Page 47

Marcos

I’ve been standing outside the front door of the main house for two minutes, trying to decide what to do.

I knock again, a little louder. Nate told me the doors are left unlocked and I could just let myself in, but this is his uncle’s house and I’ve only been here when Nate was with me.

I can’t just go in. I knock a little louder.

Sighing when there is still no answer, I open the door a crack.

“Jesper? Are you home?” I call, and then try again a little louder when I catch the sound of a TV in the background. “Jes?”

When I hear footsteps, I take a step back from the door. Nate’s uncle comes into view, still wearing his jeans and plaid shirt I’d seen him in earlier, socked feet muffled on the wood floors.

“Sorry, kid, I didn’t hear you. Come on in, what are you doing knocking?”

He holds the door open with a palm as I pass, and pats me on the back. Feeling a little ridiculous, I gesture in the direction of the kitchen.

“Felt weird just walking in,” I tell him. “Is it still okay for me to use the kitchen?”

I lift the bag of groceries I brought with me, like an idiot. I wish Nate was here. I’m so shit at this sort of thing.

“Of course, anything you need. Help yourself.” He shuts the door behind me and peers out the picture window, frowning. “Storm’s rolling in already. I assume Nathan isn’t back yet, or he’d be hanging on to your pocket.”

I pause for a split second, still unused to hearing someone call him Nathan. “Oh, right, no. Nate’s not back yet.”

“Put that boy on a horse and don’t expect to see him until dinner is served,” his uncle jokes with a smile.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask. The storm clouds are dark above the mountains—it could already be raining where Nate’s at.

“Oh, he’s fine. Don’t worry.” He pats my back again, a touch awkwardly, and clears his throat. “You need me, I’ll be in the sitting room, okay?”

“Sure, thanks.”

The kitchen in Jesper’s house was redone last year, according to Nate, and it’s easily the nicest kitchen I’ve ever been in.

The appliances gleam as though they were installed yesterday, not a year in the past, and a massive marble island looms in the center of the space.

I put the groceries down, and start pulling open cupboards in search of utensils.

By the time my abuela’s pozole is simmering on the stove, it’s well past six and the sky is rapidly darkening outside. It’s been thundering off and on for the last hour, each time making me a little more nervous. Why the hell isn’t Nate back yet ?

I reach for my phone just as a text message comes through, and relief immediately floods my system. Leaning on the counter, I listen to his voice message and frown. He’s only just coming home now ? The relief of seeing his name pop up on my screen is short-lived—now I’m twice as nervous as before.

Leaving the kitchen, I follow the sound of the television until I come across the sitting room. Nate’s uncle is sitting in a recliner, eyes on a baseball game, a beer in his hand and resting on the arm of his chair. I clear my throat.

“Jesper?” He looks over just as my eyes catch on the TV again, and I’m distracted. I recognize that game. “Is that an SCU game?”

“Nathan showed me how to watch the old games,” he says, lifting the beer to his mouth and taking a sip. “I can figure out the live ones just fine, but I didn’t know I could see old ones too.”

I watch the TV as Vince winds up to take a pitch, and the balls cracks against my glove. Strike.

“This is…two season ago?” I ask.

“That’s right. I enjoy watching Nathan’s hockey, but I’m a baseball man at heart. He got these all queued up for me so I could see you play.”

Embarrassed, I scuff my foot against the floor. “I was just the catcher. Not too exciting.”

Jesper snorts, grinning around the mouth of the bottle as he takes another sip. “You call the game, kid. Now that I’ve met you, I can see why they knew you were the man for the job. Can’t have some hothead behind the plate.”

Pleased, I smile to myself. I was never going to continue on past college ball, but I did love playing and I especially loved playing catcher. I was proud of that position .

“Did you need something?” Jesper asks. “Whatever you’ve got going back there smells amazing.”

“Pozole. It’s a soup. I made plenty, so give it thirty minutes and you can have as much as you want.” I step forward and hold my phone between us, thumb hovering over Nate’s voice message. “I just got this from Nate.”

Jesper frowns as he listens. Rain starts to drum against the roof of the house, and the sky outside has darkened considerably.

Looking through the window in front of me, I’d never assume it was early evening.

It’s black enough to be almost midnight.

Jesper scratches a hand through the rough stubble on his face as the voice message finishes playing.

