Page 77 of The Cowboy and the Stray

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For taking the car. For everything. I just—” She pressed her hands to her face, then ran them back through her hair. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep fighting. Or running. Or pretending I’m not scared shitless every time I see a vehicle with Nevada plates.”

I moved the chair closer, but I kept my hands in my lap. “You don’t have to run anymore,” I said. “Not unless you want to.”

She laughed again, softer. “How can you say that? You have no idea what kind of mess you’re in just by being near me.”

“Then tell me.” I said it quietly, but I meant it. “Everything.”

She looked at the wall, the bedspread, the donuts, anywhere but me. Then she started.

“His name is Lance Creed or Lance Crawford, I’m not sure which. I found an ID of his once in a drawer with the Creed name. I knew he used two names, but by the time I figured that out I’d learned not to ask too many questions. He told me he worked security, had been in the army. He was my boyfriend, but that word doesn’t even come close. I met him when I was working tables at a casino buffet. He was nice, at first. Funny. Paid for everything. Never raised his hand. But after we moved in together, he got cold. When he was mad, he’d go quiet. Then he started doing stuff like getting me a new phone. A new laptop. All provided by him, and I eventually figured out tracked by him too. He said he did it for my own good. To keep me safe.” She looked at her hands, then at me. “I believed him, for a while.”

“What changed?” I asked.

“I’d been thinking about leaving. He was just so shady. The IDs, he was too free with his hands. Too controlling. But then I caught him moving guns. Not just one or two. Crates of them, in the back of the warehouse he worked out of. He said his job was a security gig, but the men he worked with, they weren’t security. They were cartel, or close enough. Mafia. Whatever they’re called. They looked just like the movies. I saw the money, the drugs, all of it. I took off that day, pretty much that minute. Three days later, I crashed in your front yard.”

She curled up tighter, like she could disappear into the blankets. “That’s it. That’s the story. Oh, one more thing. My last name is actually Peters.” She pursed her lips, then said, “You can call the cops, if you want. Or just leave. I wouldn’t blame you.”

I shook my head. “I'm not leaving.”

She looked up, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I’m not judging you,” I said. “And I want to help. If you’ll let me.”

She shrugged, but it was defeated. “You can’t stop him. He’s not normal.”

I snorted. “Neither am I.”

That got a small smile. “You just don't understand."

She really didn't either. But I couldn't exactly tell her I could turn into a dangerous animal. Literally. This wasn't the sort of thing you spring on someone. I reached out, slowly, and took her hand. It was cold, but she didn’t pull away. “Thank you for telling me the truth."

She nodded.

I scooted over to sit on the edge of the bed, and for a while we didn’t say anything. Just listened to the hum of the AC unit and the distant whoop of a trucker watching TV down the row.

After a while, I said, “You ever think about going home?”

She shrugged. “I don’t have one. Not really.”

“You do now,” I said.

She blinked, hard. “That’s not— I don’t⁠—”

I cut her off. “You’re coming back with us. I’ll call Sloane, let her know you’re okay.”

She looked away, voice shaky. “He saw the side of the car, the ranch's logo. He’ll know where I went. He'll come looking for me.”

“Let him come,” I said. “He’s not getting anywhere near you. Not while I’m breathing.”

She laughed weakly. “That’s not a good plan.”

“It’s the only one I got.”

She stared at the bedspread, then at me. “If he goes to the ranch, Noah— you have to make sure he doesn’t hurt Noah. Or anyone else. Please.”

I squeezed her hand, then pulled out my phone and texted Sloane.

Lock down. Incoming trouble. Don’t let anyone leave the house. Will explain soon. Also start looking into a man from Vegas named Lance Creed or maybe Lance Crawford.