willingly, just put the gun away.”
The man hesitated for a moment, then relented. “Get the cuffs on him.”
Griffin couldn’t allow his friend to be taken from his house like a criminal, but Jasper shot him a look that told him to stay out of it. It was also a look of remorse. Rather than endanger his friends, he was going to allow these ruffians to take him back to America where he’d stand trial—if he lived that long—for murder.
Griffin swallowed, hard. It was difficult for him not to try to take control of this situation, not to order the men out of his house. Very, very difficult to allow Jasper to make his own decisions. Even the others didn’t want that. Finley was one of the more vocal as they clapped irons around Jasper’s wrists.
“You can’t let them do this!” Finley cried at him.
Griffin looked at her. “It’s Jasper’s choice, not ours.”
Voices rose again, arguing with him, but it was Jasper’s that cut through the cacophony. “Stop!”
They all looked at him.
“Y’all have been real good to me—the best friends I’ve ever had—but a man can outrun his past only for so long before he’s got to pay for his sins.” His gaze locked with Griffin’s. “Thank you…for everything. Goodbye.” The last was addressed to all of them, though the cowboy’s gaze lingered just an extra half second on Emily, who had tears in her big eyes. Finley, too. Even Cordelia looked saddened.
Griff inclined his head. “Goodbye, Jas.”
They stood in silence as the men led Jasper out of the room, sandwiched between the four of them. It wasn’t until they heard the door shut that everyone turned on him, demanded to know why he hadn’t done something, and what were they going to do now? They couldn’t just let Jasper hang.
“No, we can’t,” Griffin agreed, silencing them. They gaped at him like fish in a bowl. “And we’re not going to.” Lifting his coffee cup, he drained the rest of it, set it down and then began to walk across the room.
“Where are you going?” Sam demanded. Even Sam didn’t want to see Jasper go. That was a pleasant surprise.
“To pack,” Griffin replied. He flashed a grin at Finley, who was staring at him as though he were mad. “How do you feel about taking that walk in New York City?”
An author rarely writes a book all on his/her own. There’s usually a put-upon friend who sits and listens while we drone on about our “fascinating” plot, or a spouse who eats takeout more often than either he/she wants. In my case, there are several people who seriously need to be thanked for this book ever finding its way into your fabulous little hands. First of all I need to thank Krista Stroever, editor extraordinaire. When I told Krista I wanted to write
Also, I have to give a shout-out to three fabulous writer friends who held my hand through this process and provided much need pep talks and rational thinking when I’d lost all of mine. So Jesse Petersen, Colleen Gleason and Sophie Jordan—you are the best girlfriends I could ask for. I just wish I could see more of you.
Thanks to Nancy Yost for selling this book and for years of invaluable guidance. Miriam Kriss, thanks for being your rockin’ self and not laughing at my Yoda backpack. The Force is strong in you.
More thanks have to go out to my friends for under standing when I can’t come out to play, or when I’m crazier than usual. Thank you to my family for being more incredible characters than I could ever create (I’m looking at you, Weezie). And thank you to Sarah Rose for reading this book in the early stages and giving me ideas for T-shirts.
Last, but certainly never least, I have to point the spotlight at my husband, Steve, without whom I quite literally could not have written this book. Thank you for your research, your brains, your enthusiasm and tireless support. I don’t have enough words to explain what a huge part you played in this project, which is good because if I did have the words, I’m sure you’d never let me forget them. Most of all, thanks for just being your fabulous self because there’s no one else I’d rather spend the rest of my life laughing with than you.
Oh, and I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge those awkward years I spent between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. I wouldn’t go back to you for any amount of money, but I wouldn’t change you, either. Though, I wouldn’t mind giving you a good slap or two.
