Page 10 of Dirty Cowboys (Masked Men #7)

Duke

I stand in the middle of Main Street watching Indie’s car disappear around the corner, her words rattling in my head. “ Wyatt’s bull. It’s called Mercy .” The pieces click together, and now I understand why she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Fuck.

I finish loading the feed into my truck, my mind racing. She thinks Wyatt is one of the masked men. She heard the bull’s name and connected it to the safe word we gave her, and now she’s spiraling. Indie thinks some kid and his buddies have been playing games.

The drive back to the ranch feels like it takes forever, even though it’s only twenty minutes.

I need to talk to Nash and Walker and figure out how to handle this before it all falls apart.

We’ve been so careful about keeping our identities separate from our activities, but one fucking bull’s name has blown everything wide open.

I find them in the barn, where Walker’s bent over the engine of the old tractor while Nash hands him tools and provides a running commentary that’s more hindrance than help.

“Hand me the three-quarter wrench,” Walker mutters.

“Which one’s the three-quarter?” Nash asks, holding up two nearly identical wrenches.

“Jesus Christ, Nash, how have you worked on a ranch for so long and still don’t know basic tools?”

“I know the important tools. Rope, saddle, branding iron, beer opener...”

I smirk at them. Nash knows he is winding Walker up, wanting to get a reaction out of him. Today we are alone on the ranch. I’m sure he is horny, and the easiest way for him to get Walker to fuck him is to bait him.

“That’s not a tool,” Walker replies, emerging from under the hood with grease streaked across his cheek.

“We need to talk,” I announce, interrupting their banter, and both of them turn toward me. Something in my tone must give away the seriousness of the situation because Nash immediately sets down the wrenches .

“What happened?” Walker asks, wiping his hands on a rag.

“I just ran into Indie in town. She was crying and a little shook up about something.” I lean against the workbench, crossing my arms. “She said Wyatt’s bull is called Mercy.”

“Shit,” Nash says. “She thinks?—”

“She thinks Wyatt and his friends are the ones who have been fucking her,” I confirm. “The safe word we gave her is the same name as one of the bulls he’s been practicing on.”

Walker turns to Nash with a look that could kill. “I told you choosing your favorite bull’s name was fucking stupid.”

“How was I supposed to know Wyatt would end up riding Mercy?” Nash protests. “Besides, it seemed appropriate at the time—if she needed mercy, she’d ask for it.”

“Appropriate,” Walker repeats. “You picked the name of a bull you’ve been obsessing over for months because it seemed appropriate.”

“Okay, so maybe it wasn’t my best decision, but what are we supposed to do about it now?” Nash says, running a hand through his hair. “She’s probably planning to confront Wyatt, and that kid’s going to have no idea what she’s talking about. Then he’ll tell someone, and this will all go away. ”

I push off from the workbench and start to pace. “We need to figure out how to fix this without blowing our cover.”

The radio in the corner of the barn suddenly crackles to life with Marge’s unmistakable voice, cutting through our conversation.

“All ranchers in the area, this is Marge. The weather service just issued a severe storm warning. A big one is coming in fast, should hit in the next hour or so. Secure your animals and get inside.”

The three of us exchange glances. Marge doesn’t use the emergency channel unless it’s serious, and she’s been watching the weather for longer than we’ve been alive.

“Shit,” Walker mutters, already moving toward the barn door. “The horses in the south paddock need to be brought in.”

We split up without discussion, each of us knowing what must be done. I head for the cattle in the nearest field, Nash takes the horses, and Walker secures the equipment that could become projectiles in the high winds.

The sky is already darkening when I reach the cattle, and heavy clouds are rolling in with the wind that is picking up fast. I whistle a “hurry up” to Scout, and my horse responds immediately.

We reach the cattle quickly and get to work herding them toward the barn.

The first raindrops hit just as I’m closing the gate behind the last animal.

I can see Nash in the distance, leading a string of horses toward the stables.

By the time we all make it back to the house, the wind is hectic, and the rain is pelting down. We race through the front door, all soaked to the bone.

“Everyone accounted for?” I ask, shaking water from my hair.

“Horses are secure,” Nash says. “Though they’re not happy about it.”

“Equipment’s battened down,” Walker adds. “But if this gets as bad as Marge thinks, we might lose some of the older buildings.”

Lightning flashes outside, followed by thunder that shakes the windows. “Fuck,” Nash says suddenly, his face going pale. “What about Indie?”

She was upset when I saw her, crying and talking about messing things up. In that state of mind, would she think to take shelter from the storm?

I grab the two-way radio from the kitchen counter and tune it to the frequency we use for the Patterson property. “Indie, this is Duke. If you can hear this, stay inside. A severe storm is coming through. Respond if you’re safe.”

Static.

I try again, adjusting the frequency. “Indie, please respond. This storm is dangerous. ”

More static.

Nash suddenly bolts across the room to the far corner, the only spot in the house that gets decent cell reception. He pulls out his phone, frantically tapping at the screen.

“What are you doing?” Walker demands.

“Checking her Instagram,” Nash replies. “If she’s okay, she might have posted something.”

I watch as he stares at the screen. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He holds up the phone so we can see. “She posted this just before the storm hit.”

The image shows the darkening sky over the field, below the expanse of angry storm clouds. The caption reads: Sometimes you need to face the storm to find clarity.

“That’s our spot,” Walker murmurs. “She’s at our fucking spot.”

“We have to go after her.” Nash is already reaching for his jacket.

“In this weather?” Walker protests. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t get struck by lightning or taken out by flying debris.”

