on her father, she didn’t know. Not with everything he’d done lately.
So he was here to throw his weight around?
Bridget crawled closer.
“Seems like it’s a night for critters to visit.” Her dad shifted. Maybe he had a weapon in reach, maybe not. “What do you want?”
Bridget wanted to text Millie for help. Ask for backup, or simply commiserate over what was happening. Too bad the light of her phone screen would give her away.
“You seem like a man who gets straight to the point.” Clarke folded his arms. A move she’d seen before—because it put his hand close to his weapon, holstered under his shoulder. “I’m looking for Bridget. Seen her?”
Maybe she only wanted to tell Millie that Clarke was here because it would get her fired. She would finally be done with all this. Free to move on. That was the only possible reason for having let her guard down so thoroughly and being so stupidly close to giving away personal information.
She’d thought it was good they’d been getting more personal.
But, no.
Clarke was using her need for emotional connection against her. Probably that was why he’d tried to date her—not because he actually wanted a relationship. All he’d been after was a shot at leverage. A way to make her vulnerable and gain an edge since she’d never have let him in otherwise.
So stupid.
And, okay, so that wasn’t all he’d been after. But given her history and the disaster that was, Bridget hadn’t been prepared to give him that either. No matter how sweet he’d been in the moment, he’d still been pressuring her for intimacy.
“If you’re gonna ask dumb questions, you should just go. Do your homework and come back when you aren’t stupid anymore.”
Butch growled, then let out a thunderous bark.
She flinched. Her father’s harsh words settled on Bridget like a blanket. One that weighed her down with all the fear and pain she’d experienced before she left Last Chance in the middle of the night.
Her life since hadn’t been peaceful, but it was what she’d chosen. Not others’ actions forced on her whether she liked it or not. And in all of it, what had made the biggest impression was one solitary man. A kid, really. One she’d walked away from because she had been a kid, too. What they’d shared had been a bright spark in the darkness that lit quickly and burned both of them.
Yet another tragedy.
Clarke pulled a gun. “I think I’ll take a look around.”
Butch barked. His whole body shook with the force of it. The sound rang across the dark of night, and Bridget had to wince as it echoed in her eardrums.
Then came the gunshot.
Her father’s sharp cry cut off abruptly as he toppled backward onto the grass. Butch raced at Clarke and was kicked far worse than her father had done.
Bridget lifted to one knee, aimed toward the man lit by headlights, and squeezed off a round of her own.
The crack echoed across the clearing.
But she missed.
Clarke hit the ground, rolled, and came up. Bridget knew he was going to fire even before it registered that he wasn’t dead. She dove to the side as another shot answered hers.
Fire blazed through the outside of her left arm, high up. Close to her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, bit back the moan, and rolled. Over her arm. Onto her back. Her front. She shifted and got her legs under her, then ran.
Anything to draw Clarke away from Butch, and her father. If he wasn’t dead yet.
Again she wanted to call for help. But the light would expose her, and there was no way to do that and run.
Clarke thundered through the brush behind her. Bridget raced between trees. She used the deer trail, her memory rushing back in a tornado of images. She ran on instinct, relying on the path she’d taken years ago, assuming it hadn’t changed. Up ahead was a descent down into a shallow valley, full of berry bushes. A thorned mass of brush that would shred skin and certainly slow Clarke.
If she could just keep from falling into it herself, getting cut up in the process the way she’d done years ago.
Bridget angled right just before the hill dipped. Her foot glanced off a rock, and she rolled her ankle. The cry that escaped her lips sounded like a scream—far louder than it ever should’ve been. She was trained. No, she was still a nothing little girl who couldn’t handle her life. She would try to