Page 13 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Eleven

LACEY

Lightning forks across bruise-purple clouds. Heavy, tense, as if a downpour could start any moment.

My phone vibrates on the seat next to me, and I jump, nerves shattered. Fear tugs at the back of my mind despite last night’s comfort. Almost as if I expect the other shoe to drop now that I’ve experienced unfathomable happiness. Almost like I’m not good enough for it.

I ease my foot off the gas, glance at my phone. Texts from Anson:

You home?

Safe?

My shoulders relax a tick. Warmth floods me. To have a man who cares instead of crushes is unfamiliar. Protector not stalker. His concern warms me, makes me feel a part of something bigger than myself.

I scan pastoral fields where cattle herd together restlessly. Horses run at full charge, as if embodying the building tension in the sky. They feel what I feel. Despite every cozy comfort the ranch provides. Something is off. Nameless, distant, but distinct. My stomach twists, teeth on edge.

At Anson’s cabin, I answer his text, trying to sink into the safe space. I light candles, start water for tea. The sky blackens, rain threatening, distant booms and flashes of light drawing closer.

Apple, smoke, familiar smells envelope me as I grab a mug, steep a new batch of loose-leaf tea in a shiny steel tea infuser. But it snaps shut like a trap against the dried slivers of fruit and spice. Metallic flavor in the air, threaded with electricity.

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. I cut 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.

His chestnut hair is rain-slick, brown eyes wild. The thick, rich cologne that once made my stomach flutter now falls heavy like a pit.

“Hello, Lacey,” Cary says, voice black as night.

He holds up Ro’s phone, the cracked screen still glowing with the text thread—my words staring back at me.

“You came,” he says, smiling without warmth. “Knew you would.”

I back up a step. “Where’s Ro?”

“Safe … for now. Depends on you.”

Gun metal and lacquered wood flash in his hand.

He talks slow, slurred, half-drunk, half-deranged. “Thought I lost you, sweetheart. Been watching you play house with that asshole cowboy. Been watching you fuck him. Thought you were smarter.”

Below, the bull snorts, hoof scraping wood.

Habit grips my body. I’m tempted to curl into a ball, play dead. Brace for the pain, and pray for survival. Like before. But my mind rages, heart bursts against the injustice of his invisible chains.

I hiss, “It’s done between us. Over for good. Leave. Me. Alone.”

He shrugs, snarls. “Such a little whore! Have the pictures to prove it. Sure your editor would like to know this is anything but a business vacation. Your family, too.”

My blood goes cold. Not for fear of public exposure but at the thought of what he might do to Rosie. What he might have already done. I could never forgive myself if anything happens to her. “Cary—” His name is vinegar on my tongue, souring me from the inside out. “Where is Ro?”

“Safe!” Rage spills from his mouth with the word. He stumbles forward, behavior unpredictable. Iron and pain flash, old wounds breaking open, old life seeping back in.

I steady my voice, reporter-smooth. “We can talk about this. Please put the gun down.”

He laughs, stalks closer. “The one with the gun gives the orders.”

I retreat back a step, skin crawling, knees about to buckle. My eyes flick to a hole in the floor. Below, I hear the heavy breathing, agitated panting—the bull.

If I can get Cary to move three feet to the left. Gravity will take care of the rest. But Ro? Where is she?

I edge sideways, pretending to flinch.

He follows, jaw tight, boots sliding in the hay.

Lightning flashes through the slats. For an instant, the whole barn glows silver, illuminated by veins of electricity. My insides quiver. The storm moves in with force. The boards shudder under his boots.

“You think that cowboy’ll save you?” he sneers. “He’s not here.”

I swallow hard. “He’ll come.”

“Not soon enough.” He lunges, movements choppy and inebriated.

I duck, grabbing a pitchfork protruding from a pile of hay. I swing it forward frantically, rusty metal glancing his forearm. He grabs the spot, dark blood oozing as I wield the tool again. Anger eclipses fear. I’m ready to make my stand. Do whatever it takes.

His feet inch to the side, so near the collapsed portion of the floor and the angry animal below.

Boom! Gunfire sounds, deafening in the enclosed space. A bullet ricochets off tin.

I scramble toward the ladder I came up, heart slamming.

Cary dives towards me, baseball-style, grabbing my ankle and yanking. I kick, catching his jaw. He recoils back, firing again—misses. Wood cracks.

