All Jacked Up (Rough Riders #8)(93)

confused her, now that she thought about it. Had he intended to make the offer for real? Jack had been purposely vague last night when he told her they needed to have a serious talk this morning.


Her grandmother’s warning, Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today, rang in her ears.


Good advice, but Keely feared it was too late.


She loaded up on camping supplies at the grocery store, successfully avoiding anyone she knew. Like any Wyomingite worth her salt, Keely already carried what passed for Wyoming emergency gear—a tarp, a knife, ammo, matches, jerky, a Chris LeDoux CD and a shovel, as well as an old sleeping bag—in her truck.


As she followed the twisty roads leading to the campground at the base of Devil’s Tower, Keely realized it’d been months since she’d spent the night under the stars. She had no qualms about camping alone in a remote area. She had food. Water. A pistol. Most importantly, a don’t-f*ck-with-me attitude.


The campsite she’d chosen was far enough away she could see the entire monument rising up out of the trees like an ancient skyscraper. No wonder the laccolith had been—and still was—worshipped by the Native Americans as a holy place. The quiet power of the rock formation always gave her chills.


Keely set up camp. She had nothing but time on her hands and a whole lot to think about. But bone deep she knew what she wanted. She just needed to gather up the courage to go after it.


The next morning Jack was past crazy, on his way to certifiable. When he’d first pulled up to the apartment after he’d left Moorcroft, he half-expected to see his personal shit strewn in the alley from where Keely had heaved it out the window in a fit of rage.


As hours passed and she didn’t come home and she didn’t answer her phone, Jack paced to the point he pissed himself off. But he couldn’t sit around with his thumb up his ass when he had no f*cking clue where Keely had run off to.


Call her family; they’ll know where to find her.


True, but the fact her brothers hadn’t shown up guns blazing meant her family wasn’t aware she’d taken off. Maybe he had a chance to correct the biggest mistake of his life, without any of the crazy-assed male McKays knowing Jack Donohue had done Keely wrong.


So, with nothing else to do but wait, Jack worked out. He did crunches until his stomach hurt. Then he did pushups until his arms wouldn’t hold him up. He ran in place until his legs gave out. Covered in sweat, body aching, he fell on the floor and waited until the worst of the muscle cramps passed. Then he started all over again, adding chin ups to the mix. The third go around he added squats to his routine. He planned to add jumping jacks to the fourth set, but he laughed until he cried, knowing Keely would’ve gotten a big kick out of the play on words. Jack. Doing jumping jacks.


At that point in his delirium last night, he’d considered drinking until he passed out. But he feared Keely would come home and think he was a drunk as well as an *, so he’d scratched that idea.


When his stomach rumbled, he realized he hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours. He shuffled to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. What he saw on the top shelf almost made him weep.


A meatloaf. Mixed up in a glass baking dish, wrapped in tinfoil, ready to be popped in the oven. She’d gone out of her way to prepare his favorite food. He didn’t know why he was so surprised. She was sweet.


Funny. Thoughtful. Absolutely perfect for him. Keely McKay was everything he’d never wanted and everything he needed.


The enormity of his mistake increased exponentially with every minute of her absence. He’d do anything to spend his life with her. Move to Wyoming. Become a cowboy. Work on the family ranch. Hell, he’d even listen to that shitty country music she loved. Take her line dancing. Join her dart league.


Impregnate her with all the kids she could handle. If she’d just come home.


Jack was so goddamn tired, physically from punishing his body to the point he could barely move.


And the emotional beating he’d given himself was way worse.


Man up.


He dialed the only person who could help him. He barely heard the phone ringing over the thumping of his heart. When the line was picked up, Jack blurted, “I did a dumb, stupid, asinine thing, which is all my fault and I need your help.”


Talk about making him sweat. He’d made the phone call three hours ago. When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he forced himself to stay focused on the paper in front of him.


No knocking. The apartment door crashed open.


“It’s about f*cking time,” he snapped, without turning around. “I know you’re pissed at me, but Jesus, I’m worried about her—”


“You don’t have a f*cking clue how pissed we are.”


We.


Jack turned around.


Holy f*cking shit.


Cord, Colby, Colt, Cam and Carter McKay were spread out like a bunch of goddamn gunslingers.


“What the hell are you guys doing here?”


“What the hell do you think we’re doing here?” Cord said.


“Trespassing on private property.”


“So call a cop,” Cam shot back.


Laughter.