I turn the vehicle and drive along the fence.
“Where are you going now?”
“This cart isn’t that big. There must be a big enough gap somewhere, I’m sure of it. This can’t be the only way out.”
“Rose, you are out of your mind.”
“You just find directions for me to get to Bones in Blue River Springs. I’ll worry about an exit.”
She laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”
It takes a few minutes, with Willow on the phone for moral support, but I find a small opening between bushes.
It isn’t large enough for a golf cart. It almost looks like a discreet wildlife passage.
I wince as I push the pedal and move through the cluster of wild shrubs. Thick, twisted branches snap off as I power through, scraping against the vehicle. One somehow reaches my shoulder, grazing my skin painfully.
“Maybe I overestimated the size of that opening,” I whimperas I cut through to the other side.
Willow chuckles. “That’s what he said.”
Remember when I said she had the maturity of a thirty-year-old? Scratch that part.
“I’m out,” I breathe. Getting out was the end goal, but at what cost? It’s not like no one is going to notice the vandalism of the vehicle, what’s left of those bushes back there, and the scrapes along my upper arm.
TheonetimeI didn’t wear sleeves.
“Turn right,” Willow directs in her best GPS automated accent.
I release a breath and push forward.
Worryaboutitlater.
Exhilaration bubbles in my chest as the ranch lights fade behind me, replaced by the open night and distant town lights on the horizon.
One hour. Tops.
7
Rose
“What dress ya wearin’?” Willow asks as I walk down the block, silently reading off signs of storefronts as I pass each one.
“The linen with the blue flowers.”
“The one that has the loose strap on one side that keeps slippin’ off your shoulder?”
I lift said strap, hiking it up by the blue sewed-on rose. “That’s the one.”
“So no sleeves,” my bestie confirms. “Look at you, daredevil.”
Only Willow knows the reason I wear long sleeves, or at least three-quarter long sleeves. Especially around my family. Back in New York, I’m less neurotic about it—mostly.
“It’snight. No one’s going to come close enough to see the faint scars on my arm.”
“You’re going to get eaten alive out there. Wesley’s got every right to worry about you,” she mutters.
“I’m hanging up now. Thanks for your help.”
