his fingers around her neck and started to squeeze. She coughed, knowing the building could come down on them at any second. But Clarke was in a blind rage. She knew he would rather die killing her than survive.
Joan kicked her feet hard, her foot connecting with his shin, but he seemed to enjoy the fight she had in her. She could feel herself passing out and her knees buckling. Her vision narrowed as her fingers fell free of his hands.
When she collapsed to the ground, she was dimly aware he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her faceup toward the flames. She somehow sensed Clarke did not want her to die at his hands, but wanted the smoke and flames to take her.
As her fingers dug into the ground, she clawed at the dirt, grabbing a handful, and threw it in his face. Her wild aim was off, and the dirt only caught the side of his left eye. But the strike forced him to blink and turn his head away. His grip on her ankle slackened, and she tried to kick free.
His fingernails dug into her skin as he swiped the debris from his eyes. “I can’t wait to see you burn.”
A gunshot rang out from behind her. Through her hazy vision, she saw Clarke stumble. For a moment, he dug his fingers deeper into her flesh, as if killing her was all that mattered now. But in the next second, blood bloomed on his shirt, and he reeled backward. His fingers slackened, and he released her. He looked past her, staring a moment, and then staggered toward the inferno and vanished into the flames.
The fire roared louder as it consumed the building, and flaming pieces fell to the ground around her. She turned onto her belly and started to crawl away from the heat consuming her.
Strong hands banded around her, hauled her up, and tossed her over a wide set of shoulders. She lay limp like a rag doll and struggled to catch her breath.
She watched the ground move under her and felt distance grow between her and the flames. When they were at least a hundred feet from the blaze, her savior laid her gently on the front porch. The building garage cracked and broke, and the structure collapsed.
“Joan.” Gideon’s sharp tone cut through her mind’s haze. “Joan.”
She coughed and tried to sit up. Through her blurred vision, she stared into Gideon’s intense gaze. Her throat was raw, and the scent of burned hair filled her nostrils. Her voice was barely a whisper. “It was Clarke.”
“I know.”
“He wanted to burn me alive.”
Gideon gathered her up in his arms and held her close. She raised her hand to his arm and gripped his shoulder. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
“Me too.” Her voice was rough with smoke inhalation and emotion.
“This time we figure it out together.”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Missoula, Montana
Friday, September 11, 2020
5:00 a.m.
Gideon had ridden in the ambulance to the hospital with Joan and had been at her side as the doctors examined her and treated her for burns and bruising. When she’d finally fallen into a deep sleep, he had called Ann and told her about the fire and his trip to the emergency room with Joan.
When Ann pushed through the emergency room doors, her face was flushed and her eyes bright with panic. She spotted Gideon and rushed toward him. “Gideon. I dropped the boys off with Tim’s mother like you asked.”
He crossed to her, searching for the right words. Finding none, he said, “Clarke is dead.”
“What?”
He watched the play of shock and disbelief on her face as she searched his gaze. He thought back to the moment when he had told Kyle his mother had died. Delivering the news had gutted him. And now he had to tell his sister that he had shot and killed her husband. He would have done anything to spare his sister this kind of pain. But the truth had to be told, and he wanted her to hear this from him and no one else. “I shot him.”
“I don’t understand.” Her eyes darkened with questions and confusion.
Gideon shifted his stance but kept his focus on Ann. “Clarke was trying to kill Joan. He set fire to the garage apartment.”
“Clarke?” She shook her head and hesitated, as if she expected some kind of punch line. When none came, she said, “No, he wouldn’t do that.”