The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,108

on your knees.”

“No.” I shake my head. He bends down, his face so close to mine I feel the heat of his breath. Blood is dried on his face, and his nose appears to be broken. I lunge at him, taking him by surprise, and try to bite him. He moves in time, and my teeth snap together painfully. He stares at me, lips shaking, and I snarl. I can hardly wrap my head around this primitive, animalistic response. For the first time in my life, I genuinely understand the ferocity of a cornered animal.

Dixon walks in the house and returns quickly. He comes from behind me, where I can’t see him, and slips something over my head. Before I can move, he’s gagged me. His hands work at the back of my head, tying, and some strands of my hair are caught up in the knotted fabric. He stands up, walks away, and the porch light flickers on. I blink against its harshness.

Then he strides over, stands beside me, and says once more, “Get on your knees.”

I shake my head, because getting on my knees feels like the final step to whatever he’s going to do. After that, what will be left?

Dixon lifts his dirt-streaked white T-shirt, and the silver glint of metal peeks out. “Knees, girl. Now.”

Tears streak down my face. How is there nothing left for me to do? The fight is still inside me, but there’s nothing at my disposal. No tools, no implements, no advantage. I’ve never felt so helpless.

I’m left only with what Dixon asks of me. Delaying his plan is my only hope. But what is it I’m even hoping for? Who could possibly know where I am?

Dixon watches me struggle to my knees. I sit back on my heels and stare at the ground.

I think of Wes, and my heart breaks. Wes, with his moody looks and big, capable hands. The smile he reserves for me, the kind of smile most people probably don’t think he’s capable of. The way he charges into a situation and commands it, overly-confident and protective, but on the inside he’s so vulnerable.

Dixon walks away, down the steps and around the side of the house. I watch him go, and for the shortest second, I see what Dixon might have looked like when he was younger, back when Wyatt knew him. He probably had hair that flopped over his forehead, in need of a trim. Maybe he had good in his heart, and his own father’s bad choices made him angry. I tell myself this because I need to see him in a different light. For my own sake, I need to believe he wasn’t always so jealous and malicious.

When he comes back, he’s holding something I don’t fully understand. It looks like a contraption assembled by a child. He takes a knee in front of me, almost like he’s proposing, and looks me in the eye. “Don’t move an inch.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and he wipes a free hand on the front of his jeans. He lifts something up, lowers it down onto me, and secures it to my front with duct tape that he wraps around my body.

“There,” he says proudly. “Let’s see what your boyfriend thinks of that.”

I look down and all the air whooshes out of me. Sounds of protest slip around the fabric, keeping me from talking. Bomb? No. It can’t be. Why is he doing this? I don’t understand. I’m hyperventilating and crying, and trying not to move.

Dixon backs away, sinking down onto the last step and looking at me. He must’ve been holding his breath, because he exhales loudly. The nervousness is replaced by a smug look.

“Now we just wait for your boyfriend to show up. I left something behind in your hotel room. He’ll figure it out.”

I bite the inside of my lip, but I’m shaking so badly I bite harder than intended and taste my own blood.

My eyes drift close and I start going down the list of people I love, people I will probably never see again.

My dad. Abby and the girls.

And Wes.

36

Wes

The clouds have cleared and given us better visibility. Each one of our figures is in shadow, but outlines are all we need.

At Wyatt’s signal, we stop short and get off our horses, tying their reins to trees.

Wyatt steps in, slips Dixon’s pocketknife into my hand, and motions us in to form a tight circle. “His place is that way,” he whispers, pointing northeast