Chapter 17
Knox
The rain is a solid wall of water. It hits my face like needles, stinging my skin and making it hard to breathe. The wind howls, tearing at my coat and trying to push me backward. But I lean into it, squinting through the darkness.
Boone is a few feet ahead of me, his flashlight beam cutting a swath through the downpour. He’s moving with purpose, his boots sinking into the mud that has quickly turned the yard into a swamp.
And leading the way is Blue.
The border collie is a ghost in the night, his blue merle coat flashing whenever the lightning splits the sky. He runs ahead, then stops, looking back at us, barking loud as hell.
“He’s close!” Boone shouts over the roar of the wind. “Blue wouldn’t be acting like this if the dog wasn’t near!”
I wipe the water from my eyes, clutching my own flashlight tighter.
My adrenaline from the bike ride has faded, replaced by a cold, gnawing worry.
Not just for the dog, though that is part of it.
I’m worried about her. Saramaria. The look on her face when she realized the puppy was gone. .. it haunts me. It was pure panic.
We reach the edge of the property near the drainage culvert. The ground here is uneven, slippery with wet grass and loose stones. Lightning flashes, illuminating the concrete mouth of the pipe.
Blue darts forward, barking frantically. He stands at the edge of the culvert, his tail tucked between his legs.
“There!” I yell, pointing my beam toward the dark opening.
Inside the pipe, huddled in a corner against the rising water, is a ball of wet, golden fur. Wellsy. He’s shivering so hard he’s vibrating. He lets out a high-pitched whine when he sees the lights, too scared to move.
Boone doesn’t hesitate. He hands me his flashlight and drops to his knees. He crawls into the mud, reaching his arms into the dark, wet space.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I hear him mutter. “I got you.”
He grabs the puppy by the scruff of the neck—gently, but firmly—and pulls him out. The dog is limp with fear.
Boone scrambles back to his feet, cradling the puppy against his chest. He uses his body to shield the animal from the wind.
“Let’s go,” he says, his teeth chattering. “He’s freezing.”
We turn back toward the house. The journey there feels twice as long as the journey out. The mud tries to suck our boots off. The rain feels heavier. But we have the prize.
Blue trots beside us, staying close to Boone’s legs, guarding his prize.
When we finally reach the porch, I am shivering violently. My jeans are soaked through, clinging to my legs. My hands are numb.
Boone kicks the door open, and we stumble into the entryway.
The living room is empty. The fire is burning low in the hearth.
Rhett and Saramaria are nowhere to be seen.
“Where are they?” I ask, slamming the door against the wind.
Boone doesn’t answer. He walks straight to the fireplace and crouches down. He unwraps his coat, revealing the shivering puppy tucked inside. He sets Wellsy down on the rug right in front of the flames.
Blue immediately bounds over, sniffing his friend. Wellsy yips, a weak sound, and collapses onto the rug, pressing his side against the stones. Blue curls up around him, sharing his body heat.
“He’s okay,” Boone says, rubbing the puppy’s ears with a large, gentle hand. “Just scared and cold.”
I strip off my wet coat, tossing it onto a chair. I stand near the fire, letting the heat seep into my frozen bones. The silence in the house is heavy, but it’s a peaceful silence compared to the storm outside.
Just then, the door to the hallway opens.
Rhett walks out first, holding a metal pot. Saramaria follows him.
She looks different.
She’s wearing the same oversized sweater and shorts, but her hair is damp and clean, tumbling over her shoulders in wet waves. Her face is flushed from the heat, and her skin looks scrubbed pink.
But the biggest change is the smell.
The room smells of wet dog and woodsmoke and the damp wool of our coats. But she... she smells of vanilla and something clean, like fresh rain. Soap. Shower gel.
It cuts through the other scents, hitting me with a force that makes my head spin. It’s the scent I’ve been catching whiffs of for days, but amplified now. Pure. Intoxicating.
She stops in the doorway, her eyes scanning the room. They land on the rug.
“Wellsy!”
She cries out his name, a sound of pure relief. She runs across the room, her bare feet slapping against the wood floor.
She drops to her knees beside the puppy. Wellsy lifts his head, thumping his tail weakly against the floor. She scoops him up, burying her face in his wet fur.
“Oh, thank god,” she sobs. “Thank god. I thought I lost you.”
She rocks back and forth, holding him tight. Blue, seeing her distress, scoots closer. He rests his heavy head on her knee, whining softly. She reaches out with one hand, scratching behind his ears without looking.
We watch them. Boone is still crouched by the fire, dripping water onto the rug. Rhett is standing near the armchair, the empty pot in his hands.
None of us speak. We just watch her.
This woman who came here with a suitcase full of lawsuits and a heart full of ice, is currently a heap of emotions on the floor. She is fierce and terrified and compassionate all at once.
She looks up at us, her eyes swimming with tears. “You found him. You actually found him.”
“Blue did the work,” I say, my voice rough. “We just carried the flashlight.”
