Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

FREYA

AUTUMN

There’s an odd feeling in Montana that I can’t name, and I don’t get used to it. It’s like somebody’s watching me. It comes and goes. One moment, I’m hopping out of Bittern’s truck and heading down the street to work, feeling fine. The next, I’m unlocking the café door and looking over my shoulder, scalp prickling.

I consider asking Tracy if this is normal for Knifely, but when I think through the conversation, it sounds silly. So, I keep my mouth shut, because how am I supposed to explain I feel like I’m being stalked?

Maybe I’m stressed out being in a new place. Aiden is as horrible as usual. I’m lonely, and maybe I’m starting to imagine things.

Usually, Bittern comes to get me after work. He works up on the McClaine Ranch because he can’t hold down an official job. Every night, he leaves around six and swings by the old gas station, about two miles from the café, before picking me up.

Then, one night, he doesn’t come .

Tracy is gone in the city for a business conference. I spend the day prepping trays for a catering order. Everything is ready for Tracy in the morning, all wrapped in plastic and put in the fridge. I eat a leftover croissant as I sweep and wipe everything down. Then, I put my coat on over my skirt, thick tights, boots, and sweater and lock up.

Overhead, buffered from my view at the counter, gray clouds roil on the horizon. Everything smells ominous. The leaves on the maple at the street corner are flipping.

There’s that feeling, the one I hate. Like I’m not alone.

I lock the café and push the key into my pocket with my wallet. The street is cleared out, save for a few people at the bar a few blocks down. I consider going there and calling Bittern to come get me. But no, I don’t want to cause him extra trouble.

If I hurry, I can get to the drop-off point before the rain hits.

The wind picks up. The further I get from town, the more that feeling fades. My body relaxes as I push my hands in my pockets and walk fast, head down. I’m not scared of rain. I am scared of being stranded, easy prey for anyone passing by.

The drop-off is a patch of gravel where the state route meets the back road up to the McClaine Ranch. Bittern’s truck isn’t there; he’s a few minutes late. But that’s not uncommon.

I stand, waiting.

Overhead, the clouds churn. An icy raindrop hits the back of my neck and trickles down. Shivering, I wipe it away, but they keep coming, hitting the pavement with loud splats. I’ll be soaked by the time Bittern shows up.

A cold, lonely wind whips through, tugging my curls. There’s a heavy rush to my left, and I turn, expecting to see a car. Instead, a thick gray mist rolls over the hills, heading right for me.

My heart drops. It’s a solid wall of rain.

It hits me before I can move, and I’m soaked in seconds. Breathless, I rip off my coat and hold it over my head. Rain pelts me from all angles as the wind tears at my skin and clothes .

I wait, miserable and scared. I don’t like standing at the edge of the road on a good day. In a storm, it makes my heart pound in my throat.

The wind is getting stronger. I manage to look at my phone, which has no service on this part of the road, and see Bittern is almost thirty minutes late.

Something must have held him up at work.

Pit in my stomach, I start walking, because I don’t know what else to do. There’s no one else to call. Aiden and Ryland are in the city today—not that they would pick up if I called. Tracy is miles away at her conference. There’s nobody else to call, and I have no place to go.

The road blurs in my vision. The rain is so heavy, it’s dripping into my eyes, even with my coat pulled over my head.

My body is numb with fear. My feet pump, taking me further from town. The state route is empty, or I might be desperate enough to try hitchhiking. So, I keep my eyes on the white line at the edge of the pavement and keep moving.

There’s no other option.

About three miles in, the road narrows and becomes gravel for a while before widening again. Here, I feel a little safer. I can move through the grass ditch at the edge, the woods on my left side for cover. At least, if I need to run, I won’t be out in the open.

It poses a different problem—the bridge.

I see it up ahead and, right away, my stomach sinks. Sputtering and wet, I climb out of the ditch and move down the road until I can’t get any further. The creek is swollen, red-brown water roaring over the bridge. It’s a one-lane without guardrails, and the water surging over it is moving treacherously fast.

I can’t get through that.

The only thing stronger than the disappointment is the panic. Right then, the wind gusts so hard, I stumble. My jacket rips from my hands and disappears into the creek to my left.

Fear settles in like ice.

Real fear .

I should have gone back to the café and slept on the floor until the storm broke. Now, I’m miles from town, the storm only strengthening, the temperature dropping. If I walk back, it’ll be pitch black by the time I get to the drop-off point, so I’ll have to walk two miles in the dark on the state route. If I go forward, I’m likely to drown. If I try to wait it out in the woods, I could die from exposure.

I turn, taking in my surroundings.

