he braced himself upright. Yeah, the nurse had been right. He shouldn’t move. But he wasn’t going to sit in this room while some armed coward slipped off into the night.

He wanted answers. He wanted the truth. And God help the shooter when Deacon found him, because he damn sure intended to make him pay.

“Instructions for the stitches,” Selma said, handing him several sheets of paper. “Keep the area clean and dry for forty-eight hours. No heavy lifting for at least a week, and no twisting or sudden movements. That includes wrestling suspects, riding horses, or trying to play hero before you’re cleared.”

Deacon grunted. “Define heavy lifting.”

Selma gave him a flat look. “Anything heavier than a coffee cup.”

He snorted. “So… nothing fun.”

“Exactly.” Her tone softened. “You’re lucky, you know. That wound could’ve been a lot worse.”

He didn’t feel lucky. He felt pissed. But he managed a nod. “I appreciate you patching me up.”

“That’s my job,” she said with a faint smile. “Doing yours is going to tear those stitches. So be smart, Sheriff.”

Deacon tugged on the clean clothes that one of the deputies had brought over from his locker at the station, and he had to bite back a tight hiss as the movement pulled at the sutured skin. Once he was dressed, he grabbed his hat and the coat that’d been delivered with the other items. The nurse held the door open for him, and they stepped into the ER waiting room together.

Even before he cleared the doorway, he saw them.

Deputy Jack Carver stood near the nurses’ station, his eyes scanning the ER as if he expected a gunman to come charging through the walls. Tough kid. Good instincts. Loyal as hell. Deacon had brought him on two years ago and never regretted it.

Jessa and Corbin were also in the waiting area.

She paced with her phone to her ear, one hand pressed to her forehead, stress in every line of her body. She moved as if she was holding herself together by sheer force, sharp steps, tight jaw, eyes flicking constantly toward the hallway.