Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ZACH
The girl’s scream goes silent as I slip beneath the freezing water. When I reach the Jeep, it’s rolled harder onto its side, and the brother—Jesse—is still trapped.
I reach through the window and grab him under the arms. Am I too late? I wrestle him out and drag his body to the surface.
When I break through, gasping, two EMTs are splashing toward me. Behind them, the steep bank is dotted with people, all of them staring. On the road, the swinging red lights from an ambulance flash in the bright sunshine.
The medics reach me, and we carry Jesse to the shore. They lay him down and get to work. I stand there dripping wet and winded, helpless.
Jesse coughs, his whole body jerking like he’s been shocked.
I crumble to my knees with relief—he’s alive. The ground is muddy and rough, biting through my jeans. But the pain shocks me back to my purpose, which doesn’t include sticking around.
Before the attention can turn on me, I slip through the line of bystanders, all watching Jesse vomit into the weeds. Another ambulance unit arrives, sirens wailing. Shit. The cops won’t be far behind.
Then I remember my pack still in the horse trailer. As I climb the steep bank, my wet shoes squelching, I pray the trailer is still here .
Everything I own is in that pack. It’s my survival.
Please, please, please .
Flashing lights from the south are approaching fast. I climb over the mangled guardrail to the smooth concrete, breathing hard. The bright sun’s reflection off the cars makes it hard to get my bearings. I weave through them, squinting against the glare. Then, a low nicker carries on the breeze. It’s the big quarter horse—the boss. I break into a trot, following the sound through the labyrinth. The trailer is pulled to the far side of the road. I heave a sigh of relief.
But as I reach the back end, the driver is waiting for me, a serious expression on his face. “Looking for this?” He nods at my backpack propped against the side of his truck.
Police and fire engine sirens blare. They’re closing in.
I could grab my pack and try to run, but the chances of me getting very far are next to zero.
“You got drugs in here?” He gives my pack a nudge with the toe of his boot.
A shudder vibrates down my spine. “No, sir.”
His jaw flexes, like he’s thinking this over, then he grabs my pack and jerks his chin toward the cab. “Get in.”
Over the row of cars now starting to move, a barrel-chested man in uniform steps out of a silver SUV, his keen gaze sweeping the scene. Before he spots me, I slip to the opposite side of the trailer and hurry to the cab.
The man makes no comment as I climb in, still dripping wet. My pack is behind the seat, snug between a large duffel and the driver’s side door.
I have no idea what the driver wants in exchange for ferrying me out of this mess, but he’s guarding my pack like he knows I won’t leave without it.
He’s right.
I grit my teeth.
I don’t regret going after the young woman and her brother, but it was a reckless move. Dangerous. If my name gets out, it won’t be long before Kristov or one of his goons picks up my trail, and in one single stroke, all the hard-earned distance I’ve managed to put between us will vanish. I won’t be able to outrun him a second time.
The man starts the truck, and we ease back onto the freeway, leaving the accident scene behind. The ambulance carrying Jesse is miles ahead now, the flashing lights washing out in the bright sunlight.
The medics got him breathing again. He’s going to be okay. And the girl, too. She’s all right. The way she fought me trying to get to her brother… I shake my head. Would she have died trying to save him?
The driver turns on the floor heat. His pant legs are wet. I remember handing off the girl to a man. Was it him? Why didn’t he stay to talk to the police? My neck prickles. Maybe he’s got illegal contraband in this rig. He doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself, either.
His question rattles through my mind. You got drugs in here?
He takes an offramp and slows around a long curve to merge onto another highway, this one heading east toward a rugged mountain range. For an instant, I think he’s going to pull over and get out of me what he wants or ditch me without my pack, but he accelerates.
“Get yourself one of them blankets,” he says while checking the rearview mirror. Without taking my eyes off him, I reach into the backseat. A couple of wool horse blankets are stacked there, stiff with dust, but I’m not about to get choosy. I lay one of them over my lap and flex my toes.
The highway crosses the broad valley and then ascends a gentle grade, the rugged mountains dominating the view.
“How long were you back there?” the driver asks.
We pass a green mileage sign. A place called Finn River is forty-eight miles ahead, and the Montana State Line is sixty-four miles. From my very brief geography lesson thanks to the Kamloops Public Library, I’m guessing we’re at the south end of Idaho’s panhandle region, where the Bitterroot Mountains divide the state line.
When I don’t answer, the man gives me a sideways glance and nods once, like he’s acknowledging this silent conversation. He flips on the radio. For the next forty miles, he taps his chapped fingers on the steering wheel and focuses on the driving. The cab warms and the mountains rise, the details of the dusky purple pinnacles and high basins splotchy with snow coming into focus .
