Chapter 15
Saramaria
The beam of the flashlight cuts through the darkness of the hallway, a cone of white light that illuminates dust motes dancing in the still air. Rhett walks beside me. I can feel his mood radiating off him, that calm, Beta-like patience he wears like a cloak.
“I’m just saying, Saramaria,” he murmurs, his tone careful. “The papers are complicated. There’s a lot of history there. We can sit down with them in the morning, go over everything line by line. There’s no need to make decisions while you’re upset.”
Upset. The word makes my teeth grind together.
I stop walking and turn to face him. The flashlight beam catches his eyes, reflecting the light back at me. He looks tired. There are lines around his mouth that weren’t there a few days ago.
“I’m not upset, Rhett,” I say, keeping my voice even though my heart is fluttering like a trapped bird. “I’m furious. There’s a difference. And I don’t need you to hold my hand while I read my own grandfather’s betrayal.”
He sighs, a sound that’s more air than noise. “He didn’t betray you. He was trying to secure the ranch’s future.”
“By giving it to you?” I snap.
“By ensuring it was maintained,” he corrects me gently. “Look, we can talk about this. We can argue about this. But not tonight. It’s late. The storm is here. Let’s just get through the night, okay?”
I look away from him, staring at the darkness of the living room beyond. “Fine,” I say. “Talk in the morning. Whatever.”
I turn and walk into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. I don’t slam it—I’m not a child—but I close it with enough force to make a point.
I’m alone in the dark.
I click off the flashlight. The room is pitch black, save for the faint gray light filtering through the heavy curtains. The silence is heavy, broken only by the muffled sound of the wind beginning to pick up outside.
I stand in the center of the room, my breath coming fast. I feel it rising in me, that familiar, suffocating tide. The OCD. It usually lives in the back of my mind, a neat little compartmentalized box I keep shut with rules and routines. But tonight, the box has shattered.
The day has been a violation of everything I need.
I woke up to a schedule that wasn’t mine.
I drank coffee that was too bitter. I drove into town and heard people saying vile things about a woman I know.
I walked around in the cold and the damp.
I came back to find three Alphas invading my space.
I burned my grandfather’s things—something that went against every instinct I have to preserve and protect.
And now this. The power is out. The darkness is absolute.
I walk over to the bed, the mattress squeaking slightly as I sit down.
I reach for the nightstand, my fingers fumbling in the dark for my book.
Her Highlander’s Surrender. I need to read.
I need to escape into a world where the problems are solved by a brooding man in a kilt and a love that conquers all.
My hand finds the cover, but I pull back. I can’t read. There’s no light. The flashlight battery will die if I use it for reading, and I need to save it in case of an emergency.
I stand up again, pacing the small rectangle of the floor. I feel gritty. I feel dirty.
I need a shower. I need to wash away the smell of the smoke, the grime of the day, the feeling of the town’s judgment on my skin.
I remember the pipe. The broken pipe in the bathroom that Boone looked at days ago hasn’t been fixed yet. Or maybe I did? No, it still leaks. And even if it didn’t, the water pump runs on electricity. No power, no pump.
And even if there was water, I’m not going outside. I’m not walking across the dark, freezing yard to the shower cabin Knox uses. Not in this rain. Not with the wind howling like a banshee.
I feel trapped.
I look at my hands in the dark. I can see the faint outline of them. I imagine the germs. The dirt from the feed store, the gasoline from the pumps, the soot from the fire pit. It’s on me. It’s coating my skin.
I rub my hands on my jeans, but it doesn’t help. I need to be clean. I need order.
I strip.
I pull off my sweater, tossing it onto the floor. I kick off my boots, not caring where they land. I unbutton my jeans with shaking fingers and shuck them off. I stand in my underwear in the freezing cold room, shivering.
I need different clothes. I need clothes that are clean. That are safe.
I fumble in the drawer, my hands brushing against soft fabric. I pull out a pair of loose cotton shorts and a thick, oversized sweater. Socks. I need warm socks.
I dress quickly, the fabric sliding over my skin. It feels better. Not perfect—my skin still feels crawly—but better.
I climb into bed. The sheets are cold, but I pull the quilt up to my chin, burrowing into the mattress. I close my eyes.
