Page 8 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Eight

T o kill time while I wait for the husband to leave, I make coffee.

Anything to keep my hands busy enough not to punch a wall.

I’m dressed. Packed. Boots laced. Hair damp from the shower.

My backpack and saddlebags sit by the door, and I know what I need to do.

Leave as soon as he’s gone, before it gets messy.

But I haven’t walked out yet, and that should tell me something, but I don’t want to name it.

So I tell myself I’m only being cautious, only waiting for the right moment, even though a part of me knows the moment passed the second I heard her laugh last night.

Sitting at the edge of the table, I stare at the wood grain while my guts twist around the word husband.

Married. Not separated. Not ex. Kristin’s got a ring she doesn’t wear and a man who still thinks she belongs to him. Incredible.

I hear him before I see him. A man’s voice, carrying across the yard.

Not yelling, but clear. The tone is worse.

Calm. Flat. It’s the kind of voice that’s used to being listened to.

The kind that bends people without raising volume.

It’s too familiar. I’ve heard that voice in briefing rooms, in command tents, in the mouths of men who never bled but sent others to.

“Kristin,” is what the man’s saying. Correction. The husband. “Where the hell are you?”

I stand, coffee abandoned. My hands curl into fists before I even think.

I don’t like this. I don’t like that I’m here.

I don’t like the tone he is using one bit.

For a moment, there’s silence and I think the worst, but before I react, there’s a knock at the door.

Three short raps. They are not tentative, not aggressive, just entitled.

I open it without a word, and there he is wearing a button-down shirt, expensive watch with hair cut clean and neat.

He smells like expensive cologne. His eyes flick to the bike parked outside, then back to me.

Clearly, he expected someone else. A man, probably.

Someone he could size up and dismiss. What he sees instead is me.

A butch in a tight black tee, jeans, and combat boots.

Hair still damp. No smile. I know the type.

He’s the guy who thinks his money is armor and his smile is a weapon, but he’s not ready for someone like me.

Someone who doesn’t play his game or give a damn about his rules.

He blinks once, then offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Morning,” he says. “I’m looking for Kristin.”

I don’t move. “She’s not here.”

He tilts his head, pretending not to be annoyed. “She didn’t answer my knock or when I called to her in the main house. That’s where I thought she would be.”

“I imagine she is,” I say. “Maybe she’s busy.”

He gestures toward the Harley without looking at it. “Yours?”

“Yep.” He waits, like I’m supposed to explain myself. I don’t.

Clearing his throat, he tries again. “I’m Will Cleveland. Kristin’s husband.” I nod once. Let it hang. His smile falters just a touch. “And you are?”

“Reggie.”

He waits again, but I give him nothing else. “Well,” he says, “Reggie. I wasn’t expecting company. I stopped by to drop something off. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You are.”

That flicker of irritation sharpens around the edges.

He’s used to people making space for him, but I don’t.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, becoming a problem.

His eyes scan the room behind me, but he’s not looking for Kristin.

He’s looking for signs. Clues. Evidence.

A second mug. A shirt draped over the chair.

Anything that might confirm what he already suspects but I don’t blink.

I want him to see it. He shifts his weight, the smile back in place. “You two know each other long?”

“Long enough.”

He nods like that tells him everything. “Well. I’m glad she has... friends.”

I see that word tastes rotten in his mouth, and he doesn’t like not knowing what I am to her.

But mostly, he doesn’t like that I’m not intimidated, or that I’m not a man he can measure.

I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers flex at his side.

Before he can say whatever bullshit he’s building up to, I hear the crunch of gravel behind him.

Kristin. She’s walking fast, her hair pulled back, face calm but tight.

She’s wearing soft linen pants and a loose top, like she just walked out of a boardroom and not a fuck session with me.

“Will,” she says, her voice cool.

He turns, hands spreading in mock surprise. “Kristin. I didn’t know you had company.” She doesn’t look at me and she doesn’t flinch. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I brought the insurance paperwork,” he says. “The clinic’s renewal. I thought it might get lost in the shuffle.”

“You could’ve emailed it.”

He shrugs. “I was in the area.”

Her mouth tightens. “You’re never in the area,” Kristin says, and Will smiles again.

“I am now.”

I observe the way her shoulders rise, just a fraction.

The way her spine straightens. She’s holding herself together with pure will.

I don’t like it, and I don’t like the way he looks at her, like she’s something he used to own and might again.

And I don’t like the way she’s not looking at me, like acknowledging me would cost her something.

“I’ll take the paperwork,” she says, stepping forward. He hands her a sleek envelope. Their fingers don’t touch, but it’s close. He lets his hand linger a second too long. Kristin doesn’t react. “You should go.”

He nods, but he doesn’t move, only looks at her, then at me, then back at her. “You always did like strays,” he says with a smirk.

I take a step forward. It’s not fast or loud, but it’s enough to make him step back.

