Page 36 of Cowboy Heat

I’m not going to let that lie.

I thunder down the stairs with the bat ready in seconds. When I turn, I’m a second away from swinging.

My intruder must realize he’s made a mistake. He throws his hands high, and the keychain flashlight clatters to the concrete floor. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t shoot!”

The boy is young. I think thirteen or fourteen. He’s tall but thin, and his voice isn’t terribly deep. There’s no acne on his face, but it’s filled with fear. He’s wearing a plain T-shirt and cargo shorts with dirt on them and boots that match. There’s a paper towel wrapped around his right hand, secured by duct tape.

I don’t understand why he’s here.

Or what it is he’s doing. There’s still nothing in the room. Well, other than him and a backpack on the ground next to him.

I lower my bat.

The boy is shaking.

“Who are you?” I ask. “And why are you in my house?”

The boy, seeing I don’t have a gun, eyes the stairs next to me.

I shake my head. “You can’t outrun me, son. I suggest you talk instead.”

The boy’s eyes are wide but his feet stay put. He lowers his hands. “I-I didn’t know anyone was staying here,” he says. “I mean— I thought you would be out longer. I would have left earlier but I got tangled up in an old fence on the way here and was bleeding, and I—and I had to find something to stop it.”

He doesn’t give me room to question any of that. Instead, he looks at the stairs with more purpose. I think he’s going to actually attempt to run, but there’s no tension in his body to suggest that.

He’s looking for something.

Someone?

“Who are you?” I reiterate.

He falters again. Then he seems to fold in on himself some. “I’m Micah. Micah Clayborn.” He lets out a long breath. He’s more uncertain when he continues. “Is-Is Miss Lawson with you by chance?”

Every fiber of me goes on high alert.

I’m about to double down on this boy, but then something else unexpected turns my night on its head.

Someone is knocking on the front door upstairs.

Not just knocking, banging. The sound is jarring, but seeing the boy recoil at it shifts something in me.

It also gives me some clarity.

“Who’s after you?” I ask the boy quick, readjusting my grip on the bat.

Surprise crosses his expression. It confirms that he’s not here looking for anything.

He’s here hiding from something.

I know the look.

“No one,” he tries.

No dice. “Then who is that beating against the door up there?” I ask.

He doesn’t say a word for a second.

That beating gets louder.