Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(95)

King had dislocated his thumb to escape the handcuffs.

Crazy bastard.

“Put the weapon down, Sheriff,” the lead trooper ordered.

They all knew King. They’d worked together. But they would still put a bullet in him to stop him if they had to.

King looked beyond the cops, to Sharp. Their eyes met. King’s mouth curled into a snarl.

“Put the weapon down or I will shoot you!” the trooper yelled.

Sharp knew in that moment of eye contact that King would not let the troopers arrest him. Nor would he take the chance of a nonlethal bullet wound. He would never go to jail.

In one swift movement, the sheriff brought the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing off the back of his head. Blood and bits of brain splattered across the worn wood behind him.

King went out on his own terms.

Sharp didn’t give a rat’s ass how he went out, as long as he ended up six feet underground.





Chapter Fifty-One

Late the next morning, Morgan sat in Lance’s kitchen and drained her second cup of coffee. Lance was still asleep. He’d refused to stay at the hospital the night before. They’d returned to his house in the gray hours just before dawn, crawled into his bed, and slept like corpses.

The doorbell rang. Not wanting the noise to wake Lance, she hurried to the door and opened it. Mac and Stella stood on the front step, with all three of Morgan’s girls in tow.

“Where’s Wance?” Sophie tried to zoom past Morgan’s legs.

Morgan made a grab for her daughter. “He’s sleeping.”

Sophie folded her arms and sulked. “I want to see him.”

“I know,” Morgan said. “I’ll go in and see if he’s awake yet. Sharp is in the kitchen.”

“We’ll take the kids into the kitchen.” Stella held up a box of donuts. “Who wants a donut?”

“Save me one,” Morgan said over her shoulder.

“Do you really deserve a donut?” Stella asked. “If it were Christmas, I’d fill your stocking with coal for the stunt you pulled last night.”

Morgan and Lance had given their statements at the hospital the previous night.

“I apologized twenty times already.” Guilt poked Morgan. “I should have answered your call. I should have told you where we were going. I’m sorry.”

Stella humphed. “Maybe one donut.” She shook a finger at Morgan. “But you have to drink one of Sharp’s nasty concoctions.”

“I promise.” Morgan held up three fingers like a Girl Scout.

Shaking her head, Stella retreated down the hall. Her sister loved her. No matter what.

Morgan opened Lance’s bedroom door.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” he said. “I’m awake.”

His eyes were open. Shirtless, he pushed the sheet down to his waist. Purple bruises mottled his ribcage. A small bandage on his side and another on his eyebrow covered the shallow knife wounds he’d sustained in his fight with Sheriff King. Just looking at him bare-chested made Morgan shiver. She’d layered her silk long underwear under a wool sweater. After their night in the woods, she might never be warm enough again.

Morgan eased onto the side of the bed, taking care not to jostle him. “The kids are here. They were worried about you, so Stella and Mac brought them to visit. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s OK.” Lance took her hand and traced the small bandage on her palm. “I’m fine.”

She shook her head. “You have three fractured ribs and twenty stitches in your leg. You should have stayed in the hospital last night.”

“Observation is hospital code for waking you up every thirty minutes. I needed actual sleep, and it could have been worse.” He touched a tender spot on her temple, where the butt end of King’s rifle had left a bruise.

“Unfortunately, I can’t argue with that.”

They’d been very, very lucky.

Lance put his palms on the bed and pushed his body toward the headboard. His face went tight with pain.

“You need a pill.” Morgan reached for a pillow and tucked it behind him. When he made a face, she said, “Remember what the doctor said. If you don’t take the medication, you won’t breathe deeply enough, and you’ll be at risk for pneumonia.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He eased onto the pillow, relaxing again once he was still.

Morgan’s own bruises were numerous, but just being alive and with Lance was enough to ease her stiffness. Every time she thought about what could have happened, her throat clogged and her heart clenched.

She opened the prescription bottle and put two tablets in his hand, then handed him a glass of water on the nightstand. Morgan moved the medication to the top of his medicine cabinet, out of the reach of her kids. She moved the sheet and blanket aside to check the bandage on his calf. He wore just his boxers. More bruises had darkened on his body overnight. Angry, dark patches covered his torso and limbs like a purple camouflage print. The sheer number and expanse of them spoke volumes of how hard he’d fought to save them.

The bedroom door opened, and Sharp swept in, carrying a green shake. “How are you?”

“How about a little privacy, Sharp?” Lance pulled the sheet over his legs and tugged it to his waist.