All around me, Ponderosa Pines stretch up to the sky. The woods are unforgiving, and if life has taught me anything, it’s that I’m vulnerable. I can be hurt.

A faint rush reaches my ears. I blink, squinting up at the road. Through the rain, two lights appear, pale white, about the level of a truck.

I don’t know what to feel. Maybe I’ll die of exposure in the woods, but I would rather do that than meet the wrong kind of man. Falling asleep and never waking up is preferable to torture.

My brain tells me to move.

My feet stay planted.

The lights get closer until I can see the vehicle clearly. It’s a huge, dark gray truck with a tire strapped to the roof. It pulls up and around to my right and stops. I’m rooted to the ground. My body is frozen, even though a scream claws its way up my throat.

The passenger door is pushed open.

There’s a man sitting in the driver’s seat. He’s tall, larger than Aiden by a few inches, and he’s broad without being bulky. His dark hair is shaved and fades up to a little length on top. It’s the same deep shade as his hooded eyes. He’s in work pants and a charcoal Henley that clings to his broad shoulders.

My pulse flutters so hard, I feel it on my tongue.

He leans over. “You need help, sweetheart?”

His voice is low with an undertone of gravel. It doesn’t sound like he raises it much.

I shake my head, speechless with fear.

“Let me take you home,” he says. “I can bring my truck over the bridge. ”

Again, I shake my head. Why won’t my legs work?

He sighs, one hand resting on the wheel. It’s then I notice all the dark tattoos over his exposed skin. There are even some going up his neck to his strong jawline.

“Are you Freya Hatfield?” he says.

That catches me off guard. I clear my throat twice.

“How did you know that?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Deacon Ryder,” he says. “I live on the ranch next to your farm.”

A trickle of relief goes through me. The people who come into the café talk about the surrounding ranches all the time. Ryder Ranch comes up in conversation the most. I’ve never seen Deacon, but I know he runs it, and he’s rumored to be one the best horse trainers around. I just didn’t realize he looked like that.

“I won’t bite,” he says. “Get in the truck, sweetheart.”

I look at the water, rising by the second. It does make me feel better that he’s a prominent person in the community. It feels like the chances of him hurting me are somehow lower.

Heart pounding, I reach for the handle and try to pull myself up. My foot slips. A warm hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me into the passenger side. He reaches past me and pulls the door shut, cutting off the raging storm.

“There’s a blanket behind you,” he says, spinning the wheel to reposition the truck. He backs up and squints. “That water might be too high.”

My body is shaking so hard, I can barely pull the blanket over it. He flips the heat on full blast and spins the wheel again, turning the truck all the way around.

“I think we’ll have to take the back way,” he says. “The highway is closed for an accident. Semi jackknifed.”

“This is the back way,” I whisper.

He shakes his head, accelerating. The truck speeds down the road, spraying mud. It eats up the distance I stumbled through with ease. In seconds, we’re back on the state route.

“What are you doing out here? You don’t have a car?” he asks .

I look sideways, studying him. He’s handsome, despite his face having brutally cut angles. There’s a bump in the middle of his nose. He glances at me, and I’m taken aback by seeing his eyes up close. They’re dark, but there’s a softness to them I didn’t expect. In the middle of such a rough face, it’s startling.

He’s like Aiden but not like Aiden.

I shiver.

“You okay?” he says.

I nod. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked why you were out here,” he says. “You don’t have a car?”

I shake my head, still feeling like a deer in headlights. “I can’t drive, really. I don’t have a license.”

His forehead creases. “Why not?”

“Nobody taught me to drive,” I say. “I don’t have a car.”

He doesn’t answer, but I notice his jaw muscle flickers. I turn, and through the window, I see we’re almost at the drop off. There’s no sign of Bittern waiting for me. I check my phone, which is stuffed in my pocket.

My stomach sinks. It’s soaked. I hit the button and nothing happens.

I have to fight back tears. It took me a month of saving to get this cheap phone. Now, it’s ruined.

Deacon turns the truck onto the gravel route that veers up the mountain. My muscles tense up. I’ve never been this way before.

I wet my dry lips. “Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper.

He swings his head around, like he’s surprised.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” he says.

I shift, pushing my back against the door. “That’s what somebody who was going to hurt me would say,” I manage.

He lets out a quiet sigh. “Open the glove box,” he says. “There’s a gun in there. Shoot me if I try to hurt you.”

That shuts me up. It takes me a moment to recover from the image of shooting him. Then, I shake my head.

“No,” I say. “Just don’t hurt me. ”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his harsh mouth.

“I won’t,” he says.

We’re both quiet then. The windshield wipers are loud. I don’t know how he can see, even with them. The rain is coming down so hard, it’s difficult to make out anything past the hood of the truck.

