Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Logan looked over the kid’s shoulder and nodded to the EMTs. They’d been waiting for Logan to give the all clear before moving the body. “You can go, Lucas. But call me if you remember anything else, yeah?”
Lucas barely looked at Logan. With a, “Sure, sure,” he flew down the steps and hopped on his four-wheeler, racing down the trail toward the highway.
Logan watched the kid tear down the road for a moment, then went to kneel next to Rip Jackson as the EMTs prepared him for transport. “You know this guy?” Logan asked, pulling out his phone to take pictures of Jackson’s head and the surrounding ground. He’d have to tape off the area once the body had been removed to preserve any evidence beneath the snow.
Tom White, a man he’d met in the bar his first night working, scoffed. “Mean. Down to his bones mean. He and Justice Bear were cut from the same cloth.”
“What about the son?”
“Chance? He’s arrogant, guarded, keeps to himself most of the time, but he’s never struck me as mean until he pulled this stunt with Skylar and the boys.”
Logan scanned the horizon in the direction of the main ranch house and knew he couldn’t put off having a word with Chance Bear. Not with all the speculation running rampant through his brain.
Eighteen
Chance
THE HORSE PRANCED in place; it’s nervous energy filled the small space as Chance cowered in the corner of the stall. Blocking out the scent of manure and hay as he crouched on the floor, he watched Rip Jackson warily. The old man had been drinking more and more to alleviate what years in the saddle had done to his body, and his favorite target for his frustration was Chance.
Rip hurled a shovel at Chance. Missing its mark, it bounced off a wooden slat above Chance’s head. Castaway, his horse—named at a time when Chance had felt particularly forgotten by both his parents—jerked at the sudden crash.
After a long but bitter ride along the border of his father’s property, Chance had been brushing the chestnut-colored stallion when Rip appeared drunk at his side. Over the years, Rip had developed a radar for Chance’s emotions. Seemed to know when to attack and retreat. And he was right on target, as usual, because Chance had ridden down the slope and watched his mother play with his younger sister and brother.
He’d stayed in the shadow of the trees observing the three, allowing bitterness and anger to build. His mother was pregnant once again, her heavy burden making her waddle as she chased his siblings in the pasture in front of their cabin. They looked happy. She looked happy surrounded by the children she had wanted, rather than the one she threw away. So happy, the bitterness he carried daily grew deeper. Not that it should matter, he was almost eighteen and didn’t need a mother anymore. He had grown almost three inches in the last year and was beginning to bulk up. He was a man now, and a man didn’t need a mother. Certainly not one who didn’t give a shit about him.
“Clean the shit out of this stall, boy!” Spittle ran down Rip’s chin as he glared at Chance.
Years of being bossed around by the old man had trained Chance to duck and cover, but watching his mother with the children she preferred to him had left him raw. Edgy. Murderous.
Chance stood suddenly with his hands fisted and grabbed the shovel from the floor. When Rip’s expression turned smug, Chance threw the shovel back at the old man. “Last time I checked, you work for me, old man. Clean the shit yourself.”
When Chance tried to leave, Rip reached out and grabbed him by the collar, drew back his fist. The action seemed to trip a switch inside Chance and instead of taking the blow like he had always done, he reacted instead. Before Rip could land the punch, Chance grabbed his wrist and twisted hard until Rip shifted and cried out. The sweet sound of the old man’s pain echoed in Chance’s head and he grinned in triumph. It was good to finally be a man.
Clapping sounded outside the stall, and Chance looked over his shoulder. His father was leaning against the opening, watching. His eyes gleamed with excitement at the confrontation in front of him. With pride at the way Chance had dominated Rip. For the first time in Chance’s life, his father seemed to be proud of him. He’d spent the better part of his seventeen years in pursuit of his father’s approval and it seemed he finally had it—and wanted more. Thirsty for approval, Chance twisted harder until he heard a loud snap. At Rip’s wail, his father smiled broader and mumbled, “That’s my boy.”
A loud pounding tore through Chance’s memory. He looked toward the front of the house but didn’t move. Glancing at the window, he noted night had fallen. He had a pretty good idea who was standing on the other side of the door, so he poured himself another glass of whiskey and drank it down in a single gulp. He’d heard the sirens when they entered the property. Knew they’d found Rip’s body, so he figured one of the sheriff’s deputies was here to make inquiries.