“I don’t care,” Nash snaps. “I’m not leaving her out there.”

A tense silence stretches around us—the only sound is the storm howling outside .

“The old equipment shed,” Walker says suddenly. “If she took shelter, it would be there.”

We move, grabbing flashlights and rain gear, knowing we’re probably making a mistake going outside when it’s this bad, but we won’t be able to live with ourselves if we don’t try.

The storm hits us hard the moment we step outside. The wind is strong enough to knock us sideways, and the rain stings as it slams into my face.

“I’ll drive,” Walker shouts over the storm. “I know these roads better than anyone.”

The drive to the property line feels like an eternity, the truck sliding on the muddy roads and rocking from the wind. The headlights barely give us visibility, and we stop twice to move fallen branches blocking our path.

When we finally reach our spot, Walker parks as close as he can, and we pile out into the storm.

Our flashlights reveal the mess the storm is causing, and the only place we can think of within running distance is the old shed.

Indie would have walked past it daily to get here—I just hope she was smart enough to run there and not toward the house.

“Fuck!” I yell when I see an old tree has fallen on the shed, crushing it like cardboard.

“Indie!” Nash runs toward it, Walker and I close behind him. We pull away the debris and wood, searching for her.

“Here!” Walker shouts. “I found her.”

Nash and I race to where Walker is kneeling beside an unconscious Indie, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead.

“Is she...” Nash starts but can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Alive,” Walker confirms, checking her for injuries. “Her pulse is strong, but she’s got a gash on her head. We need to get her out of there.”

Working together, we carefully pull her out. She doesn’t stir, even when we lift her. It worries me more than I want to admit. The trip back to the truck is a nightmare of wind and rain, with all of us struggling to keep our footing while protecting Indie.

“She’s going to be okay,” Nash mutters, more to himself than to us as he cradles her in the back seat. “She has to be.”

I catch Walker’s eye in the rearview mirror, and I can see the same fear that’s eating at me. We found her, but it might be too late. If something happens to her, if we lose her because we weren’t careful enough, none of us will forgive ourselves.

By the time we reach the house and get Indie inside, all three of us are soaked again. Nash carries her straight to the guest bedroom while Walker grabs the first aid kit and I call Doc Henderson. Nash quickly strips off her wet clothes and pulls one of my old T-shirts over her head.

“Storm’s got the roads blocked,” Doc tells me over the radio. “But if her breathing is steady and her pupils respond to light, she should be okay. Keep her warm, check on her every hour, and let me know if anything changes.”

Nash hovers beside the bed while Walker cleans the cut on her forehead. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have used that as the fucking safe word.”

“Stop,” I tell him firmly. “This isn’t on you.”

“Isn’t it?” Nash turns to face me, his eyes red as he holds back tears. “She’s lying there unconscious because she thought Wyatt was one of us.”

Walker looks up from bandaging Indie’s head. “You think she would have been safe at home if you’d picked a different word? She was upset; Duke said she was crying. Storms don’t give a shit about safe words, Nash.”

“But she wouldn’t have been at our spot.”

“And then what?” I interrupt, crossing my arms. “She consented to everything we’ve done together, Nash. Regardless of who she thought was behind those masks, she said yes. She wanted it. And she came back for more.”

Nash runs his hands through his damp hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. “She trusted us. We were supposed to keep her safe.”

“And we did,” Walker says. “Every time. We gave her a safe word, we checked on her, and we made sure she got home okay. What happened tonight wasn’t about what we’ve been doing with her.”

I walk over to Nash and put a hand on his shoulder. “Walker’s right. She’s a grown woman who made her own choices. The storm was not something we could have prevented by picking a different word.”

“She could have died out there,” Nash whispers, his voice cracking. “Because of a fucking misunderstanding.”

“But she didn’t,” I remind him. “We found her, and she’s going to be okay.”

Nash slumps into the chair beside the bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands. “I keep thinking about what would have happened if we hadn’t gone looking for her. If we’d assumed she was safe at home.”

“But we went looking. We are not men who leave someone we care about to face something like this alone.”

The room is silent as we all look at each other; I don’t think any of us have stopped to consider that we care about this woman. It’s funny how something like this can make you realize how you feel .

“Her pulse is strong,” Walker continues, pulling a blanket over her. “And her breathing is steady.”

“Are we going to tell her it was us? If she confronts Wyatt, everyone will know,” Nash says.

Before I can respond, Indie’s eyelids flutter, and her breathing changes—she’s waking up.

“Hey,” Nash says softly, leaning forward in his chair. “You’re safe.”

Indie’s eyes open slowly, unfocused and confused. She blinks several times, trying to make sense of where she is. When her gaze clears, she looks between the three of us standing around her bed, and I can practically see the pieces clicking together.

“It’s you,” she whispers hoarsely.

None of us know what to say, so we simply stand there staring.

She tries to sit up, wincing as the movement sends pain through her head. “I need to... I have to...”

“Whoa, easy,” Walker says, moving toward the bed.

But Indie’s already swinging her legs over the side, trying to stand despite her obvious dizziness. “I can’t... this is...” She gets to her feet, sways, and takes a stumbling step toward the door.

Walker catches her before she can fall, his hands firm on her shoulders. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice is rougher than usual. “Don’t you think you’ve caused us enough worry for one night?”

Indie looks up at him, and for a moment her lower lip trembles and tears gather in her eyes.

“I heard you,” she whispers. “I heard you talking about the masks, about keeping me safe. It was you all along.”