Chapter 13 Annabelle #2
He steps closer, and I step back, holding the gun steady. “Stay the fuck back. I fucking used this gun before, didn’t miss, and I’m not afraid to use it again.”
He pales, just slightly, and I press harder. “You want to stay in the country? Fine. But you stay the fuck away from me. From Derek. From Lords Valley. Or so help me God, I’ll make sure you’re deported wearing nothing but your smug little smile.”
His mouth opens, then closes again.
For once, he doesn’t have a comeback.
And I let that silence stretch.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I add, backing away one step. “And I’m done running.”
My phone buzzes.
He opens his mouth to respond again, but I cut him off with the steadiest thing I have left: my pointed gun and silence.
My hand remains rock solid, my heart hammering. He’s not going to see me flinch. Not now. Not ever again.
Only when I’m sure I’ve backed out far enough, past the food tents, and past the edge of the vendor trailers, do I duck behind the cider booth and finally let my breath out in a jagged rush.
My knees threaten to give, but I brace myself, press against the barnwood paneling, and slide the gun back into my bag.
That’s when I check my phone.
Emma: Annabelle. It’s time. North trail. Bring towels.
Shit!
The North trial is a hundred yards away. I want to scream, “I knew it!”. Instead, I quickly type that I’m on my way and take off, skidding to a stop in front of a booth draped in handmade linens and embroidered dishcloths.
“Sorry!” I gasp, grabbing two of the softest-looking towels off the display. “Emergency. I’ll bring them back!”
The woman behind the table blinks, then nods, wide-eyed. “Is it Emma?”
I’m already running. “Yeah. Baby’s coming!”
I rush past toddlers dragging balloon animals and teens crowding the caramel stall, one hand gripping the bag against my hip like it holds the last stable thing in my life.
And maybe it does.
I should be shaken. I should be panicking. But I’m not. Not yet.
What I feel is something colder. Sharper. Like steel being forged in my chest. I didn’t just stand up to him. I leveled him. Looked Mike Bishop in the eye and didn’t blink .
The power is mine now.
I round the corner to the north trail, lungs burning, heart pounding like it’s trying to outrun what just happened.
My hands still smell like metal and sweat.
I sprint past the brush and hit the bend near the ravine, linen towels clutched in my fists, chest heaving. And there she is.
Emma.
She’s crouched beside a mossy boulder, her sundress hitched to her thighs, hair matted to her forehead with sweat, and a murderous glint in her eyes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I gasp, skidding to a stop. “You’re having the baby here ?”
“I was on my way to the cider tent, and then I had to pee,” she growls through gritted teeth. “And then this hellspawn decided it was time.”
I glance at the uneven ground, already littered with twigs and questionable moss. “Why in God’s name would you go through the woods to the cider tent?”
She shoots me a look, half-annoyed, half-exhausted. “I had to pee, Annabelle. I’m not squeezing into a Porta Potty the size of a feed barrel. Now shut up and help me. He’s coming.”
The sound that escapes her next is pure pain, raw and primal, and it slices through me like a wire pulled too tight.
You can do this.
It’s been years since I delivered a baby. I haven’t touched a patient since nursing school. My license? Expired. My confidence? Shaky at best.
But right now, none of that matters. I just know I can’t fuck this up.
I drop to my knees beside her, adrenaline surging. My hands move on instinct, my voice low and calm even though inside, I’m spiraling.
Everything else falls away—Mike, the papers, the lies, the ache that’s been hollowing me out for months.
This is now. This is real.
And Emma?
She’s a damn goddess.
Fierce. Gritted. Glorious.
I coach her through the contractions, gripping one of her hands while the other towel dabs sweat from her face. She curses like a sailor, shouts something about Eric’s testicles, and screams through the final push.
The first sharp cry is wet and soul-stealing.
I wrap the baby in the soft linen, heart crashing in my chest, and place him on her chest. She breaks into tears the second he lets out that whimper. I do too.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “He’s real. ”
“You did it.” My voice cracks as I smooth damp hair from her temple. “You actually did it.”
She laughs through a sob. “This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to have him in a birthing tub. With candles and whale music. Not in the dirt with twigs up my ass.”
I choke on a laugh. “Well…your flair for dramatic entrances is still intact.”
She glares at me. “If you tell anyone I gave birth in the woods like some feral fairy, I’ll bury you right here with the placenta.”
