The tears came, then. Her breath exploded on a cry conceived in her fearful mind, gestated by her broken heart, and birthed from her guilt-ridden conscience. The pain of walking away—no, call it what it was—running away from the man she loved, and the closest thing she’d found to a true home in her entire life, crushed her, making it impossible to do anything except curl up into a ball and sob.
But she didn’t have the luxury of giving into the pain. Randy might be gone for now, but his threats remained, like poison in her system. She needed to leave, before any of it touched West.
That overriding imperative propelled her out of his bed and down the stairs to her apartment. Lucky followed, a canine shadow. By her front door sat the bags she’d packed in record time yesterday afternoon before West arrived home. One oversize Army-issue duffel, bulging with clothes and accessories she’d dragged all over the country like personal totems, and none of it meant a damn thing anymore. Red cowboy boots hadn’t made her bold. A silk robe hadn’t made her sophisticated. Biker boots hadn’t turned her into a badass. She’d sacrifice all of it without a moment’s regret if it meant she could keep West safe. Automatically, her gaze sought the dinged, black guitar case propped against the arm of the couch.
Sacrifice offered the hope of getting one little thing right in this whole pathetic mess she’d made. But hope came at a cost, and this particular price all but broke her. Still, the need to be thorough had her prolonging the pain to open the case, run a hand down the neck, the flare of the body she knew better than her own, and unfold the note she’d written through tears yesterday afternoon. She’d aimed to lay everything out for West orderly and factually, like she imagined a police report would, so he could decide the proper thing to do—because her straight-shooting, rule-loving lawman would surely know, whereas she’d struggle ‘til her last breath to turn two wrongs into a right. Reading through it this morning, in the harsh light of day, her explanation came across more rambling and confused than she’d realized.
Lucky whined and butted his head against her shin. A glance at the clock told her a re-write wasn’t in the cards. After slipping the note into the case, she carried the instrument upstairs and left it in the front hall. Self-protective instincts urged her to walk away quickly so as not to draw out the anguish of giving Gibson up, but as she pivoted, Lucky barked. She turned to see him dancing around the guitar, as if to say, “Hey, mind if I pee on this?”
Sighing, she retraced her steps and carried the guitar to West’s bedroom, shutting Lucky on the other side of the door. He gave one miffed bark and then pattered away on busy little feet. Roxy looked at the tumbled sheets where, last night, she’d given West everything she had. Everything except the pieces of her past that would put him in harm’s way.
But maybe this—she lay Gibson across those sheets where she’d left her heart and whatever remained of her soul—would help explain and give him tangible proof that he’d made her want to be a better person.
She wasn’t quite the same reckless, untethered girl as she had been when she’d rolled into town six weeks ago. She understood a thing or two about accountability now and knew in her case it required relinquishing things that mattered.
She wished she could turn back the clock—all the way back to that first afternoon when cool, unamused Officer Donovan had picked her up along Route 9, lectured her for hitchhiking, smoking, and just generally being who she was. He’d also doctored her heel and asked her if she was in trouble. If she’d confided in him then, she might be sitting in a Nashville jail right now, and there would definitely be no traces of West Donovan on her body, no imprint of her head on his pillow, and no impact of him on her heart, but there would also be no threats from Randy placing West in crosshairs because of his relationship with her.
The sad truth was, she hadn’t earned West. Not by a long shot. She’d known it going in, but let herself believe that fate, God, or the universe would overlook her failings and let her keep what she loved, because the idea of losing everything yet again seemed too awful. Too harsh a price to pay for one little legal shortcut.
It was awful. More awful than she’d imagined in her darkest moments, but—she took a deep breath and straightened—it had to be. This time she had a choice. Life had taught her choice was a privilege, and by God she’d make the best one she could.
Resolved, she walked out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the stairs. Once West read her note and learned she’d stolen her guitar away from the Boudreauxes’s clutches, she knew what he’d say. Stealing was wrong, no matter what the circumstances. She’d never be right in his eyes—certainly not now, she admitted as she took a final sweep of the apartment before heading to the main room where her packed bags waited.
What would West think when he arrived home and realized she’d left Gibson and bugged out? Would he think her a criminal and a coward? Blinking rapidly, she shook her head. Both conclusions were arguably true, but hopefully he’d recognize her gesture of leaving Gibson behind. Maybe he’d even believe the part of her note that promised him she wouldn’t be so damn reckless anymore. She’d think