I’m warming slowly with the blanket wrapped up to my chin and the heat blasting. Now that I’m not shivering, I can think more clearly. Yes, I’m afraid, but I also have to be reasonable about this. He’s our neighbor, not a stranger. If he was going to hurt me, he would have done it on the back road by the creek.

I can reasonably conclude he doesn’t intend to.

My eyes keep drifting over to him.

He has a dark magnetic energy, a raw sexuality. Maybe it's confidence. I follow the curve of his broad shoulder down his forearm to where the sleeve is rolled. His thick arm is wrapped in ink to the tips of his fingers. I let my gaze linger, going further down to his belt.

Heat curls in my lower belly, shocking me.

Am I turned on by him?

I shake my head once, forgetting he can see, but he doesn’t turn his head. He just keeps driving with a slight frown set on his face. My stare goes right back where it left off—right to the bend of his wrist, his fingers hanging loose over the top of the steering wheel.

His hands are very…attractive. I’ve never taken the time to think about hands as something erotic, but now, despite everything, I’m having a physical reaction.

I’m just stressed out.

We come to a quick halt, snapping me out of my daydream. I blink, and the windshield wipers swish.

My jaw drops.

There’s a tree across the road, broad and long, barely illuminated by his headlights. There’s no getting around it or dragging it out of the way. The trunk alone comes up to the grill of his truck.

“Goddamn,” he says under his breath .

I sit up straighter. “What’s that mean? Is there another way back?”

He shakes his head, jaw set. “Not until the water drops..”

I shake my head. “What… Can we just cut it back?”

He smiles, one corner of his mouth jerking up. “No, I don’t have anything to cut it back with. You got one option, sweetheart, and you’re not gonna like it.”

My stomach sinks.

“Walk,” I whisper.

“No, you’re not walking home in the dark in a storm,” he says. “You come back with me. You can take one of the guest rooms. In the morning, I’ll come down, assess the damage.”

A heavy gust of wind shakes the car. It’s so dark, I can’t see anything out of my window. He shifts in his seat, and my mind goes to the gun in the glove box. I take a deep, shivery breath.

“Are you the only one who lives there?” I whisper.

“Not on site. I’m the only one in the house, but I have live-in employees next door,” he says.

I chew my lips. He shifts the truck in reverse and spins the wheel with his palm until we’re facing back where we came. He accelerates without waiting for my reply. At this point, I don’t think it matters what my answer is. He’s asking me as a courtesy.

We’re going to Ryder Ranch whether I want to or not.

“So what do you do, huh?”

He’s talking casually, like he’s got no other mode. I clear my throat, trying to match how unbothered he is, and failing.

“I work at the café,” I say, my voice squeaking.

“With Tracy?”

“You know Tracy?” I ask, surprised.

“Yeah, I know Tracy,” he says, making another turn. We’re on a smooth road now, driving on a gentle incline. The rain is still pouring down, and the wind beats on the truck. “We do city meetings together sometimes.”

A little tension eases from my shoulders.

“She’s never mentioned you,” I say.

“We’re more business friends,” he says. “You like what you do? ”

He has such a strange way of making small talk. His voice is casual, but it feels like he’s really listening and wants my answer. Nobody listens to me, but this man is listening with his whole concentration.

It’s intimidating.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I say.

Before he can speak, an overhead sign that says Ryder Ranch looms out of the darkness. He pivots the truck to the right, and we’re heading up a long driveway. Through the rain, I think I see lights.

He rumbles to a halt and puts the truck in park. “I’m gonna get you inside. Then I need to check the barn.”

I nod, wordless. He leans in, and for a second, I think he’s reaching for me. Then, he pulls a black cowboy hat from the backseat. Before I can move, he puts it on my head. There’s a second where he looks at me too long, like this means something.

“Keep the rain off your face,” he says.

I nod, wordless. He disappears, and I hear his boots crunch for a second before my door yanks open. He holds out his hand. I hesitate, then put mine into it. Everything is cold in that second, but where our skin touches, that’s bright hot.

It travels up my arm.

And down to my lower belly.

Down between my thighs.

Shocked, I let him lift me out and usher me through the dark. We go up some porch steps, and he taps the keypad on the door. Then, his broad arm wraps around my waist and guides me into the front hall.

I don’t know what to do but go along. He pushes the inner door shut, abruptly cutting off the storm’s raging.

My eyes adjust. His house is beautiful. The wooden walls are stained until they’re almost black. The hall floor is rich oak, shining with a deep blue rug rolled over it. On the walls hang black and white photographs of different horses, probably prize studs from Ryder Ranch.

Someone cared a lot about this house when it was built. I wonder if it was him .