“As long as you don’t tell anyone I don’t want to be a nurse.”
“What?”
“I let my license lapse. Haven’t practiced in years.”
“And you’re telling me now ?”
“Would you rather I handed you a résumé mid-contraction?” I raise a brow. “You’d have panicked. I’d have panicked. But instead”—I gesture to the tiny pink-faced miracle curled against her chest—“we have a perfect baby boy.”
She looks down at him, her eyes going soft. “Yeah,” she whispers. “We do. Thank you.”
The world goes quiet around us. Even the trees seem to hush.
For one perfect moment, we breathe. We cry. We laugh and sit tangled in adrenaline and new life, our hearts syncing to the rhythm of that tiny cooing baby.
Then Emma’s phone buzzes in her pocket.
I stiffen, heartbeat back in my throat. “Eric?”
She glances at it and squints. “No. The clerk. It’s from my contact at the courthouse.”
I don’t like the look on her face. “Mike’s definitely the one contesting the divorce papers.”
The breath leaves me in a rush, like someone punched me straight through the ribs. Cold bleeds into my chest. Not dread—terror. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers you’ll never be free.
“Then I’m not divorced,” I whisper.
Emma’s lips press together. “Not yet.”
Then my marriage to Derek isn’t valid. I sit hard on the nearest log, clutching the phone like it might save me. My lungs won’t work. My skin’s too tight. My hands shake.
That bastard won’t let me go.
By the time Derek and Eric show up, Emma’s composed herself just enough to say, “Took you long enough,” before bursting into tears again.
Derek reaches for me immediately, scanning every inch like I’m the one who just gave birth. His palms land on my arms, my waist, my cheeks, as if he’s counting bones to make sure they’re all still there. I press into him, letting his scent and strength ground me.
“She’s okay,” I say, voice thick. “They’re both okay.”
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
We walk back slowly, Emma cradling her newborn like a prize, and Eric glued to her side, still looking like he just ran a marathon barefoot and backwards. The sun dips lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and honey.
As we near the square, voices rise in stunned waves. People part like the sea.
And there, center stage in wedge sandals and a maternity romper that screams “influencer at the farmer’s market”, stands Caroline, clutching an iced tea and blinking like we just rolled in with a UFO.
Her eyes lock on Emma’s baby.
“You didn’t,” she gasps.
“Oh, I did,” I say, grinning as I steady Emma’s elbow. “In the woods. No epidural. No drama. Just twigs, towels, and sheer willpower.”
Caroline’s jaw drops. “Well, that’s cute for you. But I’ll be in a private suite with mood lighting and a nurse named Tina who brings me crushed ice every ten minutes.”
Emma chuckles. “I thought I’d be delivering to whale music, not the honk of a corn-dog cart and a drunk guy yelling about arm wrestling.”
She lifts her chin and shakes her head. “Nah-ah. These knees are locked until linens and Pitocin are involved.”
I laugh. “Good. Because I am not doing another surprise delivery tonight.”
We trade the kind of look only two exhausted, competitive women can—half-respect, half-exasperation—and I swear, in another life, we might’ve been friends earlier.
Derek’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “You didn’t just deliver a baby in the woods,” he murmurs, low and proud. “You delivered a whole damn miracle.”
We slow as we cross the square. The booths are empty now, abandoned pie tins and crumpled napkins scattered like confetti. Lights twinkle under the eaves of the Big Barn. The air smells like rain and cider and something sharp—something I can’t quite name.
That’s when I hear it.
The low rumble of an engine.
I turn just in time to see the red Chevy roll past the square, slow and smug.
Two silhouettes in the cab. Mike in the driver’s seat, posture oozing arrogance.
Rick in the passenger side, cleaner cut but no less poisonous.
Both of them watching us like they already know the ending to a story they wrote in blood.
My stomach flips.
Derek’s grip tightens on my waist, and I feel his breath hitch.
They cruise past like wolves just out of reach of the firelight—watching, waiting, calculating.
I track them until the taillights vanish around the bend, my body a wire pulled too tight.
“They’re not gone,” I whisper.
“No,” Derek says beside me, his voice flat. “They’re waiting.”
And in that cold, loaded silence, the air thickens with threat. I feel it crawl beneath my skin. Hear it whisper against my ribs.
And I realize, the gun may not be enough to stop them.