“Wellsy,” I whisper into the dark.
Silence.
“Wellsy, come here, boy.”
I wait for the familiar click of claws on the hardwood. I wait for the weight of him jumping onto the bed. I wait for the cold nose nudging my hand.
Nothing.
I sit up, panic flaring in my chest like a match strike. “Wellsy?”
I scramble out of bed, grabbing the flashlight. I click it on, the beam blinding me for a second. I sweep it around the room.
Under the bed. Empty.
In the closet. Empty.
Behind the chair. Empty.
“He was here,” I say out loud, my voice rising. “He was right here. I saw him when I came in.”
I saw him lying by the sofa when I was yelling at Rhett. When was that? An hour ago? Two?
Did I shut the front door? Yes. I’m sure I did.
But did he slip out when Rhett and I were walking down the hall?
Oh god.
The panic is a cold wave that washes over me, drowning out the anger, drowning out the OCD. This isn’t about dirt or schedules. This is about Wellsy. He’s a puppy. He’s small. He’s out there in the storm.
“Wellsy!”
I run out of the bedroom, not caring that I’m in my socks. I run down the hallway, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly off the walls.
I burst into the living room.
“Wellsy!”
The room is warmer than the bedroom. Much warmer. The fire in the hearth is roaring now, a beast of orange and yellow that lights up the whole space. The shadows dance on the walls.
On the sofa, Knox sits up, blinking. He was asleep, a blanket sliding off his shoulders. In the armchair, Boone shifts, his eyes snapping open.
“What the hell?” Knox asks, his voice thick with sleep. He rubs his face, looking around wildly. “Is the house on fire?”
“My dog,” I gasp, the beam of the flashlight hitting him in the face. He flinches. “Wellsy. He’s gone. He’s not in the bedroom.”
Boone is on his feet in an instant. He moves with a speed that is terrifying. “Gone? How can he be gone?”
“I don’t know!” I cry, the tears coming hot and fast. “I called him and he didn’t come. I looked everywhere. He was by the sofa earlier.”
“Did you check the kitchen?” Rhett asks, coming out of the shadows near the fireplace. He’s fully dressed, holding a poker.
“Yes! I checked everywhere!”
Boone runs a hand through his hair, his eyes scanning the room. “I saw him,” he says, his voice decisive. “A couple of hours ago. When I came in from the barn. Blue was chasing him near the stable. They were playing. He probably followed Blue out and didn’t come back in before the storm hit.”
The stable. That’s across the yard. That’s a hundred feet of mud and wind and rain.
“I have to go get him,” I say, turning toward the door.
“Saramaria, wait,” Rhett says, stepping into my path. “It’s pouring out there. You can’t go in that.”
“I have to!” I scream, shoving his hand away. “He’s a puppy, Rhett! He’s scared! He’s all alone out there!”
“I’ll go,” Rhett says calmly. “I’ll put on my coat and go check the stables. You stay here by the fire.”
“No!” I shout. “I’m not waiting here! What if he’s not there? What if he wandered toward the road? I need to find him.”
“You’re not dressed for it,” Knox says, standing up. He gestures to my shorts and socks. “You’ll freeze in five minutes.”
“I don’t care!”
I turn and run to the front door. I can hear them behind me, their boots heavy on the floor.
“Don’t,” Boone says. His voice is right behind me. “It’s raining.”
I don’t listen. I throw the door open.
The wind hits me like a physical blow, a wall of wet, freezing air that nearly sends me staggering back. The rain is horizontal, stinging my face like needles. The cold is immediate, biting through my sweater and shorts instantly.
I step out onto the porch.
“Wellsy!” I scream.
The sound is torn away by the wind, lost in the howl of the storm. The yard is a churning mess of mud and darkness. The only light comes from the occasional flash of lightning, which splits the sky with a blinding crack.
“Wellsy! Come here!”
I jump off the porch, my socks sinking instantly into the freezing mud. The water squelches between my toes, a horrible, sucking sensation.
I run toward the direction of the stables. I can barely see. The flashlight beam is useless in the heavy rain; it just illuminates the sheets of water falling in front of me.
“Wellsy! Please!”
