Page 1 of Riding the Line (Willow Ridge #2)

Prologue

Cherry

Eight Years Ago

The first things I hear when I wake up are the skidding of tyres, the abrupt cut of an engine, and the distant rumble of his voice.

‘What happened to her?’

The words filter through the fading ringing in my ears and the throbbing in my head. Frantic footsteps rush closer, vibrating through the ground that presses into my cheek.

‘I don’t know—’

‘Is she hurt?’

Inch by inch, the nerves in my body awaken, clusters of pain prickling to life. Tingling flows through my side, blooming across my chest and neck. The sun’s heat beats down on me, my skin burning under its scrutiny. Sweat pools beneath the fabric of my clothes.

A futile attempt to open my eyes barely makes my lashes flutter.

‘She just fell and then started having some sort of fit. She’s only just stopped—’

‘Here.’ Warmth floods my side, the heat of a body suddenly hovering next to me.

Leather scuffles and squeaks, heavy breathing underlying it, before a large hand cradles my head with such care, as if I’m made of glass. He lifts my cheek, then slides something beneath it, and when he lowers me back down, there’s something cold and leather-like providing me comfort.

‘Did you call an ambulance?’

‘No, I—’

That’s Jodie’s voice – my riding instructor. I recognise it now.

I wonder where the horses are.

‘Just do it. Now.’

Nothing comes out when I try to speak. So, I settle for a brief, croaky moan to signal that I’m at least alive and somewhat conscious. That begs for someone to reassure me.

‘It’s okay, I’m here.’ Fingers lightly stroke along my hair as my jaw starts to tremble. A stinging pressure builds behind my eyes. ‘It’s all gonna be okay.’

Every time I hear his familiar voice, I’m pulled closer to awareness, limbs lightening. Each word is a flashing beacon of hope amongst the dark storm, guiding me back to shelter. Because I know he’d do anything to get me back to my family safely.

A sob crawls up my throat, but withers there. The cool streak of one escaped tear slides down my cheek, only to be wiped away by the soft pad of a thumb.

‘Duke,’ I finally manage to whisper, my fingers stretching out to reach him.

The warmth of his presence calls me – urges me to try to move.

When I finally open my eyes, the first things I see are drawings – no, tattoos – roses and trees and barbed wire banded around thick, dark-skinned arms. My heavy eyes trail up each one until I reach his face, deep umber eyes watching over me, his broad frame clothed in his biker leathers.

Golden sunlight rains down and lines his silhouette like he’s a guardian angel.

I drive my hand into the dirt, trying to push myself up but barely manage to shakily lift myself more than a few inches before Duke’s arms come under mine, holding me when my body finally gives up.

The movement sends pain sparking through my shoulder, setting it ablaze.

I cry out from the fire burning in the joint.

‘Woah, don’t push yourself, Cherry,’ Duke cautions me. He attempts to haul me up to a sitting position, but it just makes it worse.

‘My … shoulder,’ I rasp out, struggling through each breath.

Duke curses, then swiftly manoeuvres us around until he’s cradling me and I’m leaning back against his chest. Relief sweeps through me as he takes my weight, his hold on me thorough yet gentle.

Once I’ve fully sunk back into him, his fingers stroking my hair again rhythmically, I let the sob blocking my throat pour out and whimper, ‘I wanna go home.’

‘I know, I’m gonna get you home soon, I promise.’ Duke rocks me softly. ‘I’ve got you, Baby Hensley.’