Page 5 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Five

LACEY

Morning sunlight slants through the kitchen window, glinting off a bowl of shredded zucchini. Frankenzucchini, I think. The name makes me smile despite the heaviness from last night.

My hand trembles over the phone. The screen crawls with yesterday’s messages, a swarm of stinging hornets I can’t swat away.

8:41 AM

You fucking whore

9:23 AM

Are you ignoring me?

10:58 AM

***

6:32 PM

There will be hell to pay for this

I silenced every alert months ago—one small trick to keep my sanity from shattering.

Wanted to block his number, too. But authorities warned me against it.

Told me to keep collecting evidence. More like collecting hate …

and fear. Attached to the last message is a picture of the welcome sign to Forest Grove.

My throat knots. Ice floods my chest. Coming here was a mistake.

My finger hovers over the text thread. I want to tell him to fuck off. That he can’t bully me anymore. Remind him of the restraining order. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my current situation, though, it’s that there is no rescue or escape. Only me against him … a showdown brewing.

Frost threads down my spine. My heart pounds.

But there’s a wariness to my reaction, a silent exhaustion that comes from more than a year of riding waves of adrenaline.

It’s either him or me. My life or his. I can’t keep running.

I can’t keep hiding. I can’t put my writing career and future on hold indefinitely.

What can I do, though?

Make bread. Listen to music. Tell Anson everything. But why trust a virtual stranger after one perfect evening? Perfection is how it began with him, too. Lovebombing, tenderness, so much affection, I thought it could heal every broken part of me. Until he started doing the breaking.

I move on autopilot—screenshots, timestamps, another entry in the hundred-page log that’s become my shadow life.

I contact my phone company and request text message records so that I have a third-party record. I file a report online with the FBI’s Internet Crime Complaint Center. I call local law enforcement to inquire about filing a formal complaint.

Everything moves in slow motion here—paper forms, polite smiles, no online options. Of course. Guess today’s for town research after all.

I put on one of Anson’s aprons, the sandalwood-and-spice scent clings to the fabric, filling the air as I whisk batter in a bowl too big for one person.

Afterward, I munch on a slice fresh from the oven and drizzled in more of the local butter. Vanilla extract, cinnamon, sugar—alchemy for the morning’s ache.

I finish my second cup of coffee with cream. Local, I imagine. Everything here tastes purer, richer. The air’s fresher, the skies bigger and brighter.

I leave the fresh loaf of bread on the counter with a note that reads:

Frankenzucchini experiment #1 -

Sample at your own risk

It’s a goodwill offering of sorts. Because I do something bad … that I shouldn’t as I leave his cabin.

I pull a plaid scarf from his rack and wrap it over my fleece-lined moss-green jacket to ward off the crisp autumnal air. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Really, it’s the scent—him. Safety in sandalwood and pine, a borrowed courage I knot around my throat. I need it today, like I need air. A night spent tossing and turning, checking my cell phone, fear mounting. But the scarf makes me strong—all heat, smoke, and Anson’s warm smile.

Beneath the scarf and jacket, I layer a V-neck white T-shirt with a few delicate gold chains for when the heat of mid-day rises and acid-washed jeans with brown suede ankle boots. Nothing fancy. Almost makeup-free, apart from concealer to mask my dark circles.

On my way down the long dirt drive, I see a cowboy and two cowgirls headed my way on well-built mounts. The man steers his horse closer, grinning broadly. “Already tired of us country folk?”

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No, just heading into town. Doing a little recon—seeing what the locals say about you heroes of Off-Duty Rescue.” I say the words calmly, but inside I feel like a fraud.

Certain he’ll read between the lines, realize there’s more going on. “I’m Lacey Worthington, by the way.”

He nods. “Can’t wait to hear what you report back. Ash Rhodes. Spoke with you a couple of times on the phone.”

I nod. “Yes, you were very helpful. Much more so than Anson.”

He shrugs. “Tough exterior. Not easy to penetrate, but good guy. Upright as they come.”

My cheeks flush, though I feign indifference.

“And this here’s my mountain woman, Willow, and our girl, Rosie.”

I nod, smiling broadly at the blonde cowgirls who tip their hats. “Beautiful day for a ride. Lovely horses.”

Willow grins. “Absolutely. Wouldn’t let Ash out of it.” She leans down, pats the neck of the Palomino she rides, its breath a white column. “This is Pearl. Came to us from an older rancher we met at an Open House.”

“That’s right,” I answer. “I’ve been so caught up with Anson—I mean, the horticulture side of things, I haven’t even started to explore the horse rescue part yet.”

Willow smiles knowingly. Ash raises an eyebrow.

“You can call me Ro,” Rosie chimes in, cheeks flushed from the cold air. “This is Marshmallow,” she says, introducing her horse. “And that’s Juniper.” She points towards Ash’s horse. “Survived a grizzly bear attack,” she whispers. “Toughest horse on the planet.”

“A grizzly bear?” My voice catches. Suddenly, the bear stamped on Anson’s mug feels less cute, more ominous.

Ash removes his hat, running his hand across his forehead. “Nature’s beautiful but deadly.”

The Revenant flashes through my mind. Suddenly, all I can think about is the safety of my apartment in Seattle. Of course, different kinds of danger lurk there.

Eyeing me, the rancher asks, “What time should I tell Anson to expect you again?”

His question sticks, warm and possessive. My skin prickles. “Depends on how much dirt the town has to dish.”

“So, lunch, in that case?”

I chuckle. “Let him know breakfast is on the counter if he’s got the guts for it.”

Ash’s dark eyes dance with curiosity; mine skitter away. “Breakfast for all or just for Anson?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

Willow scowls at him, and he adds quickly, “Not that we need anything more. Eldon keeps us well-fed. Should’ve invited you to breakfast this morning. Only found out a couple of hours ago you’re staying with Anson.”

