Art has eyes in the back of his head.
Truman’s gaze darted beyond her and to her left. He’s not alone. She imagined Truman’s accomplice attempting to line up a shot from behind the horse’s neck. It was nearly impossible.
Sandy kept a hand on Mercy’s back for balance. Small tremors flowed through her fingers to Mercy’s skin, and her rough breaths were loud in the tense air.
Art’s bullet won’t go through three of us. She’s safe.
“Truman,” said Sandy in a hoarse voice. “He shot Kaylie. He thought she was Mercy.”
Mercy flinched but held her focus.
“You shot a child,” Truman said flatly behind Art. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you in the back right now.”
“You know as well as I do,” Art stated. “You could accidentally kill your woman.” He held Mercy’s gaze. “I’m truly sorry for your niece, Mercy.”
Mercy’s knuckles turned white on Trevor’s weapon. “Bullshit. You tried to kill me.” She concentrated to keep her arm steady. “You know what, Art? Remember how I told you I wanted to be friends after our one date? That was bullshit too. I refused because you were too old for me!”
Rage flashed on his face.
I pushed too hard.
She braced for his shot.
But the rage vanished, and his features sagged, turning him into an old man.
His transformation staggered her. The confident FBI agent was no more.
“I’m sorry, Mercy.” He lowered the weapon, and Sandy noisily exhaled behind her.
He looks ready to fall apart. His weapon rose a few degrees and turned toward his head.
“Art! Don’t!” she ordered. He met her gaze, and she silently pleaded with him. His hand halted, but his face filled with regret.
Mercy didn’t relax and kept her eyes locked on him. “It’s going to be okay, Art. You don’t need to do that. Everything will be fine,” she said automatically.
He knows it will never be fine again.
“Toss your gun back here,” Truman commanded. “And then remove the rifle.”
Art stretched out his arms and let the pistol dangle from one finger. He raised his chin, his eye contact staying with Mercy, looking ready for a crucifixion.
“Thank you, Art,” she said, exhaling some of her tension.
He has a long road ahead of him.
He slowly rotated ninety degrees to his left, stopping to look out over the endless view.
“Your gun,” Truman reminded him.
Art didn’t move.
Mercy backed out of Truman’s line of fire, dragging Trevor with her.
If Art fires at Truman, I won’t hold back.
Art tossed the gun aside toward Truman, his arms still outstretched. He removed the rifle and flung it in the same direction.
Thank God.
Art looked back at Mercy, remorse in his gaze.
She said nothing. It was over. Art would never be a free man again.
He sacrificed—
Art darted two steps and leaped off the cliff.
Mercy couldn’t breathe. Screams sounded in her head.
He didn’t.
Art . . .
Truman lunged toward the ridge, his desperate act too late. He stumbled, landed on his chest, and slid partway over the edge. His head and arms dangled off the cliff, as he looked straight down hundreds of feet. Sandy shrieked and grabbed Mercy’s shoulder, nearly knocking her over.
“Truman!” Mercy started to release Trevor to grab Truman, but loud thumps made her spin to her left. Samuel sprinted toward Truman. He grabbed the man’s boots and hauled him back.
Truman rolled onto his back, staring at the sky, his chest heaving. “Holy fuck.”
“No shit,” answered Samuel. The officer took a tentative step to look over the edge and stepped back immediately.
“I didn’t see him,” said Samuel in a stunned voice. “No way he survived that.”
“No,” Truman agreed, still lying on his back. He turned his head and met Mercy’s gaze.
Did that just happen?
Art is dead.
She couldn’t speak. Her knees shook.
Art is dead. The phrase echoed in her mind.
Samuel took Trevor from her chokehold, and her arm’s muscles protested as she straightened it. Samuel rapidly searched and cuffed Trevor.
“Oh my God,” Sandy said, covering her face with her hands. “I’m going to see that for the rest of my life.”
“Me too,” Mercy said hoarsely. “Are you okay?”
“My scalp is burning, but I’m fine.” Sandy dropped to the dirt and sat cross-legged, her shoulders slumping. “I just need to sit down.”
Mercy did too. Truman sat up as she walked over. She took one of his hands and lowered herself heavily beside him. “I don’t think anyone’s legs feel very strong at the moment.” She breathed hard as she looked off in the distance. The stunning vista felt tainted.
Could I have stopped him?
Truman awkwardly pulled her into his lap. “I need a moment,” he said, burying his face in her neck.
She held her lips to his temple. “You’re not the only one.”
“I can’t believe—”
“Don’t talk about it right now,” she ordered. The sight of Art leaping off the ridge would haunt her forever. It flashed on constant replay in her head.
They were silent for several seconds, each simply breathing and taking strength from the other.
“I love you,” he stated.
She pressed her face harder into his rough stubble. “I love you more.”
Samuel cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. Can we take this asshole back to the station?”
Trevor glared at him.
Mercy didn’t unwrap her arms from Truman’s shoulders. “That’s Trevor Whipple,” she said. “He admitted torturing Bree to get her to tell him the location of the money left over from the robbery.”
Truman started under her tight grip. “He’s one of the original thieves?” He looked at the man. “Where the hell have you been for thirty years?”
Trevor was silent.
“We were right about Bree. She was the driver for the robbery.” Mercy turned to Sandy, who still sat on the ground, the shovel across her lap. “Sandy . . . is the money really in a safety-deposit box?”
She slowly shook her head. “I lied,” she whispered.
I knew it.
“I thought if they believed the money was in a bank, they would drag us back to town and not shoot us right here.” Sandy’s face crinkled, and tears threatened. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t know anything about the money. Bree never told me. I was stupid to think she might have hid it up here.”
“I guess we’ll have to ask Bree when she wakes,” stated Truman.
If she wakes.
Truman jerked in her arms. “Rose is in labor,” he blurted. “I forgot to tell you.”
Joy radiated through Mercy. A month early . . . that’s not too bad. “We were a little busy, so I’ll let it go this time.” She kissed Truman’s rough cheek but then frowned at the concern on his face. “What is it?”