Chapter 3 Tethered
Tethered
Beckett
(Engaged to Audra Sinclair)
“Fence post on the right.”
Audra’s voice cut through my concentration, and I adjusted the wheel slightly, keeping us centered on the road I could barely see. We’d fallen into a rhythm during the drive back—her watching for landmarks, me keeping us steady, both of us talking each other through every turn.
“Good. That means the Hendricks’ place is coming up.”
“Which means we turn left in about a quarter mile.”
“Copy that.”
In the back seat, Jet whined softly. He’d been quiet the whole drive, pressed low against the seat like he understood the stakes.
The storm had worsened in the twenty minutes since we’d left Coop with the puppies.
Visibility was down to almost nothing, the headlights illuminating only swirling white.
But Audra had survived a psychopathic stalker—she knew how to stay alert, how to spot details others missed.
And I’d driven these roads a thousand times in every kind of weather Montana could throw at me.
Together, we’d manage.
“There.” She pointed. “Mailbox.”
I couldn’t see it, but I trusted her. Slowed, felt for the turn, took it. The tires caught gravel instead of pavement, and something in both of us unlocked.
“We’re on the property,” she said. “We’re almost home.”
Home. The word settled somewhere in my chest.
“We made it.”
The barn was a dark shape barely visible until we were almost on top of it. I parked as close as I could, killed the engine, and sat for a moment. The wind howled outside, rocking the truck, but at least we didn’t have to drive anymore.
“We need to check the animals,” Audra said.
“I know.”
Neither of us moved. We were both aware that we’d probably just come pretty close to dying without really knowing it. We needed a second.
Then Jet barked—a sharp, impatient sound that meant get moving, humans—and the spell broke. We climbed out into the storm.
The cold hit like a physical assault. I’d thought I was prepared for it, but nothing prepares you for a Montana blizzard at full strength.
The wind drove ice crystals into every exposed inch of skin, stole the breath from my lungs, made my eyes water until I could barely see.
I grabbed Audra’s hand and pulled her toward the barn, Jet pressing against our legs.
The barn door fought me, the wind trying to rip it from my grip, but I got it open far enough for us to slip through. The door slammed shut behind us, and suddenly we were in warmth. Relative warmth, anyway. The body heat of animals, the insulation of hay, the absence of that relentless wind.
“Everyone okay?” Audra was already moving down the aisle, checking stalls, counting heads. “Duke, Rosie, the horses...”
I did my own count. The dogs were fine, huddled in their kennels, tails wagging despite the storm. The horses were calm, heads hanging over their stall doors, curious about the late-night visitors. Fernando the llama regarded us with his usual expression of aristocratic disdain.
“Beck.”
Something in Audra’s voice made my stomach drop.
I found her standing in front of Al Pacacino’s pen. The gate was open. The pen was empty.
“The latch,” she said. “It’s not broken. He figured out how to open it.”
That stubborn, ridiculous, too-smart-for-his-own-good alpaca had escaped. Into a blizzard. On Christmas Eve.
“He can’t survive out there.” Audra’s face had gone pale. “Not in this. He’ll freeze.”
She was right. Alpacas were hardy, but not this hardy. Not in a whiteout with windchills well below zero and visibility measured in inches.
“We’ll find him.” I was already heading for the door. “Jet, come.”
Jet’s ears perked up. He knew that tone. Work time.
We’d strung a guide rope earlier that day, running from the barn to the guesthouse—a precaution against exactly this kind of situation. People died in whiteouts, lost in their own yards, unable to find their way back to shelter twenty feet away. The rope was our lifeline.
I grabbed the blizzard kit from inside the barn door. Carabiners, harnesses, extra rope. We clipped ourselves to the guide rope with runners that would slide along with us—no one who knew anything about Montana winters wandered into a whiteout untethered.
“Al Pacacino!” Audra’s voice was swallowed by the wind almost immediately once we got outside. “Al!”
I felt ridiculous, calling for an alpaca in the middle of a blizzard. But I called anyway. “Al Pacacino! Come on, you stubborn bastard!”
We moved along the rope, Jet pressed between us, leashed to me, the wind tearing at our clothes. Visibility was maybe two feet. Maybe less. The rope was the only thing keeping us oriented—without it, we could walk in circles until we froze.
Nothing. Just wind and white and the growing certainty that we were going to lose that damned alpaca.
