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He let his ex spend all kinds of time with her mother and how did she repay him? She left. And Bell was the one who gave her the idea. She was the one who not only drove her daughter to the ass who stole his wife, but hid his own daughter from him for months.

It wasn’t until Brent was served that he figured out his baby girl was in the same fucking town as him. And it was a good six months before he was allowed to see her again. By then, Justice was brainwashed. She was another version of her mother who had only gotten worse over the years. Brent was done.

History was
not
going to repeat itself. He was going to deal with Justice, get her right; and in the morning, Bell was being evicted from their lives. He didn’t care what this town said or thought, that woman had taken his family—she was not a widowed preacher’s wife, she was the devil!

***

M
urdock had lost all his courage. He’d pulled off on the side of the road miles beyond Declan’s buddy’s house. He hadn’t seen his truck there, but even if he had—what was he going to do?

Nothing.

Which only pissed him off more. Sitting off to the side of the road gave him time think, to get even madder. He knew he’d better have one hell of a story when he saw Brent again or he’d be in for a world of shame.

And the more he thought of his bullshit story he was going to tell, and as he drank the beer he had taken with him, the worse he became.

He kept thinking of Declan and Justice, his hands on her, him getting one single emotion out of her. He kept thinking about how big of an ass Declan was, how his whole family was a worthless, Roughneck joke.

Knowing he had to kill even more time to make any fight believable, he had gotten out of the truck to piss and look for more beer in his toolbox. Again his bag spilled out, and again, he winced and cussed as he picked all the balls and his bag up then he tossed the bag in his truck bed and hopped in after it. He was taking a piss off the side when he saw distant headlights.

Son of a bitch
, he thought.

Not a single car or truck had passed him since he left Justice’s—it had to be Declan in the distance.

More of the night before flashed in his mind. He remembered Jacks coming up on Nolan’s truck, how well he had aimed.

Right then, it clicked. He knew how to cause some serious damage and not have to swing nearly as much, which was good, one blow to his chest and he’d be done. Hell, pitching was going to kill him, but he’d pitched through worse.

Most of the road further down had been washed out from where the river rose, which is why the bridge was blocked off now. He knew that was why Declan was going so slow, and saw it as a gift from above. The slower speed would give Murdock a chance to actually get more than one ball thrown. Enough to get Declan to stop. And when he charged Murdock, he’d throw a few more, cause some damage. Then they’d finish this fight. Hopefully, it would end with Declan in jail for some made up reason the way his daddy, Monty, wanted it to go down months back with Nolan.

Boom.

Murdock threw the first one. It hit the windshield dead on. Murdock bellowed out a grunt of victory as he threw another landing near the same point on the windshield, then he threw another—and again. So many he had to reach down for another handful. With his next throw, the truck sped up which made no sense because it was not charging toward Murdock, but in the opposite direction.

In a drunken haze, it took Murdock a second to see the driver hunched over, and even longer for it to register the truck was plowing through trees that had already taken a beating the week before and then: BOOM. SPLASH.

The truck charged right into the Savanna River.

For a second it bobbed as it moved with the swift current. In the dark, from where Murdock was, he was sure he saw it all wrong. He was sure Declan had hit the brakes, if not a stump or something had stopped the truck, but then the truck started to sink.

Murdock stood stock-still, too shocked, too drunk, and too lost to find the will to move.

The night was dead silent then. There was no splash, no yell for help, nothing.

Finally, he snapped to his senses and jumped out of the bed of his truck and ran to the edge of the street. There he stopped.

It was over, and he knew it.

Instead of rushing down the path of broken trees, rocks and mud, he ran up the street, in a panic, looking for his baseballs. Rain started to come down, a few drops here and there. By the time he had found so many balls that his shirt was full of them, the rain was down pouring.

He ran to his truck, climbed back in and opened the toolbox, dumping all the balls in there. Then he hopped down and made it to the driver’s side.

He knew the only man who could protect him from going to jail, help him find the right story, was Brent Rose.

