Page 7 of Far From Sherwood Forest (Far From #3)

I was sure I was about to die. It would’ve been good timing, to be honest.

After being chased through the woods by the old Sheriff of Nottingham, I was feeling a bit more like myself.

Or…my old self. It was like I had forgotten how to wear a mask because I hadn’t needed it in so long.

I hadn’t needed any disguises since I became the man I am now—someone who actually fits in this world.

It’s been nice not having to play pretend, but…

Then Henry had to come barging in and throw me completely off balance.

That old mask was back on.

With the adrenaline from the chase still flowing through my veins, I wasn’t afraid. If he had decided to kill me right then, at least I would’ve denied him my fear.

But he didn’t kill me.

At the last second, he lowered his gun.

Pain rips through my leg about a second after the shot goes off, and my knees buckle under me.

They crash onto the hard ground, adding to the pain.

I fall backwards onto my ass, grabbing my left leg and looking down to assess the damage.

Blood soaks through my jeans on the side of my thigh.

It looks like I may have gotten lucky and it’s just a graze.

Slightly unhinged laughter bubbles up from my chest, and I don’t even know why. It’s definitely too early to be delirious from blood loss.

I peer up, still laughing. “Just like old times, huh, Sheriff?”

He doesn’t comment on the title, but every time I say it, there’s a little twitch in the corner of his left eye. If the asshole’s going to keep shooting me, then I’ll keep fucking saying it.

Without a word, he walks toward his truck, going right around me like I’m trash.

“You bring me out to the woods, shoot me, and then leave me out here? You could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”

Still, he ignores me, opening the driver’s side door of his truck.

Now I’m getting pissed.

“What’s the matter, Henry? Don’t want to kill me after all?”

A vague sense of déjà vu hits me.

He pauses at the open door then turns around and stalks back over to me, grass and leaves crunching beneath his boots. He bends down, and I swear the seams of his jeans are going to rip with how tight they are.

Lifting his gun, he uses the barrel to wipe a strand of hair off my sweaty forehead. It’s the cool metal that makes me shiver. Not the cold look in his eyes.

“I was never going to kill you tonight, Robin,” he says, his voice low and dark.

“I have five extra years of hatred to let out. So, no, I’m not going to make it that easy on you.

I’m going to take my time. I’m going to ruin your life like you ruined mine.

I’m going to destroy you.” He stands, and when he gives me the first thing resembling a smile—a small but no less menacing smirk—another shiver passes through me.

“We’re only getting started, Robin Hood. ”

It’s Robin Locksley here, but I think he knows that considering he was able to find me and has been watching me.

Either way, it does exactly what he wants it to do.

It reminds me that, underneath these facades we’ve built, we really haven’t changed.

As he climbs into his truck and the beam of his headlights hits me, it occurs to me that that was the most he’s spoken since kidnapping me from the bar. I can’t help but let out another short laugh thinking the one thing he’s actually passionate about is me.

Destroying me, sure. But still me .

Once the red glow from his brake lights has disappeared, I let gravity take me, crashing down onto my back.

The ground is cold even through my jacket, and my leg and hands are sticky with blood, pain still radiating from both bullet wounds.

But none of that is what really bothers me as I stare up at the clear, night sky.

The stars wink down at me, and I think back to that night five years ago when the sky looked the same as it does tonight.

John and I have both moved on, at least as much as we could. Henry clearly hasn’t. If anything, he’s let it all fester until it’s grown infected, spreading like cancer.

I can’t imagine living like that. Perpetually stuck in the past.

When I realize I’m feeling sorry for him instead of myself, I roll my eyes and reach into my pocket for my phone, being careful of the gash in my left hand from Henry’s bullet.

Fucking asshole really shot me twice and left me out here.

I unlock my phone and frown at the single bar of service. Pressing the button to call John, I hold my breath, releasing it when the ringing finally starts after trying to connect for several seconds. It takes a little while longer, but John eventually picks up.

“Where the hell did you get off to?”

“I need you to pick me up at the park.”

“How did you get all the way out there? The truck is still here.”

I sigh, still staring up at the dome of the sky above. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when you get here. I’m at the farthest campsite at the end of the road.”

“I’ll be there soon.” He pauses, and I can hear women’s laughter from the other end of the line, probably Bethany and Emma. “And Robin? You owe me big time.”

He hangs up, and I drop my hand back to the ground at my side, letting out a small huff of a laugh. I’m sure he was probably hoping to get lucky tonight.

For the next half hour, I lie there on the cold, hard ground, hoping I don’t bleed out while trying to see how many of the constellations I can remember and identify.

It’s a grand total of two. I blame the way they’re kind of blurring together as I fight a wave of dizziness.

A breeze passes through the campsite that helps, and it sounds like the trees are whispering.

In my head, they’re talking about what a dick Henry is.

I barely catch myself from agreeing out loud.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with him so easily, but I honestly wasn’t sure what he was willing to do even being surrounded by people.

I wish he would’ve just talked to me, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to break through his armor.

