Chapter 2

Chris stared in shocked disbelief at Vin, his mind struggling to make sense of his friend's words.

"He... Vin, I realize Sinclair is a loudmouthed pain in the ass,
but--"

"He's a cowardly bastard who gets his kicks hurtin' kids," Vin snarled. "Makes him feel like a real big man."

The force of his teammate's anger, so out of proportion to the circumstances, bewildered Chris. Vin was normally slow to judge, willing to extend the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. What could possibly have turned his open-minded friend into this hothead?

"We spent maybe ten minutes with the man. That's hardly enough time to have him tried and convicted." He kept his tone patient, reasonable, but it only seemed to infuriate Vin.

"You sayin' you don't believe me?"

"I'm saying one brief conversation is thin evidence to accuse someone of child abuse."

Vin slumped back in his seat. "All the evidence in the world was starin' ya in the face, Chris," he said quietly. "You just weren't lookin'."

The soft, world-weary tone, so abruptly devoid of anger, pulled Chris up short. He couldn't deny that his focus had been fixed on their investigation. Even while trying to set Jonah at ease, he'd been examining their surroundings, looking for anything that might implicate Sinclair as their bomber. When Sinclair finally walked through the door, well, it wasn't Jonah that Chris had been trying to read.

The growing sense of guilt must have registered on Chris's face. Vin's mouth turned up in a self-deprecating smile. "Don't be too hard on yerself, Cowboy. Like they always say, it takes one to know one."

Still feeling as if he were running to catch a fast-moving train, it took him a moment to understand that Vin was not speaking of Chris and Raymond Sinclair.

The oblique admission hit Chris like a sucker punch to the gut. Both Nathan and Josiah had privately expressed concern that Vin's troubled childhood had included abuse--Nathan on the basis of physical scars, Josiah sensing wounds more spiritual in nature. Since Vin rarely spoke of the years following his mother's death, their suspicions had never been substantiated. Until now.

He stared at Vin, speechless, until his friend turned away, a flush rising on his cheeks. "I'm not sure what to say," Chris admitted.

"Nothin' to be said. I'm the same man I was a minute ago; it don't change a thing."

"It's a piece of who you are, how--"

"It ain't who I am!" Instantly Vin's fury returned, as hot and sharp-edged as before. "It's just somethin' that happened to me." He shook his head, perhaps reading the pain in Chris's eyes, and calmed. "It doesn't matter."

You're wrong, Cowboy Chris thought, his throat tight. It matters a helluva lot more than you know.

The sound of Vin's door opening snapped him from his reverie. "Vin? What are you doing?"

Vin slid out of the car and leaned back in through the open doorway, his face set. "Goin' to talk to Sinclair."

Chris yanked open his own door and got out. He braced his palms on the hood, barely registering the scorching heat. "No, you're not."

Vin returned his protest with a cool stare. "Yeah, I am." He held up a hand before Chris could argue. "I ain't stupid, Larabee. I'm not about to go chargin' in there an' work him over." He snorted. "Though it surely would feel fine to plant my fist somewhere...vital."

The flicker of wry humor eased Chris's concern but he didn't back down. "You're not gonna accomplish anything. As soon as we get to the ranch I'll make some calls, get social services in on this."

Vin walked around to Chris's side of the truck and leaned against the fender. "Chris..." He trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek and surveying the barn with haunted eyes. "Guys like Sinclair... Worst thing ya can do is get 'em riled. Even when it's not yer fault... you still pay the price."

Chris caught his breath, unable to shut out the images Vin's words conjured. Pictures of a skinny little kid with bottomless blue eyes and stubborn determination wielded like a red flag before a bull.

Vin tore his gaze from the barn and looked at Chris. "I'm not gonna let that kid take the fallout fer me sassin' his pa. If that means I gotta eat crow..." He shrugged.

"I'll go with you."

"No." Vin thrust out his chin, but there was gratitude in his eyes. "Two'll seem like a threat. Best I go alone."

Chris gritted his teeth. "I don't like it."

"You think I do? Hell, last thing I want to do to that bastard is kiss his ass. But it ain't fer me I'll be doin' it." He laid a hand on Chris's arm. "Trust me."

And for that, Chris had no defense. "Five minutes. You're not out of there, I'm coming after you."

Vin tipped his head in acceptance and cut across the field toward the barn. Chris watched him go, an unpleasant twisting sensation in his stomach that he couldn't name.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He heard Sinclair from a distance, the deep voice loud and rough with anger. He paused, one hand on the large sliding door.

"... You've gotta be the most worthless excuse for a human being on this planet. Don't you have a single brain cell in that head? I don't know why in hell I put up with you..."

Vin pressed his forehead to the peeling paint, rocked by a flood of memories.

Listen to me, you little shit! You're nothing but a pain in the ass who's not worth the food it takes to keep you alive.

You've got no kin; nobody gives a damn whether you draw another breath, so you'd best shut your mouth. No one would notice if you just up and disappeared.

You're not a member of this family; you're a worthless little bastard that nobody else wants.

He squeezed his eyes shut, dismayed by how deeply the words could cut even after all these years. For a moment he was that lost little boy again, powerless and utterly alone.

