Page 15 of Far From Sherwood Forest

“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 justbefore 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 likemine, 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 inof 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.