Page 40

JENSEN

Two years, and I still wake before dawn.

Old habits die hard—but these days, I don’t mind. I ease carefully from the bed, trying not to wake Aubrey. She’s sprawled across her side, one arm flung over where I should be, hair a tangle against the pillow. Even in sleep, she looks strong. Determined. The woman who faced down monsters and lived to tell about it.

The woman who became my wife.

The ring on my finger still feels new sometimes, though we’ve been married for eighteen months now. Catching the gleam of it in the first faint light of dawn, I’m struck again by how much has changed. How much we’ve built from the ashes of what came before.

I pull on jeans and a shirt, padding barefoot downstairs. The ranch house feels different now—warmer, lived in. Aubrey’s books scattered across every surface, her boots beside mine by the door, framed photos crowded around other framed photos.

Coffee first. Then chores. The rhythm of ranch life continues regardless of how the world changes around it.

Outside, the air carries the crisp edge of autumn. The mountains loom on the horizon, their peaks catching the first light of day. Beautiful from a distance. We keep it that way—admiring from afar, never venturing back into those heights where nightmares still might lurk.

Everyone’s got a story about the cursed mountains, but the truth is—some stories were never meant to be told. They’re meant to be buried.

The stables are quiet at this hour, just the occasional soft nicker as I make my way down the center aisle. The therapy center doesn’t open until nine, giving me these peaceful hours to prepare. We’ve expanded in the past year—three new stalls, a covered arena for winter work, specially designed mounting ramps and equipment.

Duke’s head appears over his stall door, ears pricked forward in greeting. The gelding is showing his age now—who isn’t?—but his eyes are still bright, intelligent. Our star therapy horse. Something about surviving the mountains changed him too—gave him a patience, a gentleness that makes him perfect for the most traumatized kids.

“Morning, old friend,” I murmur, offering a palm with a peppermint.

He takes it delicately, then nudges my shoulder for more while chomping away. Some things never change.

The sound of a vehicle draws my attention. Too early for clients, or even staff. Through the stable doors, I spot Margaret’s car pulling up to the main house. She moved into the old foreman’s cottage last year when Mom’s condition improved enough to come home from the care facility. Having them both here has been good—for me, for Aubrey, for the kids who come through our program.

Mom won’t ever fully recover from her stroke, but she’s regained enough function to help with simple tasks around the therapy center. Turns out working with the kids gives her the same sense of purpose it gives the rest of us. Strange how healing works—how helping others heal can heal something in yourself.

I finish the morning feed and head back to the house, stopping to admire the sign at the entrance to the therapy center: Lost Trail Equine Therapy in carved cedar, with Aubrey’s design—a hand and horse silhouette—beneath. Her vision, brought to life over these past two years. FBI agent to equine therapist—not a career path many would predict, but she’s never been predictable.

The kitchen is warm and fragrant when I enter. Aubrey stands at the stove, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing one of my flannel shirts over her pajama pants.

“You’re up early,” I say, crossing to wrap my arms around her waist.

She leans back into me, still focused on the pancakes she’s flipping. “Heard you leave. Couldn’t fall back asleep.”

I press a kiss to her neck, breathing in the scent of her—herbal shampoo, sleep-warm skin, something essentially Aubrey that I’ve never been able to name. “Bad dreams?”

She shakes her head. “Just excited. New client today.”

The nightmares come less frequently now. For both of us. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it does blunt their edges.

“The veteran?” I ask, reaching around her for a mug. The coffee she makes is strong enough to strip paint, but I’ve developed a taste for it.

“Army Ranger. Double amputee. Margaret’s been working with him for weeks, but today’s his first session with Duke.” Pride colors her voice. Her program for veterans has become the center’s most successful initiative, drawing clients from three states.

“He’s in good hands,” I say. With Duke. With Aubrey. With all of us who’ve fought our own battles and survived.

We eat breakfast on the porch, watching the mountains change colors as the sun rises fully. Aubrey’s ankle—healed now but still aching in cold weather—is propped on the railing. The scar on her temple has faded to a thin silver line, visible only if you know to look for it.

“Marcus’s parole hearing is next month,” she says, eyes still on the distant peaks.

I nod, tension settling between my shoulder blades at the name. “Rodriguez called yesterday. They want me to testify again.”

Her hand finds mine across the table. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” My thumb brushes over her wedding ring. “He doesn’t get to walk free. Not after everything.”

My testimony two years ago put Marcus away for what should have been twenty years. His lawyers have been fighting for early release ever since. So far, we’ve won every appeal. I intend to keep that record.

“I’ll come with you,” Aubrey says. Not a question.

“You always do.” I lift her hand, press a kiss to her knuckles. Calloused now from ranch work, from the life we’ve built together.

The sound of a car coming up the drive signals the arrival of our first staff members. Soon the quiet morning will give way to the controlled chaos of the therapy center—children’s voices, horses’ hooves, the constant movement of a place dedicated to healing.

We don’t have children of our own. Won’t ever. We made that decision together, early on. Aubrey never wanted kids, and after learning about the McAlister bloodline, neither of us wanted to risk passing on that particular legacy. Besides, we have dozens of kids who need us, who come through our programs. That’s enough.

More than enough.

“Ready for the day?” Aubrey asks, rising from her chair with that determined energy that still takes my breath away.

I stand, drawing her close for a moment. Over her shoulder, I can see the mountains where we almost died, where we found each other, where nightmares still might lurk in dark caves and forgotten histories. But here, on this ranch, we’ve built something stronger than fear. Something real.

“Ready,” I say, kissing her once more before we head inside to start another day at Lost Trail Ranch—a place to find yourself.

Just like we did.

Thank you so much for reading Death Valley! If you want to read more of my horror romances, might I suggest the following:

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And Dahlia doesn't remember that the very man she has been sent to kill is the love of her life.

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Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave.

From a New York Times bestselling author comes a dark academia gothic romance retelling of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow , where Katrina Van Tassel doesn't have to choose between Brom Bones and Ichabod Crane, and there are worse things haunting them than the Headless Horseman.

Kat Van Tassel's life was predestined from childhood; she was to marry her best friend, Brom Bones. However, Brom mysteriously vanished from Sleepy Hollow as a teenager. Now, at nineteen, Kat enrolls in Sleepy Hollow Institute, a shadowy school run by her powerful family. There, she becomes entangled with her enigmatic, older teacher, Ichabod Crane, who delves into dark magic.

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As Kat, Ichabod, and Brom seek answers, their bonds deepen, and forbidden desires take hold. But Sleepy Hollow holds secrets more sinister than they imagined. The Headless Horseman lurks, threatening to claim them, while something even more terrifying looms in the shadows. Embark on a journey of dark mysteries, desire, and danger in the eerie heart of Sleepy Hollow.

Darkhouse

Perry Palomino seems like your average twenty-something girl on the surface. She's had bad luck dating, her job sucks, and she's disillusioned by her place in life, not sure exactly what she wants or where she's even going.

She also sees ghosts, which makes things extra complicated, especially when she'd do anything to be normal.

But normal people don't go exploring an abandoned and supposedly haunted lighthouse on the Oregon coast, where she ends up getting the attention of Dex Foray, an enigmatic producer who wants to exploit her talent for seeing the dead on his webseries.

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