the empty ache I’d been feeling since stepping off the jet. My lungs stung and my limbs burned. The bear spray Scott had given me banged against my ribs. Being back here, running in the clean crisp air, felt good. Moreover, it felt right.
On the white horizon, two people approached on horseback at a fast clip, their hooves kicking up snow. As they rode closer, I recognized the riders as Ryan and Scott. Ryan waved both arms like the dickens. Slowing to a jog, I popped out my earbuds and waved back.
“Hands back on the steering wheel, Sutter,” I hollered between my cupped hands and chuckled. I could see Scott yelling, his lips moving, but couldn’t make out what exactly.
Until I did.
“Behind you!”
I glanced over my shoulder and my knees almost buckled. Charging after me, approximately fifty feet away and closing the distance quickly, was a black bull the size of an SUV. Ribbons of smoke curled out of his nostrils as his small beady black eyes had me squarely in his crosshairs….and all I had on me was a freaking can of bear spray.
I’d never really understood the term fight or flight before this very moment. A shot of adrenaline propelled me forward, legs churning as fast as they humanly could, my feet slapping against the frozen macadam, and the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Then my foot hit a patch of ice and I went flying headfirst. The landing wasn’t pretty. Although my hands broke my fall, my shoulder got the worst of it. Then my head. The blast of a gunshot echoed in the distance. That’s the last thing I remembered.
Chapter Fifteen
Scott
“I hate hospitals. Can we go?”
I was pissed. First, at myself because it was my fault Sydney was in the hospital with a mild concussion, a bruised shoulder, and a banged-up knee. Second, at the invisible monster in the room. Had I not been standing right next to the gurney when the doctor cut away Sydney’s running tights, I wouldn’t have believed it. My wife’s thighs and hamstrings were covered in countless scars; long, pale, and silvery against her natural skin color. They were faded but discernible. Even the doctor was taken aback.
I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to tear the world in two looking for whoever had done that to her, and I’d do a lot worse if I ever found the son of a bitch.
“Earth to Scott, come in, Scott.”
My attention snapped back to her. “Not until the doctor says it’s safe.” I barely managed a civil tone and she gave me a speculative look in response. Which basically summed up every exchange we’d had since she’d returned from her MRI.
“Whatever.”
I felt a smile rise up. My wife was a terrible patient. As soon as she’d awakened in my arms as we entered the emergency room, she began demanding to leave. Right in the middle of me shouting at nurses and ordering the doctor to treat her immediately. If there was any doubt that I was my father’s son, that scene dispelled it.
I fixed the twisted IV line coming out of her arm.
“Thanks, Nurse Ratched, but I’m good. I’d be even better if we went home.”
She smiled wryly at me, trying to coax me out of my bad mood. Yeah, it wasn’t happening. Every time I glanced at her––at the bandage around her head––a flood of emotions came over me and none of them good. I couldn’t stand to see her look so small and frail sitting up in the gurney. Less the invincible, high-powered attorney she was. More mortal, and therefore, prone to injury or worse.
“The doctor said you need to be supervised.”
“Supervised not suffocated. You’re making me dizzy with all the moving around.”
That brought me up short. The last thing I wanted to do was to add insult to her injury. “Really?”
“No, not really. Just chill for a minute…” The delicate features of her face shifted, her expression becoming pensive. “How’d you find me anyway?”
“Red running tights.” She was silent as she processed my answer. It made me wonder what she was thinking.
“I can’t believe how lucky I was…” she absently remarked.
Was she kidding? I had a hard time keeping a lid on my astonishment and not overreacting. “Lucky? You could’ve been killed,” I said, close to shouting. How could she see it as anything other than a stroke of bad luck? “I should’ve gotten rid of that bull months ago.”