Rhett sets the pot down on the hearth. “We warmed up some water,” he says to her, gesturing toward the bathroom. “For a wash. To get the mud off.”
She looks at the pot, then back at him. A small, fragile smile touches her lips. “The shower wasn’t working but I needed a bath. He boiled the water like he does for milking the cows.”
She’s over-explaining. Is she nervous? Embarrassed? Why is that so fucking adorable?
“Works the same way,” Rhett says, his tone light. “Though you smell considerably better than Bessie.”
She lets out a wet laugh and wipes her face with her sleeve.
I look at the fire. The flames are dying down again, the wood turning to ash. The temperature in the room is comfortable now, but it won’t last. The storm is only going to get worse.
“We should feed more wood to the fire,” I say, breaking the moment. “It’s going to be a long night. We’ll need the heat.”
I move to the woodpile Boone brought in earlier. I grab three large logs and toss them onto the grate. The fire hisses and pops, flaring up brightly as the dry wood catches.
Boone stands up, groaning slightly as his knees pop. He looks down at Saramaria. She’s still on the floor, cuddling the puppy, but the shivering has stopped. She looks exhausted. Drained.
“Are you okay?” Boone asks. His voice is deeper than usual, stripped of the anger he carried earlier.
She looks up at him, blinking. “I think so. Just... tired.”
“You can’t sleep in there,” he says, nodding toward the dark hallway. “It’s freezing. The insulation in that room is garbage.”
“So?” she asks, her voice defensive. “I’ll use more blankets.”
“No,” Boone says, shaking his head. “Not enough. You need to be out here. Near the heat.” He looks at Rhett, then at me. “We should bring her mattress out here. She can sleep next to the fire.”
I look at him. We’re moving furniture for her now? We’re officially her servants.
But looking at her—pale, shivering, clutching that dog like a lifeline—I can’t say no.
“Good idea,” I say. “I’ll get the head.”
“I got the frame,” Boone says.
We walk down the hallway to her bedroom. The door is open, the room dark and cold. The bed is the one we assembled for her days ago. It’s heavy, solid wood.
We strip the bed, carrying the mattress out first. It’s awkward, maneuvering the large, floppy object through the doorway and down the hall. Saramaria hovers in the living room, Wellsy in her arms, watching us with wide eyes.
We drag the mattress to the rug in front of the fireplace and lay it down perpendicular to the hearth.
We make the bed with the sheets and blankets from the room. When we’re done, it looks ridiculous. A king-sized bed in the middle of the rustic living room, bathed in firelight.
Saramaria stares at it. “You guys didn’t have to do all that.”
“It’s done,” Boone says. “Get in.”
She doesn’t argue. She climbs onto the mattress, still holding Wellsy. Blue jumps up immediately, circling three times before settling at the foot of the bed. She pulls the heavy quilt up to her chin, sighing as the warmth from the fire washes over her.
She’s asleep within minutes. Her breathing evens out, her face relaxing into something peaceful. The puppy is out cold, sprawled across her chest.
The three of us stand there for a moment, looking at her.
She looks small in that big bed. Her hair is spread out across the pillow. Her hand rests on the dog’s fur, her fingers relaxed.
The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The wind outside screams, battering the house, but in here, it’s warm. And quiet.
I walk over to the fireplace and add another log.
Boone moves to the armchair, sinking into it with a groan. He leans his head back, closing his eyes. Rhett sits on the rug, leaning his back against the front of the sofa.
I sit on the floor, leaning against the hearth. The heat is intense against my back, but I don’t move away.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
We just sit there, listening to the storm and watching her sleep.
I look at the puppy. I look at the way she is holding him. I think about us running out into the freezing rain, trudging through the mud, risking our necks to find a dog that isn’t even ours.
We didn’t do it for the dog. Not really.
We did it for her.
We saw her break. We saw the panic in her eyes. And we didn’t think. We just moved.
I look at Boone, then at Rhett. They look as tired as I feel. Their wet clothes are drying in the heat, steaming slightly.
This is bigger than we thought.
It was supposed to be a job. A place to live. A way to keep the legacy of Anthony Cruz alive. It was supposed to be us against the world.
Now, the world is outside, and she’s in here.
She’s the owner. She’s the enemy. She’s the woman who wants to sell our home.
But watching her sleep there, surrounded by our makeshift bed and our dogs, I know the truth.
We’re in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
Because I would go out into that storm again tonight if she asked me to. And I know Boone and Rhett would too.
We’re protecting her. We’re providing for her. We’re... caring for her.
The pack dynamic we all swore we didn’t want? It’s happening anyway. It’s building itself around her, brick by brick, log by log.
She shifts in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. Blue lifts his head, checks on her, and goes back to sleep.
I stare into the flames, mesmerized by the dance of orange and yellow. The future is uncertain. The circuit might be over. The ranch might be sold. The world might be ending outside.
But right now, in this room, with the fire burning and this woman safe, everything feels exactly as it should be.
And that’s the most dangerous thought of all.