“Paulsons’ place,” he mumbles, standing up and pausing the game. “Sounds like he was headed for the road instead of looping around the way he went.”

“He just sent this,” I reiterate. “Like…two minutes ago.”

“Service is pretty dodgy around here. He could have sent that an hour ago, and it’s only now making its way through.”

I nod, biting my cheek and glancing out the window again. “I tried to text back and it didn’t go through.”

“That’s why we still have landlines out here,” he tells me, smiling kindly. He doesn’t look nervous, which settles my own gently roiling stomach. “How about I call over to Dean’s place, and ask if they’ve seen him?”

I nod again, gratefully. Maybe Nate’s riding out the storm at a neighboring farm, safe and dry in someone’s barn.

Back in the kitchen, I stir the pozole idly, eyes on the window above the sink. It’s really getting dark now, rain lashing the glass. Does Nate have a flashlight with him? How the hell will he be able to see?

“Dean’s going to check the stable,” Jesper tells me, walking into the kitchen. “They haven’t seen him, but he could have let himself in. He’ll call back.”

“Okay. I have to feed Tuna, so I think I’ll go do that while we’re waiting.”

“Good idea. Here.” He opens a closet and pulls out a long raincoat, handing it to me. “Or I could drive you.”

“This is fine.” I pull on the coat, which is long enough to hit my knees, and tug up the hood as well. The barn and loft are down the road a way, but having him drive me feels ridiculous. It’s just a little rain.

I run for the barn as soon as I leave Jesper’s covered porch, feet sliding on the wet grass and head tucked low.

It’s coming down hard—a steady downpour interspersed with rumbles of thunder.

Lighting forks across the sky, temporarily illuminating the yard.

I pick up my pace, almost sprinting now, and regret not taking Jesper up on the offer to drive me.

I’m so focused on just getting inside the barn that I almost run past the figure huddled against the wall, sheltering from the storm.

Skidding to a halt and almost losing my footing, I push the hood on my borrowed coat back and peer at the horse.

“Qué demonios,” I mumble, stepping closer.

It’s Annabelle, that much is clear, although her white coat is gray with moisture, making her nothing more than a ghostly apparition.

She doesn’t shy away as I approach, head hanging low.

When I grab the reins, which are pooled on the ground, she jerks her head half-heartedly but doesn’t move otherwise. She’s visibly quivering.

Confused, I glance around as though Nate might pop out of the gloom, smile on his face and hands reaching for me. Maybe he’s inside, opening the doors to bring her in.

The rain pelts down, hammering the roof of the barn and sliding off in great sheets of water. I’m soaking wet, despite the coat. Tugging Annabelle, I lead her around the barn and wait for the motion lights to switch on.

The sliding doors are still closed.

Shouldering them open, I try to ignore the tinny ringing in my ears as my nerves begin to morph into fear. Something’s not right. Nate would never leave one of the horses out in this weather—certainly not one fully tacked up.

As I lead a freakishly calm Annabelle into the barn, I nearly faint as I get my first good look at her.

Blood rushes to my head and my vision tunnels.

She’s limping heavily, desperately trying not to put weight on her back leg where I can see a raw scrape down her hindquarter.

The saddle is skewed—tilted at an angle with the cinch strap digging into her armpit. I drop the reins.

“Nate!” I shout, throwing the hood completely off as I jog toward the loft stairs. “Nate! Are you here?”

Tuna whinnies and startles as I run by. Several of the horses kick the sides of their stalls, reacting to my anxiety and the storm.

It’s important to keep calm around horses, Nate’s voice says in my ear, reminding me of my first day here, because they can always tell when you’re not .

A nervous rider is going to be riding a nervous horse.

“Nate? Are you up here?”

I fling open the loft door with probably more force than necessarily, and nearly vomit on to the floor. The lights are off—he’s not here.

Back down in the main barn, I quickly walk up and down the stalls, checking each one.

Maybe he’s hiding , I think desperately, even though I know it’s futile.

Nate would never hear me yelling for him and ignore me.

I pause only long enough to try calling his cellphone, but it doesn’t go through.

Annabelle hasn’t moved from where I left her, water dripping steadily from the saddle onto the concrete floor.

Tugging my hood back up, I leave the barn at a sprint and don’t bother closing the doors behind me. Crashing through the front door of the main house, my chest burns from the exertion and trying to breathe through panicked lungs.