Sucking in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. He was a grown man, no longer at the mercy of cruel words and brutal fists. He had the strength and the tools to defend himself--better yet, he had six ornery cusses ready to jump in and make his battles their own.

He had family.

Sliding open the heavy door, he stepped inside. Sinclair cut off his tirade and both he and Jonah spun to face Vin. Jonah's eyes widened and his hand shot up to cover his mouth. But not fast enough to prevent Vin from seeing his bloody lip.

Rage rose up so quickly and so fiercely that Vin could hear the blood rushing in his veins. It took every ounce of his self-control not to throw himself at Sinclair. Instead, he forced open his hands, which had reflexively curled into fists, and slowed his breathing.

"What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I answered all your stupid questions." Sinclair plowed toward him, his expression more guilty than belligerent.

Vin raised both hands. "No more questions. Just came to apologize." The words stuck in his throat, but he choked them out.

"Apologize." Sinclair's tone dripped skepticism.

Vin stole a glance at Jonah, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. "Yeah. My boss just chewed my ass for bein' disrespectful."

Sinclair curled his lip. "Damn straight you were. You had no right speaking to me that way, especially in my own house."

It felt as if he were holding onto his temper by his fingernails. Vin knew Chris was right, that the only thing he'd accomplish at this point was more trouble for Jonah. But it was damn hard not to give Sinclair a split lip to match his son's.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry fer that. And we're both sorry fer the way we forced Jonah to let us in the house. It weren't right fer us to use our badges like that. Kid didn't think he had a choice."

Jonah's gaze, filled with heartbreakingly intense surprise and gratitude, latched onto Vin.

"You don't need to concern yourself. That's between me and Jonah. Now if you don't mind..."

"Seems like maybe I should be concerned," Vin said, gesturing toward Jonah's lip.

Jonah quickly ducked his head, peering up at Vin through his lashes. "I'm fine, Agent Tanner. You should go now." Please, go his eyes pleaded.

"You heard him," Sinclair said, folding his arms. "Now get off my property."

Vin pressed his lips together to hold back a retort. As he turned to leave, he saw Jonah cast a panicked glance toward a stack of crates about ten feet behind Sinclair. The lid of the top crate was slightly ajar, straw and something shiny and black protruding. The sharpshooter in Vin immediately identified it: the muzzle of an automatic weapon.

He covered his surprise, hesitating only for an instant, but the small catch in his stride was enough. Sinclair came up fast behind him, an arm around his throat and cold steel pressed to his temple.

"On second thought, Agent Tanner, I'd rather you stuck around a while longer."

"That's mighty hospitable of ya, but I'd hate to put ya out."

"To late for that. You should've minded your own business. Jonah, go get me some rope."

Sinclair dragged him backward, deeper into the barn and away from the tantalizing spill of sunlight at the open door. Half of Vin hoped to see Chris appear in that doorway, the other half prayed he'd stay clear.

Jonah remained frozen in place, pale and rigid. "Dad, I don't
think--"

"You're damn right; you never do. Now do as I tell you and go get the fucking rope!"

Jonah cringed. "But, I--"

"You'd better listen to me, you little shit, or I'll..." Sinclair swiveled toward his son, the arm around Vin loosening and the gun wavering.

Vin ducked and twisted, wriggling free. He scrabbled for the gun at the small of his back, but had to abort the move and lunge at Sinclair when the man once again tried to bring his own weapon to bear. They hit the dirt floor in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling, kicking, and punching.

What Sinclair lacked in agility, he made up in bulk. He backhanded Vin with the gun barrel, a hit to the temple that had black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Vin's disorientation allowed Sinclair to roll on top of him, forcing him to fight for air as he struggled to deflect the gun.

As the gun dipped relentlessly toward Vin's chest, Sinclair shifted his weight. Reacting on instinct, Vin brought his knee up between Sinclair's legs. Sinclair howled as Vin shoved him aside and rolled to his feet, pulling his own gun.

"Freeze," he ordered between gasps.

Sinclair had also regained his feet, hunched over with the gun dangling from his hand. He went motionless, his face purple with pain and rage.

"Drop yer weapon." A flicker from the corner of his eye told Vin Jonah was nearby.

Sinclair slowly straightened. "No."

"Your boy's standin' right over yonder. You do what I say and he'll still have a pa."

"There's no way I'm going to prison."

Vin tightened his finger on the trigger. "Mister, I've killed men who gave me a lot less reason. Now drop it, or I'll drop you."

Sinclair hesitated, then bared his teeth. "Go to hell."

Time slowed. Sinclair's arm came up. As Vin squeezed the trigger, there was a heart-stopping blur of motion, followed by Jonah's desperate cry.

"Don't shoot him!"

Startled, Vin pulled his shot.

Sinclair didn't.

One beefy arm knocked the boy aside. A pop, a flash, and Vin was on his back. He blinked at the high ceiling, transfixed by a large spider web that stretched between the rafters and the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

Bastard shot me he thought muzzily.

Then the pain crashed in like an enormous black wave and carried him away.

Continued in Chapter 3