That hard exterior of his has obviously grown several layers over the past few years.

The rumble of a truck in the distance reaches my ears, but I remain on the ground. If it’s Henry coming back just to laugh in my face for letting me think he was letting me live just to shoot me again, I’d rather not waste the energy getting up.

When I get a glimpse of white and blue instead of black just before the truck turns into the clearing and blinds me with its headlights, I finally push myself to my feet, groaning as I do.

John opens the driver door and gets out. He rounds the front of the truck and looks me up and down. “What the fuck happened to you?”

I limp over to the open door, leaving that stupid hunting bow behind. “I’ll tell you on the way home.”

“Are you sure you should be driving?”

“I’ll be fine.”

At least the dizziness has passed.

I get behind the wheel while John climbs into the passenger seat.

As we head back through the park, we both stay silent.

It’s not that I’m afraid to tell John the truth.

The fight with the Sheriff has always felt like mine , and I’m just not ready to share it yet.

Many people got caught in the crosshairs of our war, and I think I’d die if anything happened to John. He’s all I’ve had for five years.

But then as we pull out onto the country road, he says, “So?”

I inhale a breath. “The Sheriff is back.”

“As in…”

“As in of Nottingham .”

“Shit,” he says on an exhale. He goes quiet for a moment as he processes the news, staring out of the front windshield as he reaches up to scratch his beard. Then I see his head turn toward me out of the corner of my eye. “And he what? Took you out there and fucking shot you?”

“Twice,” I say with a laugh.

“And that’s funny?”

“I mean, he didn’t kill me.”

Yet.

“What are we going to do? Do you think that’s going to be enough to satisfy his lust for revenge?”

“We’re only getting started, Robin Hood.”

“I don’t know,” I lie. “Maybe.”

I don’t like lying to him, but I don’t want him to worry. I can handle Henry and figure out a way to make sure no one else gets hurt. The less I tell John, the greater chance I’ll be able to keep him out of this.

When we get back to the ranch, I park in front of the bunkhouse and get out of the cab before limping my way up the steps and inside.

“Gonna grab a shower,” I tell John as I head to the bathroom. “I’ll try not to get blood everywhere.”

“It’d really suck for you to get shot twice and end up slipping on your own blood and dying in the shower.”

Rolling my eyes, I take off my jacket and throw it at him. “If I do, you get to mop it up.”

In the bathroom, I strip off my shirt and gently peel my jeans off, wincing as the denim scrapes my thigh. I can’t see how bad the wound is with all the blood, but it’s definitely a graze. It’s still actively bleeding, but it appears to have slowed down at least.

I get a shower, making sure to clean my hand and leg thoroughly. It stings like fuck.

Afterward, I put on a pair of boxers, rolling up the left side a bit to get a good look now that my leg’s clean.

Yeah, that’s gonna need stitches.

Fucking asshole.

I go ahead and bandage up my hand since it’s not as bad, wrapping gauze all the way around it.

Bringing the first aid kit with me, I exit the bathroom to see John lying on his bed, a glass of whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other.

I swear he’s like one of those teenagers with a crush that I’ve seen in movies.

“How do you feel about stitching me up?”

John looks up and grins. “Now you owe me twice.”

“Please don’t tell me you were sexting,” I say as I walk over to the only other sitting area and lower myself carefully onto the old red and blue plaid loveseat. That’s another one of those things I learned from movies.

“Not yet I wasn’t.”

After finishing up a text, John stands, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and a short stool on his way over to the sofa. Once I’m lying on my side, he settles onto the stool and takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. Before I can stop him, he pours some over the gash in my leg.

“Fuck!” I scream as the sting from the alcohol shoots all the way up and down my leg. I ball my hands into fists and beat the cushions so I don’t beat John’s face instead. “Fucking hell, John! A little warning would’ve been nice.”

“Stop being a baby. You’re the one who had to go and get shot.”

I grit my teeth and press my face into my arm as he dries up the alcohol.

At least the manner in which we clean and treat a wound is better than it was back in Sherwood Forest. We would’ve poured a little bit of ale over it and wrapped it in a dirty cloth, but, fortunately, we have surgical thread and clean gauze here.

While John stitches me up, he tells me that Emma had been worried after I disappeared tonight. I know he’s just trying to distract me from the pain as I grunt and hiss my way through it, and I appreciate it. But my mind still keeps going back to Henry.

I had forgotten what it was like.

To be the Hood .

No, it wasn’t exactly like old times, but it was enough of a reminder. Despite the initial shock and fear I felt at seeing the old Sheriff—and despite his very clear threat—I’m not all that afraid. He probably expects me to hide and cower, but that’s never been who I am, not even here.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he was holding back tonight. While I’ve been trying hard to put the past behind me, he’s been consumed by it so much that he was determined to give me a taste of home.

It turns out I didn’t hate it, even if it did end with him shooting me. Twice.

But I’ve had worse.

After tonight, it’s pretty clear that Henry is going through his worst right now.

I could keep feeling sorry for him, or I could give him exactly what he wants and throw the hood back on.