Kristin’s voice cuts through the air. “Will. Leave.”

For a long moment, he studies her, looking like he’s going to say something else. Probably something cruel, something mean, but he doesn’t. He just smiles again and walks toward his car. A door slams. The engine revs. Then he’s gone.

Kristin exhales, slow and shaky and she turns to me. Her hands are tight around the envelope, and her eyes don’t quite meet mine. “I didn’t know he’d come today,” she says. “But I should have considered it since he knows the days Mrs. Tomas isn’t here.”

I nod. I don’t say what I’m thinking. That he’s the kind of man who always shows up when he smells independence.

That somehow he saw the bike and came to piss on his territory.

She steps into the guesthouse, and I close the door behind her.

She leans against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I should’ve told you everything.”

“Maybe not everything. But something.”

She looks at me then. Really looks. “I didn’t want to scare you off.” The funny thing is, if she’d told me all this up front, I probably would’ve bolted. But now? After last night? After seeing this asshole? Now I only want to keep her safe, even if I don’t know how.

“You didn’t,” I say, and she gives me a grim smile.

“He’ll push. He always does.”

I walk to the counter, pour another cup of coffee, and slide it toward her. “Let him try.”

Taking it with both hands, I see her fingers are shaking. I hate that. I hate how calm she had to be. I hate how practiced she was. I hate that I know exactly what that kind of survival looks like. I sip my own coffee and let the silence stretch. She’ll talk when she’s ready.

And she does. “I met him when I was twenty-four,” she says. “Fresh out of grad school. I was still wearing my badge on a lanyard and thinking I could change the world one patient at a time.”

I sip my coffee. It’s gone lukewarm, but I don’t care. I’m watching her. Taking in every shift of her shoulders, and every flick of her fingers around the cup. She’s not telling me this for sympathy. She’s telling me because it needs to be said.

“He came into the clinic where I was working as a family nurse practitioner. Nothing wrong with him. He was there to drop off a check. One of those community health donors who likes to be seen doing good. I thought he was charming.” She gives a bitter smile. “He was. That’s the problem.”

I nod. I’m connecting the dots. She fell for a snake hiding behind charm that’s not even skin deep. She continues.

“He invited me to a fundraiser. Said he admired how passionate I was. Said the town needed more women like me.” Her mouth twists. “He made me feel seen. Wanted. Important.”

That hits something low in my chest. I know what it’s like to want to be seen and be more than what you’ve survived.

“He proposed a year later. Big dinner, fancy ring, the whole thing. His family owns half this town. Real estate. Development. Some political strings. He’s on the board of three banks and two churches. Maybe more now.”

I grunt. “And the kind of man who never hears ‘no’ without punishing someone for it.”

Looking at me, her eyes are sharp. “Exactly.”

I swirl the last of my coffee and wait. She’s not done. Not yet.

“At first, it was little things. He’d correct me when I spoke. Tell me I sounded too aggressive. Tell me I was too emotional with patients. That I needed to be more polished. Then it was who I could have lunch with. What I wore to work.”

“Sounds like a hell of a husband.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “By the time I realized what was happening, we’d already moved into this house. I let him buy into my clinic.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He owns part of it?”

“Technically. He’s a silent investor. But nothing about him is ever silent.”

I feel tension building in my shoulders. My jaw’s tight. I hate this. Not because I’m surprised, but because I’m not. I’ve heard the story before too many times.

“I started pulling away a few years ago,” she says. “Stopped going to his events. Took back my maiden name of Lennox on my license. He started spending more time at his property in the hills. He never hit me, Reggie. Not once. But he didn’t have to.”

Sometimes I think that kind of control is worse. More dangerous. It leaves no bruises, no proof. Just invisible fractures under the skin that never quite heal right, so I nod. “Words cut cleaner anyway.”

She nods. “He made me feel small. Like I was ungrateful. Like I’d never be anything without him.

” She looks at me then, eyes fierce. “But I am. I’m more.

” The way she says it doesn’t sound like a declaration, it sounds like a vow.

Something like she’s reminding herself just as much as she’s telling me.

“Damn straight you are.”

Breathing in, she holds it for a beat. “I haven’t had anyone in the guesthouse before,” she says. “Not since he stopped staying here. You’re the first.”

Setting my mug down, I lean forward, elbows on the table, my voice quiet. “Why me?”

Meeting my eye, she doesn’t hesitate. “Because you don’t look at me like I’m broken,” she says. “And because when I asked you to stay last night, you didn’t run.”

I don’t tell her I almost did. She reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine. Her hand is warm, steadier now.

“I don’t expect you to fix anything.”

“Good. I’m not a fixer.”

“What are you?”

I hold her gaze. “Someone who doesn’t like bullies.”

She nods like she already knew that. And maybe she did. But for now, it’s enough for both of us.