The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,105
for any kind of marking that might tell us who it belongs to. There’s nothing.
“Wes, let’s get you checked out by the paramedics,” Derrick urges, glancing at the waiting ambulance.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Go on, Wes,” my dad instructs, his voice deepening. “You were in that barn and you need to get checked out.”
I know better than to challenge my dad right now, especially when he’s worried about me. If I refuse, he’ll get angry, and he doesn’t need that. The man had heart surgery a month ago.
Derrick keeps talking to Dad, asking him if he knows anybody who would have done this, and I head for the ambulance. Warner comes over while the paramedics are doing basic checks.
“You scared the shit out of me when you ran in that barn, Wes.”
“I knew what I was doing.” What a crock. I didn’t know what I was doing. Instinct sent me in there, not intelligence.
“Wes.” Warner’s voice is serious. “You’re my big brother. We might be in our thirties, but there’s still a lot of shit I haven’t given you yet. Don’t go doing anything crazy and leaving me alone with Wyatt anytime soon. He can’t take my shit-talking the way you can.”
I laugh. The paramedic slides a cool stethoscope up my back and presses it into my skin. “I love you too, brother.”
Warner’s eyes widen, but he tries to act like my words are no big deal. Something I say every day.
“You too, Wes,” he replies, swiping a hand over his face. He changes the subject. “Heard from Dakota?”
The paramedics declare me all good, but tell me I’m going to need some serious hydration and a lot of Visine for dry eyes. I thank them and walk away, pulling my phone from my pocket as I go. One voicemail, from Dakota, left an hour ago. I press the button and listen.
“Wes, hi. It’s me. I mean, obviously. Sorry I sound so nervous. It’s just that I got an email from my credit card company and I’m confused. Are we not… is the wedding still on? Because I thought with our agreement and everything,” she pauses, and I can hear knocking in the background. “Someone is here. Anyway, call me back, okay? Bye.” She hasn’t hung up yet. The voicemail is still rolling, the seconds ticking by on the screen. I hear a man’s voice, then the line goes dead.
“What’s wrong?” Warner asks. There must be a look on my face. I shake my head, my lips pursed, and call Wyatt.
“Hey, bro,” Wyatt answers.
“Where are you?” I bark.
“Playing poker at a friend’s house. Why?”
“I need you to go to Dakota’s hotel room. Now.”
“I’m winning, Wes.”
“I don’t give a fuck if you’re beating the pants off a Saudi prince. Get out of there and go to room 214 at the Sierra.”
Wyatt makes an irritated sound and I hear him say, “I gotta go, guys. I’ll kick your asses next time.”
I stay on the phone as he takes off, listening to the sounds of his truck coming to life. Warner jabs my arms and gives me a What the hell? look, but I wave him off. I can’t talk right now. My mind is racing. I have a bad feeling the barn fire and the man at Dakota’s door are connected. I don’t know why, I just do.
“I’m parked, Wes,” Wyatt tells me. “Now I’m going through the front door. Past the front desk and the restaurant. Up the stairs to the second floor. Down the hall and… oh, shit.”
“What?” I yell, fear gripping my heart.
“Her door is open.”
“Fucking go in!” I shout.
“I already am,” Wyatt replies. “Her phone is on the ground. She’s not here.”
“Fuck,” I grit out.
“Wes, I found something.” I picture Wyatt leaning down cautiously, reaching out a hand to lift something off the floor. “It’s a pocket knife. Initials HDC.”
My mind races, flipping through a catalog of people I know, but I’m coming up empty. Every second I spend rifling through the catalogue of people I know is a frustrating waste. “Who the fuck does that belong to?”
“Howard Dixon Calhoun. Or as you know him, just Dixon.”
Everything stops. Time stands still. Dixon’s words from the night at The Chute come back to me. Do you want to know what kings do, Hayden? They fall. And you will too. Maybe even soon.
“Get back here now. You’re taking us to Dixon’s cookhouse.”
“Horses, no trucks,” Wyatt instructs. He huffs like he’s running. In the background a door slams, and I hear