Page 192

“I know that, too. That was the point.”

Sheriff Dillon arrives in ten minutes.

Wiley is right behind him.

Then a second cruiser. The organized response of a county sheriff’s office that has been watching this situation for months and has had its protocols ready.

Sheriff Dillon comes through the front door—it’s unlocked from when Mason stepped in—and takes in the kitchen and nods appreciatively.

“Taya, Mason,” he greets.

“Sheriff,” I lower the gun and engage the safety. I walk to the kitchen counter and set it on the counter, where it can be collected if needed.

His eyes flick between Trafton, the towel, and me.

I pick up my coffee, which is still on the counter where I set it, and drink it. It’s cold. I don’t care.

“The gun is licensed and registered. I have the documentation. It’s in the lockbox under the bed.”

The Sheriff smiles. “No doubt.”

Mason pulls me into a hug and rests his chin on my head. “My heart fucking stopped when I heard the gunshot.”

“Mine, too,” I admit.

Wiley moves past us into the kitchen and crouches beside Trafton and begins the procedure—the caution, the reading of rights.

“I’m glad she shot you. Saved me from doin’ it.” But because there are too many witnesses, I think Wiley would’ve punched the asshole.

Wiley and another policeman load Trafton into the cruiser.

The Sheriff takes my statement and then Mason’s.

“Can we clean that up?” Mason asks about the blood.

The Sheriff takes several pictures. “Yeah, I think so. Clearly self-defense. He broke in, and this is Colorado ranch country, every mother has a gun. He should’ve expected it.”

That’s not protocol, but this is a small town in Colorado, and the Sheriff is the law, so he can do whatever he wants.

Once it’s just Mason and me in the house, we make more coffee and drink it.

“Did you get the milk?” I ask when he starts cleaning up the blood.

“Yeah, it’s in the Wrangler.”

“I’ll get it. You’re still making me pancakes.” I am trying to make light of the situation because Mason looks just about ready to punch his fist into a wall.

“He came for you.” Mason wrings out the mop. “Because of me.”

“He came because he has a grudge and bad judgment,” I counter. “That’s on him.”

“Taya—”

“Mason.” I set the coffee down. “I need you to hear me. I handled it. I am a woman who lives alone on the east bench of a canyon, and I prepared accordingly, and I handled it.” I look him in the eyes. “You don’t get to carry this.”

He gazes at the floor.

“I’m going to carry some of it,” he grumbles