Chapter 52 Lawson
Chapter fifty-two
Lawson
Beau’s at the counter, stealing pieces of ham off the cutting board every time he thinks no one’s looking.
“I swear to God,” Lincoln mutters, setting a basket of rolls onto the table, “if you touch one more thing—”
“I helped cook dinner. So I can take as many bites as I want,” Beau argues. “Anyway, a chef has to taste his dish. It’s called… pre-tasting.”
Jasper snorts from where he’s snacking on cheese and crackers as if we’re not about to eat dinner. “You’re pre-ruining it.”
“Relax,” Beau says. “If it tastes bad, all I have to do is blame you.”
“Blame me?!” Jasper shouts. “I didn’t even touch anything. How could it be my—”
I slide the pan into the oven harder than necessary. “If it tastes bad, no one’s getting the chocolate cake I made. Got it?”
That shuts them up—for about three seconds.
“Hey,” Jas says, glancing toward the window. “You think Abbie’s bringin’ back some of those carrots? Because I—”
“She said she’d be quick,” I cut in, wiping my hands on a towel.
I look outside again.
Another minute passes. Then another.
Linc checks his watch, subtle but not subtle enough. “How long’s she been gone?”
“Fifteen,” Beau says immediately.
I turn. “You counting now?”
He shrugs. “I worry efficiently.”
Jasper opens his mouth, probably to say something reassuring, but stops when Lucy barks.
It’s sharp. Loud. Urgent.
I cross the room and throw the front door open. Cold air rushes in, snow swirling in every direction. Lucy takes one look at me and bolts.
Straight toward the fields.
“Lucy!” I shout, already throwing on my boots and stepping onto the porch. My eyes follow her red-and-white shape as it races into the night.
And then—
Headlights.
They cut through the trees at the far edge of the property, slicing white and sudden through the snowfall.
My stomach drops, and my feet freeze.
Then my phone rings in my pocket, and I freeze.
Every instinct in me screams not to answer it, to follow Lucy. But something deeper tells me I have to.
I pull it out.
Unknown number.
I hit accept and put it to my ear.
“Lawson,” Miles Keller says. Calm. Almost bored. “Lose anything?”
My heart hammers inside my chest, like it knows what I’m about to ask is going to shatter it. “Where is she?”
“Where’s who?” Lincoln says from behind me, but I can’t look at him. “Lawson, what’s going on?”
There’s a pause, then a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “Christmas miracles are fragile things, Lawson. You might want to pray yours survives the night.”
The line goes dead.
For half a second, the world holds its breath.
Then a scream rips through the field.
Abigail.
It cuts sharp and desperate through the snow. Through the dark. Through me.
The headlights jerk, then start to disappear into the trees.
“Abigail!” I roar, finally getting my feet to move.
Behind me, boots pound. Someone swears. Someone else shouts her name. And Lucy’s barking again as she runs further away.
I don’t stop moving until I hit the edge of the pasture and see nothing but a trail of footprints and an empty stretch of snow where she should be.
The scream is gone.
The lights are gone.
There’s nothing left but silence and falling snow.
I will myself to turn back to the others. My brothers. My best friends.
Lincoln’s face is ashen. Beau looks like he might be sick. Jasper’s hands are already shaking, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might break.
“They took her,” I say. My voice not sounding like my own.
“Who? Who took her?” Jasper seethes.
“Miles Keller,” I answer, and each of their eyes blow wide.
My gaze flicks from them to the barn, to the dark tree line, and back again. The pain on their faces tells me everything—shock, fear, fury, the same hollow ache ripping through my chest, mirrored four times over. There’s no discussion. No hesitation. Because there’s only one choice.
We go after her.
Always.
“Horses. Now.”