Then Jet’s body went rigid. His nose worked the air, and he strained against the blizzard, pulling toward something beyond the reach of our rope.
“He’s got something,” Audra said.
I followed Jet’s gaze into the white. Couldn’t see a damn thing. But I trusted the dog. He’d proven himself a hero more than once.
“How far?” Audra asked.
“Too far to reach without unclipping.” The guide rope didn’t extend in that direction. If I unclipped and walked into that white, I might never find my way back.
Audra was already pulling the extra coil of rope from the kit. “Fifty feet. It’s not much.”
“It’s enough. Has to be.” I took the rope, clipped one end to my harness. Handed the other end to her. “You stay anchored to the guide rope. I’ll follow Jet. When I tug three times, I’m coming back so try to keep tension on the rope by pulling it toward you so I know what direction to go.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t unclip for any reason.”
She nodded. “Be careful. I love you.”
I squeezed her shoulder, although I wasn’t sure she could feel it under all her layers, then unclipped from the guide rope.
The moment I did, the world became nothing but white chaos.
No direction, no orientation, just wind and snow and the rope attached to my waist connecting me to Audra. To safety.
Jet pushed forward and I followed, counting steps. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. The rope played out behind me, my only connection to anything real.
“Al Pacacino!” The wind ripped the words from my mouth.
Thirty steps. Thirty-five. Fuck. The rope was running out.
Then Jet barked—sharp, urgent—and lunged forward. I stumbled after him, felt the rope go taut, knew I was at the end of my reach.
There just a few more feet away. A shape against the fence line, lighter than the snow around it. Cream-colored and absolutely still.
“Al!”
He was huddled against a fence post, half-buried in a drift, shaking so hard I could see it even through the blowing snow. His eyes were half-closed. Not good.
I tugged the rope once—I found him—and closed the distance.
“Come on, you stupid alpaca. Move.”
Al Pacacino did not want to move. He was scared, cold, and had apparently decided this fence post was where he planned to die.
This was the most stubborn creature in the whole sanctuary. Everybody knew it. But not today. Today, I was the most fucking stubborn.
I grabbed him around the middle and heaved. Deadweight. He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a scream but wouldn’t get his legs under him.
“Al, I swear to chocolate, if you don’t get up, I’m leaving you here.”
Empty threat. We both knew it.
I got my arms under him and lifted. Two hundred pounds of wet, freezing, stubborn alpaca. My back screamed. My legs burned. But I got him up, got him draped over my shoulders in something vaguely resembling a fireman’s carry, and yanked three times on the rope.
One step. Two. The rope tightened, guiding me.
I followed the tension in the rope, one agonizing step at a time, Al Pacacino’s weight threatening to drive me into the snow with every stride.
At least the ornery son of a bitch wasn’t trying to bite me, which actually concerned me more than offered relief.
Jet stayed at my heel, barking encouragement or criticism—hard to tell with him.
Then hands grabbed my arm. Audra, appearing out of the white like a ghost, her face raw from the wind.
“I’ve got you,” she shouted over the storm. “Keep moving.”
Together, we followed the guide rope back.
Audra in front, one hand on the rope, one hand locked around my arm.
Me behind, carrying an alpaca who had finally stopped struggling and was just shivering against my back—I didn’t even know alpaca could shiver but evidently they sure as hell could. Jet bringing up the rear.
The barn door materialized out of nothing. Audra wrenched it open, and we half-fell inside, Al Pacacino and all. Audra pulled the door shut against the howling night. We stood there, all of us, breathing hard, covered in snow, still alive.
Al Pacacino shook himself, sending snow and ice everywhere. Then he turned, looked directly at me, and spit.
“You’re welcome, you ornery son of a—” I cut myself off. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
Audra laughed—a slightly hysterical sound that said her nerves were as shot as mine. She wrapped her arms around me, not caring that we were both soaked and freezing, and held on.
“We got him,” she said into my chest.
“We got him.”
We were both cold and exhausted but we couldn’t rest yet.
We dried Al Pacacino as best we could, settled him back in his pen with extra hay and a stern lecture about staying put.
I added a strategically placed nail so dumbass wouldn’t be able to unlatch his door and take another field trip back into the blizzard.
We checked all the other animals one more time. Made sure the barn was secure against the storm. Made sure everyone was safe and warm and content. Audra wrapped her arm around my waist.
“They’re good for the night,” I said.
She nodded, looking around. “Let’s get ourselves the same way.”