My cheeks heat, though I try to play cool. “Anson’s staying in the bunkhouse.”

He nods. “None of my business.”

Willow doesn’t look so convinced.

I add too quickly, “Apparently, the Forest Grove Inn lives up to its reputation.”

“That it does. And you won’t find a better man than Anson. Or a safer location than the ranch.”

The way he emphasizes the words makes me wonder what Anson has told him. “Where’s Anson this morning?” My tongue betrays me—the way his name heats my throat says too much.

“You didn’t hear? The guys are out patching fences. Cut by someone in the night. Let wolves in, cattle out. Not sure how many head we may have lost. Fortunately, the main pasture still has a bull in it. But he had quite a night keeping his girls safe.” He shakes his head.

I shiver. “Grizzly bears? Wolves? Cut fences? Are those normal around here?”

“Grizzly bears. Thankfully, no. Wolves, more so. As for cut fences, haven’t heard of it since cattle rustling days.

Strange. Anyway, won’t keep you any longer.

Have a nice drive into town and tell folks ‘hello’ from Off-Duty,” he finishes with a wink before tipping his hat and riding away with Willow and Ro tailing him.

As I drive towards town along the long dirt road that brought me here, three words haunt my thoughts: hell to pay. Are cut fences what he meant?

In the distance, men on horseback come into view, riding through an expansive swathe of golden prairie. They’re breathtaking, like a vision from another time. I can’t help myself. I pull onto the embankment, jump out, and snap pictures.

One man straightens in his saddle, removes his brown hat, and waves my direction. My heart skips, zooming in closer. Pretty damn sure it’s Anson.

Ash’s words wash back over me. He is a good man. Too good for the kind of trouble that comes with me. Anson said it himself. He came here to feel human again. He doesn’t need the nightmare chasing at my heels.

But if I go, I’ll never stop running. And I’ll never escape. Can’t do that anymore.

I wave back, big and bold, stirring the spice and heat hidden in his scarf. I breathe it in. Safe again. I can imagine a grumpy grin lighting up Anson’s face, though he’s too far away to be anything more than a grainy image.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, leeching color from everything as I file a report with Chief Patrick.

“Off-Duty Ranch, eh? Can’t imagine any place safer,” the somber man says as I hand him the form I filled out in the waiting room before getting ushered back.

“That’s what everyone says. But you heard what happened last night?” I ask, forehead knitting.

He nods. “About the fences? Yes. Wait—you don’t think…” His gaze drops to the form. “That Mr. Brantley followed you here? That he’s capable of something like that?”

I unlock my phone, find the photo of Forest Grove in his texts, and hand it to him.

Patrick shrugs, leaning back. “Don’t mean to play Devil’s advocate, but civic welcome signs are a dime a dozen on the internet.”

He hands it back, and I swipe up to reveal the metadata. Show him again. “Date and time. Yesterday afternoon. Location services are off.”

He peers at the screen, unimpressed. “Compelling, sure. But all it proves is that whoever took this was in Forest Grove. Not necessarily Mr. Brantley.”

Of course. I smile bitterly. “Read the report.” The words scrape my throat, metallic as the coffee cooling between us. “Former Marine. Charged with war crimes at one point, though somehow, his record was later expunged.”

Only after our breakup did I really start digging in, uncover the monster I let into my life.

“He’s tampered with my brakes, placed multiple tracking devices on my car over the past year.

Installed surveillance equipment to monitor me at work.

” And scared the shit out of any man who even looked at me twice.

Patrick grimaces.

I sigh loudly, head spinning with too much to say in one conversation. Instead, I pull my laptop from my large, leather purse, tapping on the top. “I have everything documented here. Would you like me to email you a copy along with the restraining order?”

“Has it all been reported?”

I nod.

Patrick offers me a business card with the distracted air of someone who already knows the outcome. His eyes flicker once, something unreadable behind the professional calm. Then, it’s gone.

“Like I said, ma’am, you’re safe at Off-Duty.”

The free-station coffee tastes like metal and ash. Cold seeps through the cinder-block walls. I wish I hadn’t left Anson’s scarf in the car. And the space is white and devoid of personality, with a faint odor of metal and antiseptic that hits me hard.

I leave the station exhausted, the rest of my in-town research a daze. Half-hearted. At the community library, I chat with a few locals. Get glowing recommendations about Off-Duty Ranch and the men who run it.

Anson’s name comes up more than once. Runs a local booth at the farmer’s market and other festivals in town.

Good produce, well priced. Makes sure those in need have enough.

None of it surprises me. All of it tells me I need to leave before things get complicated.

He deserves better than a woman always looking over her shoulder.

Shuffling to my car, I start the engine, mind wandering back to my earlier meeting with Chief Patrick. Same story—sympathy stretched thin over resignation. Like they know they can’t do anything, even before they finish taking my reports.

On the drive back to the ranch, a silver Chevy two cars behind me at a stoplight makes my heart stop.

A chill snakes through my veins, inky and cold.

Cary Brantley. I’m almost certain. I raise my cell phone, flipping the camera and taking a series of shots before the Jeep directly behind me honks, and I realize the light’s green.

My gaze keeps darting to the mirror; the Chevy stays two cars back, a shadow that never blinks. Black military-style sunglasses and dark-tinted windows make identification impossible. But I feel him, the weight of someone thinking dark thoughts just for me.

As I thread onto the dirt road that leads to the ranch, the truck turns to the left, cars following so closely on either side, I can’t make out his license plate. But my phone vibrates just as I reach the crest where the ranch becomes visible.

Dumb bitch. Nobody’s coming to help you.