Atonement. B.J. Daniels

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      CHAPTER SEVEN

      ETHAN LAWSON WOKE in a cheap motel, hungover and depressed. He glanced toward the window. The curtains were closed, but through a thin space between them, he could see that it was too light outside. It was too quiet, too. Earlier he had been vaguely aware of vehicle engines starting, followed by a scraping sound.

      He swore as he sat up. The motel room was hot, the window partially steamed over as he stood and walked to it to part the curtains. “Snow.” He cursed again. A good four inches had fallen overnight. What was he doing in this godforsaken country this time of year anyway?

      As his head cleared, he remembered why he wasn’t down south in the desert. He let the curtain fall and turned, tempted to go back to bed. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and it would be dangerous to stay here any longer.

      He moved into the bathroom, turned on the shower and while he waited for the water to warm, he relieved himself in the toilet. It was after he’d showered that he’d accidentally seen himself in the mirror over the sink. He’d known he probably looked the way he felt—terrible. But still, the image had been shocking.

      A couple weeks’ growth of sandy-blond beard gave him a homeless appearance. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a haircut, as he ran his fingers through the curls at his neck. How long had it been since he’d even looked at himself in a mirror?

      He let out a bitter laugh at the thought. He couldn’t even face himself, and with good reason. Forcing himself, he locked eyes with his image. They really were windows into the soul. What he saw broke his heart.

      The irony didn’t escape him. Here he was trying so hard to stay alive, and part of him had already died. Those eyes looking out at him were those of a corpse.

      “There is a faster way to kill yourself if you’re interested,” the barmaid had told him last night when he’d asked her to just leave the whiskey bottle. “I would think a cowboy like you would own a gun. Can’t afford a bullet?”

      He’d chuckled. What did she know? Maybe he had a good reason to drink himself to death. That thought had made him take a drink straight from the bottle last night. But after that, he’d lost his taste for it and had left, angry and sick at heart.

      Now he dressed and opened the motel room door, telling himself that he needed to pick up a razor and some shaving cream before the next motel. Maybe a pair of scissors to trim his hair.

      His old pickup was capped with snow and now the only rig left in the motel lot. He glanced out, checking the street. He thought of that barmaid again. If only he could drink himself to death. He doubted he could stay alive long enough, though, for the booze to kill him.

      Every morning he woke with the same thought. Things could be worse. A lot worse. Then he would remember what was at stake. The only way things could be worse was if he failed.

      That thought usually brought back the vivid memory of being in a car, racing toward an abyss and a fiery death at over eighty miles an hour in the desert. Unconsciously he checked to make sure the knife was still in his pocket. His lucky knife, he called it since escaping that car. Bailing out of it would probably have killed him if he hadn’t been drunk and landed in sand. He’d rolled, ending up against a cactus. He was still pulling spines out of his backside almost a year later.

      But that had been a whole lot better than what had happened to Buck Morgan, he reminded himself.

      He went out to the pickup, made a swipe at the deep snow on the windshield, all the time watching the street. He probably wouldn’t even recognize the men who’d been paid to find him and kill him. He likely wouldn’t see them coming. Some days he wondered why he even bothered. He’d surely mess this up, too. Wouldn’t it be easier just to end this once and for all?

      But then he thought of Tessa and was reminded of why he was doing this.

      The street was still quiet in this part of Colorado. All the small mountain towns looked alike. The moment you drove out past the city-limits sign, there was nothing but miles of sagebrush and antelope until the next little burg.

      It will be over soon, he thought as he went back inside the motel, picked up his duffel bag, then, making sure he hadn’t left anything behind, went out and started his truck.

      His pistol was loaded, stuck in his waistband under his shirt and jacket, reminding him he wasn’t just the hunted, but was also the hunter. As he pulled away from the motel, he looked around for a store and an internet café.

      Survival had now come down to only a matter of which of them found their prey first.

      * * *

      DILLON SEEMED LOST in thought as they left the ranch. Tessa could see that he was taking the news about Ethan maybe even harder than she was. She felt like such a fool. She’d actually thought that Ethan had panicked about marriage and fatherhood and that he’d only taken her money because...

      Because he never had any of his own. What had he done with the money he’d made from his construction job? He’d often had a few beers at the local bar after work, but other than that he didn’t spend much. He’d given her a little to help with the rent after he’d moved in, and had promised her more when he could afford it.

      What had happened to whatever money the three men had stolen from Halbrook Truman’s safe? For that matter, what had happened to the man’s fiancée?

      “What do you think Ethan took from back there?” Tessa asked as they drove back toward Wisdom.

      Dillon shook his head.

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