***

T
he last thing Justice wanted to do was walk across the property in the dark following her father. She could tell he was drunk. Every other step he’d sway and then curse because he had.

This was not his sad drunk. This was not I love you and need you to be good—you be good and I will be—drunk. This was his fury drunk. This was the drunk that had broken ribs in the past, blackened her eye, and sprained her wrist.

Once in the shop he turned and charged toward her, causing her to step back—she was even debating just running for it, wondering how far she could get. Who would believe her? And if handling the repercussions of her path down the road was worth it.

“You’re a whore just like your mother,” he slurred.

She didn’t bother to speak, speaking just made him aware she was really there, not some drunken delusion.

“Are you fucking a Rawlings?” His eyes were ablaze with hatred.

She was silent. Whatever he thought went on with her and Declan was now imploded into something sick—something she should be ashamed of. His imagination was vast and not in a good way.

Fear caused goose bumps to race across her skin. She felt herself flush, her heart race, tears well. She silently thought every prayer she could, and all but begged God himself to snatch her from this hell she was born into.

Just like all the times before, she had no idea how she’d gotten there, the shock of going from normalcy to this so often was something she had never gotten used to, and doubted she ever would.

When it was bad, she wished for death, for a way out. When it was good, she told herself it was never as bad as she thought, that her emotions made it out to be more than it was. She told herself every family fought, she told herself every father yelled and behind closed doors, everyone battled their own wars.

“Answer me!” he raged, moving to get in her face.

She heard him then, not her father. Declan.
“You deploy any and all defense you need when you need it. Don’t question if it’s right or wrong. Don’t doubt your strength or your worth. No one lays a hand on you. You hear me?”

And somehow, she found the nerve.

“Leave me alone. Get out of my house,” she said with a glare. It took far more courage than she thought it would but she said it across a trembling, firm tone.

At first, she thought she had scored an instant victory. Her father’s face went lax, the anger was gone, and astonishment was there, but only momentarily.

“What did you say to me?” he asked with an enraged, bewildered look on his face. He really was in shock that she even spoke.

“Not your house, and I can see who I want.”

“Can you now?” he said, right as his backhand slung across her face.

She knew if he hit her face, he was aimed to bring her a world of pain, and on purpose.

The blow caused her to fall to her knees. For a second, she couldn’t hear anything beyond a ringing noise, and the taste of blood was rich in her mouth. Her entire body was tense with adrenaline, expecting another blow any second, expecting worse.

He pulled her up by her hair, but she refused to scream. Only tight short breaths came from her.

“That whore mouth of yours has somethin’ to say to me? White trash just like your momma, looking for a free ride and willing to spread it for anyone!” He kicked her when she slipped and went down on one knee. Then he pulled her up again.

“You listen here—” She didn’t hear what else he said. Something had clicked inside, some kind of rage, or fear, or fight for survival. All she knew was she was not going down without a fight.

She charged forward, throwing him off balance. On his way down he pulled her with him but almost immediately the pull he had on her hair released.

She scrambled off of him, ready to find whatever weapon she needed to defend herself.

But he didn’t get up.

It wasn’t until she had grabbed a piece of rebar and turned that she noticed he was still down. That was when she noticed the pool of blood he was lying in.

It looked like it was coming from the back of his head. Which made no sense to her. She had seen him fall a thousand times when he was really gone.

She stood frozen as she watched his last breath leave him.

Even then, watching the blood pool, watching him die, she still feared for her life—she still expected him to get up and charge her. She could still see him, smell him—he was
right
there. Still, a threat who was going to kill her, rip her apart for daring to hurt him in any way.

“What did you do?” she heard Murdock say from behind her.

With a gasp, she turned, the weapon she never had the chance to use in hand.

“He...fell...”

M
urdock Souter had one hell of a problem. Before he left from where he pulled off the road, he had shone a spotlight toward the river, and there was nothing there. He crept down the road, following the fast current looking for the truck, anyone on the bank. Nothing.

