look past the edge of the stall. Framed by the open doors behind him, Aaron stood near the entrance, a blood-soaked rag wrapped around his thigh and something in his hand that caught the faint light. Was it a gun? No. Shane’s blood chilled as he recognized the object in Aaron’s hand.
In a stable like this one, it was more dangerous than a gun. It was a cigarette lighter.
Panic flashed through his body. He forced himself to focus. Where was Lexie? How could he stop Aaron and get her out of here?
“You asked me a question, Miss Lexie,” Aaron said. “Here’s an answer you can take to your grave. I thought that seeing your father’s miserable death would give me the revenge I wanted. But once he was in the ground, it wasn’t enough. I didn’t just want Bert Champion dead. I wanted to destroy everything he’d left behind—little by little, like the cancer that killed him. So I started small . . . a note on your truck, an open gate, a slashed tire, a dead bull . . . even Callie turned out to be part of it.”
He paused, casting his gaze around the stable. “Now it’s time for my master stroke—the stable, the horses, and you all at one time. No need to come out, Lexie. I’ve got that covered. All I have to do is light the straw, and this place will go up like a torch. Think about how it’ll feel to burn to death. Think about the flames, the heat blistering your skin, the pain . . . You won’t be so pretty when they find you.” He clicked the lighter. A flame flickered in the dim light.
Driven by instinct, Shane moved. Yelling, he smacked his hand hard on the rump of the big black horse. With a shriek of alarm, the horse reared and bolted, bursting out of the stall and thundering toward the open door. Shane followed as fast as he could push the wheels. The pitchfork he’d used leaned against the wall. He grabbed it, balancing it across the arms of the chair. “Lexie!” he shouted. “Lexie, get out!”
Aaron stood in the horse’s path. He tried to sidestep, but his wounded leg failed him. He stumbled to one knee. The horse clipped him as it galloped past. The lighter flew out of his hand, the flame dying as it fell.
Lexie, her wrists bound, had kicked her way out of the straw pile. Straw clung to her hair and clothes. Rage flashed in her eyes. “You bastard!” She spat out the words as Shane held Aaron at bay with the pitchfork. “When I think about the things you did—and what you almost did here—I could kill you myself!”
Aaron’s face was pale. Blood dripped from the dirty bandage on his leg. His eyes still smoldered with hatred, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was too weak, and getting weaker.
Still guarding Aaron with the pitchfork, Shane used his free hand to open his pocketknife and slice through the zip tie that bound Lexie’s wrists. “Find some rope and tie his hands and feet,” he told her. “Then you can use my phone to call the sheriff. Tell him to bring an ambulance.”
* * *
Lexie found some rope in the tack room. Aaron didn’t struggle as she tied his wrists behind his back. Even when she used a roll of horse wrap to cover the makeshift bandage and slow the bleeding before binding his ankles, he didn’t speak. Only his glaring, defiant eyes held any resistance.
As Lexie spoke with the sheriff on the phone, her gaze lingered on Shane. She could see new pride in his expression, in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his jaw. Something had changed for him. Today he had protected his woman and saved her life. That had to mean as much to him as it did to her.
She could only hope that it was possible for other things to change as well.
* * *
Shane lay awake in the darkness. It was after midnight. The house was silent. Even Val had quit rattling around and gone to bed. Faintly, from the porch, the dogs yipped at some wild thing in the yard, then settled back to guarding the house. The cool night breeze wafted the scent of sage through the screened window.
Over and over, Shane’s mind replayed the day’s events—the drama in the stable, the flickering lighter, the plunging horse, and Aaron’s look of hatred as he