“Let me go!” I scream as he crawls up my body, stinking whiskey breath on my skin. He seizes a handful of my hair, rising, pulling me back to my feet, and dragging me with him.

Suddenly, headlights slice through the gaps in the wall. A truck engine roars outside.

Anson’s voice booms through the wind, “LACEY!”

Cary snarls, dragging me back further, gun to my ribs. “Call him off or I’ll—”

The door explodes inward. Anson bursts through, soaked, furious, weapon raised.

“Drop it,” he growls, looking up through the ladder opening. Brown Stetson, face fierce but cool as the Grim Reaper.

Cary swings the gun toward him. I twist against his other hand, hair screaming at the pressure, biting the inner arm still gripping me until he lets go. I scramble away.

Anson fires first—clean, controlled.

Cary wails, staggers back, and grabs his shoulder. No mortal wound. But—

One, two, three steps…

Crack! Rotten boards splinter under his weight. His scream echoes as he plunges through the caving floorboards with a sickening thud.

A bellow erupts below—the bull, massive and feral. Booms and cracks. Cries and howls until the barn goes silent, dust floating up through the rafters. Anson’s face is stone-hard as he climbs the ladder to me.

Then silence, save for the rain hammering the roof. I sag against the wall, shaking.

Two strides, and I’m in Anson’s steel-band arms. Spice and smoke, soft words and hushed breaths. Safe, secure.

He holsters his weapon, cups my face delicately, eyes roving over me. “You hurt?”

“No,” I whimper, breath shuddering. “Just scared.”

He pulls me hard against him, voice breaking. “It’s over, Pepper. You’re safe. He can never hurt you again.”

Patrick and Ash burst in moments later, flashlights sweeping the lower level of the barn and up into the hay-filled loft.

One look at the pit below, and Patrick mutters, “Guess nature took care of the paperwork.”

Anson doesn’t look down. He just keeps me pressed to his chest. Like we’re the only two people in the world. Like he can shield me from the storms outside as well as the ones within.

Rain pounds the roof harder, determined to wash everything clean.

Silence stretches between heartbeats.

“But Ro?” I whisper.

“Ro?” Anson sounds confused. “Safe at home with Willow. Why?”

“Thank God!” I say, knees finally giving way. He holds me, becoming my strength.

“Cary had her phone. Texted me with it to get me out here. I thought for sure he had her hostage once I arrived, and he revealed himself.”

Ash looks up through the trapdoor, brows furrowing. “Her phone was missing when I left. Thought she lost it. Kids being kids.” His hands fist, face darkening. “To think he got that close to our families.”

“And all because of me,” I sag against Anson.

“No, because of his evil. He made those choices, not you.”

“And now,” Ash adds. “He won’t be making any more.”

“Thank God.” My voice trembles. Anson strokes my cheek, stares warmly into my eyes. “Storm day and a half, but don’t stop touching me … ever.”

“I can do that,” he says darkly, mouth covering mine. The gesture grounds me. Brings my heart back to life. Lets me feel the ache of being alive. A survivor.

Anson rests his chin on my crown. “Storm’s done, Lace. You came through it. And now, I’m never gonna let you go.”

As more officers gather to document the scene and make reports, Anson threads his fingers between mine, leading me carefully down the ladder and away from the dingy, old barn with the enraged bull. The open air feels like liberation.

Black clouds and stark lightning have given way to a soft drizzle. The world glistens, washed clean, renewed. Mud clings to my boots, water dampens my coat and hair, but it feels good. Like rebirth instead of ruin.

Anson lifts me into the truck, belts me in, grabs a blanket from the back to tuck around my shoulders. “We’ll get your car later.”

He knows what I need better than I do. His big hand palms my cheek, thumb stroking restlessly. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” His voice is heavy and ragged.

“You didn’t,” I whisper. “You came for me. Like you always will.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, jaw trembling against restraint.

“When I was with Cary … when I thought I might not make it,” I gulp. “All I could think about were all of the things I haven’t told you yet, like…” My voice trembles, but the near brush with death spurs me on. “I love you, Anson.”

Emotion swirls in his stormy eyes, jaw tightening. “And I love you, Lace. My heart, my soul, my everything.”

Behind us, a post-storm dawn splits the clouds. The barn stands quiet, spent.