Why hadn’t Bianca told anyone about the threat? And why, oh, why, had she chosen to stay?
* * *
HE SENT A picture of the email to the head of the IT department, Max, along with a promise that if Max got back to Wyatt within a day, Wyatt would personally take him on a ride-along. He hated ride-alongs, especially when it entailed taking a person who would ask more questions than a kid on Mountain Dew. Yet without a doubt, it would expedite the process—and he needed answers as soon as possible.
He was having one heck of a time focusing on anything other than the way he wanted to take Gwen into his arms and hold her. She looked so broken. Every time she stopped moving, she zoned out, almost as though she couldn’t find the strength to start moving again.
He knew the feeling all too well. It was why he never stopped—the moment you started bringing up the pain was the moment the world collapsed around you. In his line of work, it was best to just bury the past...along with anything else that kept him up at night. Bianca’s death was definitely going to fall in that category.
Bianca had looked nearly pristine when he’d arrived on scene. Her hair was pulled back into her signature ponytail and her scrubs were still clean, like she’d just pulled them out of the dryer before she had come out to the ranch.
His heart sank at the thought of the ranch. No wonder Gwen was so lost. She had so many reasons to be angry. So many people she could point a finger at, and no one more than him. Even in the event of Bianca’s death he could be held responsible—at least tangentially. He had likely been home, resting comfortably after a long day on shift. If he’d been more involved in the comings and goings of Dunrovin, if he had agreed to feed the horses, or been around at all, maybe she would still be alive. Not that Gwen knew that—but her being unaware didn’t relieve any of his guilt.
Gwen was doing it again, staring at the floor like it was the exact spot where Bianca had been found. His hands twitched with the need to feel her in them.
“Let’s go. I’ll run you back home.”
She jerked as though she had forgotten where they were.
He took care to lock the door to the cabin to stop anyone from coming back in, and then he held her hand on the way back to the car. Her fingers were limp in his. She was a ghost of what she used to be—strong and hot, as wild and free as the Montana mountains and wilderness that surrounded them. He wished he could pull her from her stupor, pull her back to the land of the living instead of falling deeper into the pit of the despondent.
It wasn’t long before they were bumping down the Widow Maker Ranch’s long, snowy driveway, laden with potholes and ruts left over from hard use in summer and fall. As Wyatt twisted and turned, trying to avoid the worst of the bumps and the largest snowdrifts, he was reminded of how life was just like a road—full of obstacles and dangers.
Something hit the car and he tapped on the brakes as he tried to identify the source of the sound. There was another thump and he pulled to a stop.
“What was that?” Gwen asked, looking around.
Pastures lined both sides of the drive, grasses so tall that even in the snow it looked like they were in a sea of brown reeds—making it nearly impossible to see who or what could have been responsible for the sound.
“Stay inside,” he said as he stepped out of the car.
He walked to the front of the patrol unit. On its fender were the scattered, oozing remnants of two eggs. He turned just in time to see Carla holding a carton and pulling her arm back to take aim.
“Stop, Carla!” he ordered, his voice hard-edged and full of authority.
The egg flew through the air, missing him by just a few inches and smacking against the car’s windshield.
Gwen stepped out of the car and slammed the door. “Mother, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Her mother smeared her forearm under her nose and dropped the carton of eggs, its contents rolling on the ground at her feet. “He’s a bastard...” She motioned to Wyatt as though he couldn’t hear her. “It’s his damned fault.” She reached behind her back.
His fine-tuned senses kicked into full gear. “Hands where I can see them!” he yelled.
Carla laughed, her sound high and malicious. “You don’t get to order me around. I’ve known you since you were born. You loved my daughter. You knew Jimmy. Yet you did nothing...nothing to protect my Bianca. You let your family’s demons take her.”
There were any number of demons she could have been talking about when it came to his family, but in this moment it didn’t matter—all that mattered was what she was holding behind her back and what she planned on doing with it.
“Put your hands where I can see them.” He slowly reached down for the Taser on his utility belt.
The last thing he wanted to do was to tase Gwen’s mother. Things were already tense enough, but no matter what his feelings toward Gwen and her family were, his job and their safety came first.
“I don’t want to hurt you... I don’t...” Carla said as she moved toward him, her motions jerky as though her body and her mind were in disagreement. “But you and your family... You all keep ruining my life. You want to take everything from me.”
“We didn’t take anything from you.” He knew he shouldn’t argue with the grief-crazed woman, but he couldn’t hear her drag his family through the mud anymore. She needed to be pulled back to reality.
She dropped her hand to her side. In her grip was a snub-nosed revolver.
Either she was going to shoot him or herself—either way, he couldn’t allow her to keep that gun in her possession.
“Drop the gun, Carla,” he said.
She looked at him, and a tear slipped down her cheek. As the wind kicked up, he could smell the strong scent of whiskey wafting from her—even stronger than before.
She shook her head, the action slow and deliberate.
“Mother. No. Don’t do this,” Gwen said. “You can’t play at this. Not again. Wyatt is a deputy. He has every right to shoot you if you lift that gun. Drop. It. Now.”
Not again? Was Carla’s threat something she did on a regular basis?
He thought his family had the corner on putting the fun in dysfunctional.
Gwen stepped around the car and moved toward her mother.
“No,” he ordered, putting his arm out and trying to stop her without actually losing sight of the gun. “Stay back, Gwen.” He tried to hedge his tone between the hard edge of work and the softness of the feelings he still carried for her, but it came out much sharper than he intended.
Gwen looked at him like he had struck her.
He chastised himself, he’d screwed that all up, but now wasn’t the time to fully explain himself. “I don’t want her to hurt you.”
“She’s my mother,” she spat out. “She’s not dangerous. Really. You need to trust me.”
He felt the slice of her words as she cut away at his flaw—trust had never been his strong suit and she knew it. Why did she have to call him out at a time like this?
If something happened, if Carla pulled that trigger, he would have to answer to those above him. They would never understand if he went against procedure—even for a woman he used to know and her daughter, whom he wanted to get to know again.
“Your mother or not, Gwen, she can’t do this.” He raised his Taser. “This is the last time I ask, Carla,” he said, moving into range. “If you don’t put the gun down, I will be forced to tase you. Your choice.”
Carla lifted the gun.
“Wyatt, no!” Gwen yelled.
He