“You’re shivering again, sweetheart,” he says.

He steps closer and takes his hat off, hanging it by the door. Our eyes meet, and something crackles in the air, like a spark. There, then gone. I look down, aware our bodies are inches apart.

He’s enormous, bigger than he was in the truck. The Henley over his torso is soaked, sticking to every ridge of his stomach. My eyes drop lower. There’s a slight rise under his zipper.

Oh, God—I jerk my eyes up to meet his dark gaze. There’s that off-kilter smile again.

“You good?”

I shake my head. There’s something wrong with me, or I wouldn’t be ogling him. “I think I’m shocked,” I whisper. “I don’t know… I was really scared when I had to walk alone and I lost my coat at the river.”

My body shivers harder in response. He clears his throat.

“You need to get those wet clothes off,” he says, voice husky.

I look down. My fern-green sweater is suctioned onto my body, showing my curves and the clear outline of my bra underneath. My skirt clings to my tights, which now have a run down the right leg.

“I don’t have any other clothes,” I whisper.

“You can wear one of my flannels,” he says. “But you need to get warm first. You want a bath?”

Just talking about wet clothes and baths has a raw heartbeat thumping between my legs.

What’s wrong with me?

He’s the opposite of who I want. I know better than to look twice, but here I am, staring up at him without a thought in my head. I know just by looking at him that he’s a scarred-up, knuckles-in-the-drywall son of a gun. I should walk away right now.

The problem is…he’s got such pretty dark eyes.

And he’s talking to me real slow and deep, calling me sweetheart. It’s like warm water trickling through my veins, all the way to my guarded heart.

“Head down the hall,” he says, not waiting for an answer. “You’re clearly shocked, so you’re going to listen to me until you feel better. ”

He puts a hand on my lower back, ushering me down the hall. From the back of the couch, he takes a blanket and wraps it around my shoulders. Then, he helps me sit on one of the couches and heads up a flight of stairs that winds over the back wall of the living room.

I hear his boots upstairs. The room is dimly lit, but I can see the walls are all painted deep navy blue. There’s a broad beam running down the ceiling. It leads all the way to a gas fireplace that’s easily as tall as me. The stone is shiny white, and the orange flame reflects off it in a dizzying pattern.

He lives in the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. Everything feels purposeful, like he knows how to take care of it. It’s confusing, because he looks like the men I know who do nothing but destroy. I’ve never met a man who cared about his home.

His boots sound on the stairs, and he comes into view.

“Come here,” he says.

There’s no room in his voice to refuse. I set the blanket down and head to the stairs, pausing at the bottom.

“Should I take my boots off?” I whisper.

He nods. “You can.”

I slip them off and pad up to him in my wet socks. He goes on ahead, leading the way through a hallway painted like the downstairs. There’s a nightlight glimmering at the far end, but otherwise, the hall is dark. It’s not ominous, but it’s not comfortable either.

He pushes open the door, second to the last. Inside, I can see a large room with wall-to-wall windows on the far end. My jaw drops, and I forget about him for a second. My feet carry me through the doorway. I barely hear him shut it behind us.

The lamp is on and the fireplace crackles, shedding enough light for me to see. The floor is dark wood, the walls deep blue. The hearth is black stone, and there’s a set of panels on the wall above it. Below that are two mirrors on hinges. They’re turned away from the bed, but if it moved, they’d reflect it back.

I turn my head, creeping closer .

The panels are four rectangular paintings that make up a scene. It’s of some kind of beast, hunting, and there’s a woman fleeing from it. She’s running, but up ahead is a lake.

She has nowhere to go.

Cold trickles through my body. I turn slowly to find him standing in the bathroom doorway. Warm light spills out around him.

“You need to call somebody, sweetheart?”

Everything floods back. “Yeah, but my phone is dead. I think it got wet.”

“I got a spare flip phone you can have if you want to switch the card,” he says.

I hate accepting charity, but I’ve been forced into it for years. I’m in no position to pretend I can do without his help tonight. So, I just nod, offering a weak smile.

“I got a bath running for you. There’s a flannel shirt on the chair,” he says. “You can lock the door. I’ll go do the barn chores and get the guestroom ready. Okay?”

He’s looking at me in that way, eyes fixed on me like there’s nothing else in the room—all that heavy attention focused right on me.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move. Head down, I dip past him into the bathroom and turn, my hand on the door.

“Thank you for helping me,” I whisper.

“Just being neighborly.” He gives me a long look with his dark puppy eyes.

My breath quickens. Is this shock or something else? He’s standing so close, and I’m so cold. My body must be starving for heat. That has to be all it is. Avoiding his eyes, I shut the door and sink against it.

What have I gotten myself into?