I remove my shoes, pad into the living. Take a seat at the coffee table and open my laptop, crossing my legs. I need to work, get down some notes. Log words. Instead, my eyes wander to the cozy leather and fur blanket, warmth and heat washing over me.
Anson’s arms like steel bands around me. The first deep sleep I’ve experienced in a long time. Not afraid of the past, not apprehensive about the future. For once, embodying the moment, living again. Heat curls low, core aches for more of him. Never enough—his smell, his taste, his feel.
My phone vibrates. Cheeks heat. Smile alights. Must be Anson. Instead, it’s a message from Ro. She gave me her number while we made cookies yesterday to send me pictures of the pumpkin patch. She couldn’t stop raving about the upcoming Harvest Festival—how I have to stay long enough to attend.
Her text reads:
Hey, can you pick me up from the neighbors? Storm coming. Friend can’t give me a ride. Don’t tell Mom or she’ll flip. Hurry please
The text looks normal—almost. Shorter, flatter, missing the goofy emojis I would expect from a pre-teen. But I’m no expert on how the younger generation texts.
I hesitate, thumb hovering.
Anson’s big hands fill my mind, tightening with worry. He and the other cowboys have enough on their plates. Especially since my arrival. Besides, I want to feel helpful, part of a larger community … the family we discussed last night.
Sure, kid. On my way. Where are you?
Old white dairy barn on the right past the ranch
You alone?
Here with friends. They have to leave, though. Parents mad
A side of Ro I didn’t see while baking cookies. Amazing how young teenage rebellion starts. But then again, it’s got to feel a little claustrophobic, being one of the few kids on the ranch.
Still, I feel extra cautious with everything that’s happened. Cut fences, open coops, purposeful destruction. The marks of Cary, even as a hint of doubt lingers.
Better safe than sorry. Right? I shoot Anson a quick text:
Storm day update—old dairy barn, picking up Ro…
I grab my coat and purse, meeting a dark, cold sky outside. My keys bite my palm. The kettle shrieks as I’m halfway through the door. Forgot I put it on for another round of tea. I rush back inside, kill the burner. “Just a quick drive,” I whisper to the empty room.
Fifteen minutes later, the big white barn looms in the distance, stark against the darkened sky. An ancient truck, more rust than paint, more apart than together, sprawls out front. Icut the engine and jump out, fingering Anson’s flannel beneath the coat I pull more tightly around me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, reading:
Upstairs in the loft. Away from the bull. Out of the rain
Bull? Not an animal I want to tangle with.
Icy rain pelts like sharp fingers. I scowl into the growing wind, drops hitting my eyelashes and obscuring my vision. Why Ro would be out in this kind of weather, I can’t fathom. I have to have a serious conversation with her and Willow tonight. Get to the bottom of what’s going on.
“Ro?” I call, squinting against the storm.
The wet slap of rain on tin, the low moan of wood shifting. Eeriness settles into my bones. I have to find the precocious girl and get out of here. As soon as possible.
I can feel the thunder gathering overhead, the tightening behind my ribs. If Anson were here, the forecast would be a hurricane. I should go back but not without Ro.
Animal odors—straw, feed, manure—hang heavy in the air. My eyes strain to adjust to the slanting light peeking through the ancient boards. To my left, a bull eyes me. Brown and white spotted with thick, dangerous horns and bloodshot eyes. He snorts, paws the ground, looks ready to defend his territory. Fortunately, a thick wooden paddock separates us.
Nevertheless, Ro shouldn’t be in here alone. Ash and Willow would be out of their minds with worry. My throat feels dry and tight. Like I can’t make a sound until I get away from the monstrous animal. I reach for my cell phone, flip on the flashlight, and climb the ladder to the loft.
I swallow hard, clear my throat. “Ro?” My voice evaporates into the percussive rain and driving gusts against the barn.
Rustling, the shuffle of feet. But no answer.
At the top, I stand surrounded by piles of hay, eyes straining to see in the diminished light. A menacing, black silhouette emerges, and I gasp.
