Chapter Twenty-Three
“No,” I said as I grasped her by her shoulders. Loren’s head lolled back as her lips parted. Her eyes fluttered and then opened wide.
For a moment, my brain was distracted by the fact that she was wearing my shirt. The expensive fabric was torn in two like the fashion of the eighties where shirts and pants and even skirts sported gashes and distressed looks.
The tear on Loren’s flesh was no fashion statement. It was a death sentence.
It had been inevitable. Since the first day we’d met on the steps of the Museum of the American Indian. She’d come down the steps in a Stella McCartney skirt with a call to adventure in her hands.
I’d walked away from her that day, but I’d known in my heart that it wasn’t over. She’d been hogtied the first adventure she’d gone on with
