This man looks like him; this man is not him. That’s all that matters.

Yet it isn’t all that matters. There’s a knife to my throat and my hands are free and the gun is right there, under my open jacket, and I know, beyond doubt, that I could shoot this man before he slits my throat. But I don’t, because the man with the knife to my throat may not be Dalton, but he’s related to him.

That’s when I see his jacket. A dark military-style coat.

“Jacob,” I whisper.

“You know who I am? Good.” His voice is rough, the words slightly off, with an odd accent. “I know who you are. Eric’s girl.”

“I work with Eric. In Rockton. I’m not his—”

The knife presses in. I struggle to control my breathing.

“I saw you kissing him,” he says. “I’ve seen you before. Together. You’re Eric’s girl. I owe my brother. Now I can repay him.”

Brother? Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I can hear Dalton’s voice talking about Jacob. Telling me he’s harmless. Absolutely harmless, he emphasized.

Dalton wouldn’t lie about that. Nor would he leave his brother wandering out here in this condition.

I’m dreaming. I must be.

Jacob pulls back the knife, and I don’t process the move. Don’t wonder what he’s doing. My gut foresees the strike, and the moment he moves, my fist hits his gut and my other hand grabs my gun.

He falls back, and I kick him away, and I don’t shoot. My brain assesses the threat and I do not see the need to fire. There’s a moment of relief, as if I’ve passed some test I was certain I’d fail. It only lasts a moment, because my kick isn’t enough to knock him to the ground, and he’s coming back up, knife slashing for my arm as I swing the gun at him.

Footsteps thunder behind me, and I instinctively twist, expecting attack from the rear.

“Jacob, no!”

It’s Dalton, running for us. The distraction slows my strike, just for that heartbeat, and the knife slashes my arm. My gun still makes contact, but his attack has knocked mine into a glancing blow, and he only staggers back.

Jacob lunges at me, and I can’t fire—the angle is wrong. I kick instead and my foot connects. So does his knife, slashing my leg. We both go down. I bounce back, gun swinging up, but he’s already in flight, stabbing me in the chest. Then he flies back, the knife coming free as Dalton throws him aside.

“Stop,” Dalton says, gun raised, as Jacob tries to rise.

Jacob sees the gun. “You gonna shoot me, big brother?” He pulls his jacket open. “Go ahead. Can’t be any worse than what you’ve done. Have you told her about that? Your girl there?”

“She isn’t my—”

“She already tried that. I saw you kiss her. And now I know how to pay you back, brother.”

“Pay me back? What the hell is going on, Jacob?”

“I’ve finally figured out exactly what you did to me.” He starts walking backward. “I’m going to repay you, and if you want to stop me, you’d better pull that trigger.”

Dalton’s fingers flex, and I know he’s thinking fast, thinking of what else he can do to stop Jacob, because he can’t shoot him, not his brother. But if he lets him walk away and he attacks someone else?

I stumble backward and fall, gasping, hand clapped over my chest wound. Jacob takes off as Dalton runs to my side. Yes, I faked the fall, but when I try to rise again, blood gushes between my fingers and pain rips through me. Dalton yanks off his jacket and pushes it against the wound, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. It’ll be okay. Everything will be—”

“Radio,” I manage, and he curses at needing the reminder. He did bring it—like me, he doesn’t cross the line between reckless and stupid. He calls Anders. When there’s no answer, his eyes widen, as he frantically pushes the Call button. Then we hear the hum of an ATV.

“I can … I can walk,” I say, but he picks me up, pressing my hand against the jacket to hold it to my chest wound, and I feel blood rushing from my arm and my leg, but I say nothing, because he’s already panicked enough, apologies rushing out on an endless loop of “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.”

He runs, carrying me, as fast as he can manage. When he stumbles and I gasp, he slows, but that only makes the apologies come faster, and I tell him I’m okay, even though I know I’m not, the blood streaming, consciousness fading, my body shaking. I tell him anyway—I’m fine, just fine—and he keeps running until he staggers right in front of the ATV. Anders shouts, “Shit!” and brakes so fast he nearly vaults over the front.

As soon as the ATV stops, Dalton races over and lays me in the back seat.

“Holy shit,” Anders says. “What—?”

“Gotta get her back. Now.”

“She’s bleeding, Eric.”

“I know!” Dalton snaps, and tries to shove Anders into the passenger seat, but the deputy pushes back, saying, “I mean that we need to staunch the bleeding first,” and from the look on Dalton’s face, you’d think I’d already bled out and it was all his fault. Curses and more apologies as he helps Anders get me out onto the ground.

“I’ve got this,” Anders says.

“No, I—”

Anders holds him back, saying, “I’ve got it. You want to help? Give me your belt, your shirt …”