Deadly Silence (Blood Brothers #1)(2)
“It’s time to step in,” Heath said, picking a scab on his chin, his wiry body on full alert.
“He’s giving a good fight, and those guys need to know he won’t roll over if we’re not around,” Ryker said, his own hands clenching into fists. “We can’t always cover his back.”
The second Heath had caught sight of the little guy—another wounded animal for him to save—he’d tried to jump into the fray. Ryker had stopped him with a hand on his arm, promising to save the kid when it was time, trying to see the entire picture at once. His heart raced and the injustice of it all clawed through him, but he had to tamp down raw emotions to survive.
It was a lesson he’d learned early and Heath had yet to figure out.
Ryker and Heath had been best friends for the six months they’d spent in the boys home, facing off against too many bullies to count—kids and adults both. Ryker had been at the home for a month when Heath arrived. The kid instantly tried to save a lost kitten he’d found on the outskirts of the ranch. Seeing Heath take a beating for hiding the kitten made Ryker approach him the next day. He’d never approached anybody, but Heath had needed a friend. Maybe Ryker had, too.
Having Heath at his back kept him from going crazy, and he had to adapt and think things through for them both, so they didn’t run on emotion and totally screw up. “Let the kid get in one more good shot.”
The new kid—a gangly, dark-haired boy—bit into the neck of one of his older attackers, an asshole named Larry. Larry and his buddies were around sixteen and ruled the boys home when the jerk of an owner wasn’t telling everyone what to do. They’d be kicked out soon to go be adults.
The kid dug in, slashing deep with his teeth.
“Jesus.” Ryker ran forward and yanked the kid away from the bully. If the kid hurt anybody bad enough to need stitches, Ned Cobb, the owner of the boys home, would beat him to death. Stitches cost money.
Blood poured down Larry’s cheek, and he slapped a hand to it. “You’re gonna die for that, prick.”
Ryker got into his face. Even though he was four years younger, they were the same height, and Ryker filled out his shirt better. Fury threatened to eat him whole. “Leave him alone.”
Larry snarled. “You taking on another pet, shit-for-brains?”
Ryker stepped closer, and his hands closed into fists. In a couple of seconds, he wouldn’t be able to control his temper, so he let it show in his bluish green eyes. “I really wanna hurt you, Larry.”
Sometimes the truth just worked.
Larry blinked twice and then backed away. “You are so not worth my time.” He turned and headed for the older kids dormitory, and his lackeys followed.
“Denver? You okay?” Ryker asked the kid, noting a bruised lip and swelling black eye. He tried to make his voice gentle, but he really didn’t know how.
The kid pivoted and faced him squarely, his shoulders bunched.
Ryker held up a hand. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Too many people had clearly already hurt the boy, and his tortured eyes probably didn’t give the whole story. A part of Ryker, the part he didn’t like, wanted to walk away and not look back. Not take responsibility for one more person. Not care about one more person since their chances of surviving stunk. He could barely keep Heath from going off the deep end. What if he couldn’t help both Heath and Denver? What if he wasn’t smart enough or lost his own temper and things went to shit?
The kid whimpered, barely, and it was that sound that gave Ryker no choice.
Ryker straightened. Heath was right. This kid needed help. They could protect him in a way nobody had ever protected Ryker before he’d met Heath. “I broke into the main office and read your file after you got here yesterday.” The kid had been abandoned in Denver as an infant and then had been claimed by a so-called uncle who had problems with booze and anger. However, considering the asshole hadn’t even known Denver’s real name, if he’d had one, there was some doubt there. That was how Denver earned his name, which seemed to fit him anyway. “Your life has sucked so far.”
The boy drew back and then snorted.
Ryker grinned. “Your file says you don’t really talk.” The file didn’t say why Denver didn’t talk, and Ryker wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Denver didn’t answer.
Fair enough. Talking just got kids hit, anyway. Ryker jerked his head toward their dorm. If they could get Denver there, he could take care of the cut bleeding down his chin. “It’s gonna be okay. Oh, it’s gonna suck for a while, and that’s the truth. But in the end, I promise it’ll be okay.” He’d save this kid when he and Heath made a break for it. From day one, Ryker was all in or all out, and he didn’t know how to be another way. If he gave Denver his friendship, his loyalty, it was forever. Heath had been Ryker’s only friend, and if Heath needed to save this kid, then so did Ryker.
A car roared up the dirt driveway.
Ryker’s gut clenched as he noticed it was the sheriff’s dusty brown car.
“Shit,” Heath muttered, kicking the dirt. He pushed back his dirty hair. “We don’t have time to run.”
“No.” Ryker settled his stance, his knees wobbling. The owner of the boys home and the sheriff were brothers, which explained why they both liked to hit so much. “Denver? If the sheriff gets out and starts swinging, get behind me, okay?” The kid had already taken one beating, and the sheriff was known to use his nightstick on rib cages.