Rein In (Willow Bay Stables #3)
Anne Jolin
Edmonton, Alberta
2007
A CAR DOOR SLAMMED SHUT followed by the eerie screech of tires.
Resting an arm on the back of the couch, I parted the blinds with one of my fingers to reveal the street in the southeast corner that doubled as our front yard.
I squinted into the dark. The single streetlight provided little clarity, even if it had been illuminated, which it wasn’t. Something moved along the curb.
Something wicked snaked down my spine, and my eyes—still unadjusted—seemed frozen at the sight. I rose to my feet, stalking to the front door and nearly ripped it from its hinges.
It was only one of many things that needed fixing in this rotting house.
Stepping into the yard, on dirt where there should have been grass, the blurred heap moved again and the chill in my blood turned to ice.
The moonlight caught the shine from her auburn hair as her head rolled to face me.
The next forty-eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds would remain committed to memory and to every nightmare I would plead against for eternity.
I broke against the buckle in my knees as I ran toward the curb, collapsing into the mud next to where they’d dumped her like the night’s trash.
The wetness of the ground seeped into my bones within seconds, and my gut was torn to shreds by the knife of guilt.
My hands roamed her broken body as the hollow in my voice rattled the numbers of our address to the 911 operator on the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear.
Her breath was shallow, if that, and bruises tarnished each feature of her pale skin. The white of her dress was stained in dirt and caked blood that suggested they’d had her for hours. I followed my assessment down her legs and through the filth saw the pale pink shade she’d painted her toes only yesterday.
She was barefoot and bleeding in my arms when the paramedics arrived.
I stood as they strapped her to the gurney.
The fear in me snapped into something sinister.
They’d waged war.
A war I would finish.
“You can ride with us to the hospital.” The female paramedic nodded to the back of the ambulance.
I shook my head, backing up toward the driveway that led down the side of the house.
“Hey, kid. Don’t,” the male paramedic yelled, but it was too late.
He was too late.
Throwing a leg over the seat of my motorcycle, I put the gearshift in neutral and squeezed the clutch with my left hand all the way to the grip.
The lights from the ambulance emulated chaos as they reflected off the black monster between my legs. The sight looked a little like fire burning in my heart.
Pressing the start button with my right thumb, I let the starter motor turn over until the engine fired.
I could barely hear its pipes over the blood pounding between my ears.
The paramedic yelled again, but I only saw red as I shot from the driveway into the shadows.
Her blood on my hands screamed in my soul each time I throttled back.
Not soon enough, my tires spun gravel in the lot as I spotted his bike under the neon lights.
The thundering underneath me dulled when I put the kickstand down and stalked toward the barking sound of hell.
My boots halted abruptly. I glanced sideways into the back window of the car I was passing. Something flickered in my rage and my feet kept moving, my eyes scanning the parking lot, landing on a discarded red brick. My fingers sought it out, wrapping around the jagged ridges that bit into my palm as I squeezed it, before launching it through the glass.
The car alarm roared, and the fury in my bones growled in response as I retrieved the crowbar from the backseat. I spun it slowly, once and then twice. My right fist adjusted to the weight of the steel in its grasp, and my knuckles welcomed the addition as they turned white with exertion.
The Harley boot attached to my left foot met with the wood of the bar door and kicked it open. I vaguely heard the sound of it crashing against the wall as my glare narrowed on a table against the back wall.
My nostrils flared, smelling the stench of stale beer and desperation on the floorboards. I swiped a bottle off the bar, cradling its long neck in the fingers of my left hand.
The seconds dragged through the air in slow motion as I walked his way.
Without hesitation, I reached up and broke the bottle over his head.
The men around him shoved to their feet, but as he bled, he held out a hand to them and shook his head.
I kicked over the back of his chair and landed a blow with my boot to his kidney. He rolled to his side, and the bite of the crowbar bit his shoulder.
Someone screamed behind us.
Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I pulled his head into the air and broke it over my knee.
His lackeys stepped forward, but again he waved them off.
I shoved the butt of the steel under his chin and lifted his face to mine.
He smiled at me through the blood in his teeth.
I smiled back, and then I cracked the crowbar over his head.
The sound of a gun behind me cocked somewhere in the pounding of my head. “Drop the weapon.”
Red was pouring from a wound in the bastard’s head where he’d collapsed onto the floorboards, and I could feel his blood dripping from my hands as I allowed the steel to slip from my hands.
“Put your hands behind your back and kneel on the ground.”