He could see how fast the current was moving and knew even sober, diving in there at night was a death wish.

The entire way back to Justice’s home he kept telling himself Brent could fix it, he would fix it.

Murdock had stopped twice and retched. Therefore, he felt numbingly sober as he pulled into Brent’s drive. The rain that was pouring helped him find even more sobriety as the cold drops landed on his adrenaline-soaked body.

Still sick, but aware and somewhat clear-headed, he’d heard Brent yelling, and had taken off at a quick pace toward the shop. He wanted to get there before Brent had the chance to tell anyone Declan Rawlings had been there.

No. No one needed to know they saw him or that his body was now at the bottom of the river. Brent would agree with him, he knew he would. Alibis were needed now more than ever.

Right as he rounded the corner he saw Justice holding a piece of rebar above her head, ready to strike, and Brent’s lifeless body on the floor.

Murdock’s chest heaved with panic. All he could think was he was going to jail because he gave a damn what the dead, drunk, fuck on the ground thought of him.

Declan would have left, more than likely never came back knowing him and his asshole ways. And yet Brent wanted to sic Murdock on him like some bulldog.

Fuck. This.

Then all at once his stare moved from Brent to Justice’s trembling stance. Murdock needed an alibi, someone who would
never
betray him. Someone who had just enough to lose, and he found one in the tearful blue eyes looking back at him.

He flew into action, turned on the lawn mower next to him, the one with the broken gas line then another one. He nodded for Justice to come to him. “Watch your feet,” he said, looking down at the pool of blood that had almost reached her.

She listened and ran to him, still confused and still in shock.

Murdock took the rebar from her and pushed her behind him. Then he scraped it across the dry ground just before the pool of gas and oil, right by all the other wood and metal. As if it was meant to be there was a spark, and it caught quick. Murdock tossed the rebar deep in the pile then stepped back and watched as the disaster that had been waiting to happen, did.

Brent Rose had fallen into the gas and oil that had leaked from all the machines he had picked up all over town and next to wood that had been sitting for days in the pooling spills.

Not watching Brent even flinch as the fire overtook him was eerie as hell, all most as freaky as watching Declan’s truck silently drive him to his grave.

“What are you doing?”  Justice yelled.

“Saving you,” he said, taking her hand and making her run with him.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway to her house. Then he called 911. “Yeah, hey. I have an emergency!” he said in a panicked tone. “I was on the porch with my girlfriend, and we saw her daddy’s shop glowing in the distance—it’s on fire, and I can’t get him out!”

Justice stared at him with her mouth wide open. She didn’t understand what was wrong with the truth. Why the cover-up? But she didn’t really understand much right then. Numb. Stunned.

He wasn’t dead, he was going to come out of there and beat the hell out of her. He was. Her fear told her was.

Moments later Murdock was off the phone and shining the light of the screen in her face. “We’re going to tell them this is from you trying to get in the shop to save your dad, we’ll say you slipped.”

“What the hell?” she yelled as she reached to wipe the blood she did feel on her lip away.

“Listen to me,” he said, getting in her face. “Yeah, there are rumors in this town that says he drinks, that he has a temper. But there are far more people who think he’s a saint. Who he has helped long before this disaster week. Your grandmother? Yeah, she might could say he knocked you ‘round, but what is she? A scorned widow? Someone who wants her property back? I’m telling you, Justice, we have to make it look like an accident, or they will put you away.”

She pushed him back. “I was defending myself!” Her cagy glance moved to the shop. She thought she saw movement, was sure her dad was coming for her then.

Murdock filled her vision once more, taking full advantage of her fragile state.

“You were standing over a dead man holding rebar in your hand!” he yelled back, now desperate to get her on board with his plan. He gripped her shoulders. “Listen, I’m telling you, this will not go over well! He spent all afternoon with the fucking mayor! Do you really think anyone is going to believe he came home and beat you for the hell of it?”