I stumble, catching myself on the rough bark of a tree. My hands are numb. My legs are shaking. The cold is shocking, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I reach the edge of the yard where the grass gives way to the dirt path that leads to the barn.
“Wellsy!”
Something moves in the darkness near the barn door. A flash of blue and black fur.
“Blue?”
Blue steps out from the shadow of the overhang. He shakes himself, water flying everywhere. He looks at me, his tail wagging once then ducking between his legs. He whines.
“Where is he, Blue?” I cry, reaching for him. “Where’s Wellsy?”
Blue just looks at me, then turns and looks back toward the open field, toward the drainage culvert. He barks, the sound cutting through the wind.
The culvert.
The hole where I found him the last time.
“Oh god,” I whisper. “No.”
I turn to run toward the culvert, but a huge hand grabs my arm and spins me around.
The momentum makes me dizzy. I look up, blinking rain out of my eyes.
It’s Boone.
He’s soaked. His shirt is plastered to his chest, outlining every muscle. His hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks furious. His eyes are blazing in the dark.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice booms over the thunder.
“I have to find him!” I scream back, trying to pull my arm away. “He’s by the culvert! Blue is showing me!”
“The cold is too much!” he shouts back. “Look at you! You’re blue!”
“I don’t care!”
“I will find the dog for you!” he orders, his grip tightening. “Go back to the house!”
“No!” I yell, stomping my foot in the mud. “No disrespect, Boone, but I can find him! He’s my dog! You’d just be in the way!”
He stares at me. For a second, the wind seems to stop. The only sound is the rain hitting the ground and my own ragged breathing.
He lets out a growl of pure frustration.
“Stubborn fucking Omega,” he snarls.
Before I can react, he bends down and hooks an arm behind my knees. He lifts me up, throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
The breath rushes out of me as my stomach hits his hard shoulder.
“Put me down!” I scream, beating my fists against his back. “Boone! Let me go!”
He ignores me. He turns and marches back toward the house, his boots gripping the muddy ground with ease.
“Put me down! He’s out there! He’s scared!”
He doesn’t say a word. He just holds me tighter, one arm pinning my legs, the other arm across my back, locking me in place.
We pass the porch. I can see Rhett and Knox standing in the open door, the firelight silhouetting them. They’re watching, their eyes wide.
“Rhett!” I scream. “Knox! Help me! He won’t let me go!”
Boone doesn’t stop. He stomps up the steps, two at a time.
“Put me down!”
He carries me into the house, kicking the door shut with his foot, sealing out the storm.
He walks me to the sofa and dumps me onto it. Not gently. I bounce on the cushions, the breath leaving me in a huff.
He looms over me, water dripping from his nose onto the coffee table. He is breathing hard, his chest heaving.
“Stay,” he bites out.
He turns and grabs a blanket from the back of the chair. He throws it at me. It lands on my head, covering my face.
I rip it off, glaring at him. “I hate you.”
“Fine,” he says, turning his back on me. “Rhett, get the towels. Knox, stoke the fire. She’s freezing.”
“I am not freezing!” I lie, shivering so hard my teeth are chattering.
Boone turns back to me. He looks at my wet socks, my muddy legs, my trembling hands. His jaw works.
“You’re going to get sick,” he says. “And then who will take care of the dog? Hmm? Use your head, Saramaria.”
“I was using my head!” I shout. “I was trying to save him!”
“And you were going to pass out in a ditch and I was going to have to carry both of you back,” he yells back.
We stare at each other, chests heaving, the fire crackling between us.
The anger radiates off him, but underneath it, I smell it. Even through the rain and the mud, I smell it. Rosemary and citrus and mint. It makes my head spin.
I clutch the blanket around myself, trying to stop the shivering.
“Find him,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Please. Just find him.”
Boone’s face changes. The anger cracks, revealing something raw underneath. He looks at Rhett.
“I’m going,” Boone says. “Keep her here. Don’t let her leave.”
“I won’t,” Rhett says.
Boone turns to the door. He grabs his coat from the hook, shrugging it on.
“Boone,” I say.
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob.
“The culvert,” I say softly. “Blue was looking at the culvert.”
He nods once.
“I’ll check it,” he says.
He opens the door and vanishes into the dark.