We’re nearing the town when the man turns off on a narrow, paved road lined with tall Ponderosa spaced so evenly it’s like they were planted that way. My ears pop, thanks to the elevation. A lake comes into view to the north. It’s so big it wraps around the shoulder of a high plain, bright in the sunlight. The small buildings of a town hug the southeast shore. To my surprise, ski lifts cut through the thick trees on the mountain behind it. They look out of place against the bald slopes, but it’s a reminder of the coming winter and my need to be long gone before it hits.
The driver slows to merge onto Morning Star Road, which turns to dirt. I memorize the name and orientation so I will know my way out of here when it’s time. The road’s been recently graded, but the man drives slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world. My fists tighten, and my breathing quickens. Where are we going?
The man acts as calm as before, impossible to read. We pass a few modest homes, one with a handsome cobblestone chimney on the left side, another with a large machine shop set back from the road.
Then we turn left, the horse trailer rattling over a series of washboards, and continue up a long gravel road with 10 MPH speed limit signs and faded PRIVATE PROPERTY placards stapled to the trees. I’m watching the driver while also preparing to run if I don’t like our destination. The loss of my backpack would be a heavy blow, but I’m not about to stick around if this guy plans to manipulate me.
The sparse forest gives way to a split rail fence surrounding a brown ranch-style home with a wraparound porch. The man turns up the driveway, which forks to a large barn and, behind it, a fenced corral. As we crest the short rise, his truck engine a throaty purr, the view opens up to sparse forest and meadow. Framing the horizon are the steep and snowy Bitterroots.
He parks the cab alongside the barn entrance and turns off the engine.
“You feel like giving us a hand?” He jerks his chin toward the trailer. “Pretty sure they’re still riled up back there.”
From the house, a woman in faded jeans and a black sweatshirt heads our way, her short, wavy hair whipping about her rosy cheeks in the breeze. Her face is lined from a life spent outside, her stride confident. Two brown dogs lope after her, tails wagging.
The warning bells in my brain have quieted a little, but I’m not letting my guard down yet. I’ve been fooled by false first impressions before.
“Oh!” the woman says when the man opens his door to greet her and she notices me sitting in the passenger seat. Her tone is more curious than surprised.
“This fella needed a lift,” the man says, eyeing me before climbing down. He greets the dogs, who circle his shins in excitement.
I stay put, thinking through my options. The man has left my pack untouched. Is it a test? I could easily wrestle it free and leap out of my side of the truck. I’m quick enough to outrun him.
“There was an accident on the ten. It’s all over the news, Henry,” the woman says. “A car drove off the road?”
How far is this place from Finn River? Five miles?
Henry pulls the woman into a gentle hug, and she wraps her arms around his middle. They hold each other like that, his denim shirt expanding as he inhales a deep breath and then sighs.
Watching them makes my chest ache, so I fixate on my knees and run my palms down the tops of my thighs.
The couple part and Henry shoots me a steady gaze. “There’s a hot meal and a bed over the barn if you can stay a bit.”
I haven’t slept since an afternoon snooze on the tour bus almost twenty-four hours ago. I’m wet, and the breeze that cut in when the door opened has made me shiver. My belly rumbles. It’s a tight ache that will soon bring on a pounding headache.
The woman’s patient smile unsettles me. Have I stopped being able to recognize good people?
“I’ll help,” I say despite the itch in my feet to run. “Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Suit yourself,” Henry says easily, and closes the door, leaving me alone in the cab while the couple walk to the back end of the trailer.
After exhaling hard into my cheeks, I step down from the cab. The dry air tastes of dust and sun-warmed pine. Jagged gravel crunches beneath my wet sneakers as I walk the length of the trailer. The dogs race around the back, and I squat down, letting them sniff my hand. The smaller one licks my knuckles, and the male heads right for my crotch. I can’t help but smile as I take a moment to pet them. Their collars are embroidered with their names. The female is Honey; the male is Rex.
Fuck, I miss having animals around. I never realized how lonely I’d be without them.
The horses are fidgeting inside their stalls, pulling my attention back to the gravel driveway and the skittish animals that need extra care. The sudden deceleration before the Jeep went off the road no doubt spooked them, and I’m sure my leaping out of the back even before the wheels stopped moving didn’t help.
It happened so fast. I was busy staying on my feet while the trailer swayed and the mare shifted in her stall to notice the CJ-7 until it flew by us. I’ll never forget the terrified look in the young woman’s eyes, her back pressed to the seat.
Where are they now? Are they okay?
“Whoa.” Henry’s steady voice rings through the trailer.
The quarter horse whinnies and shifts his feet. He’s ready to be free again.
I know the feeling, buddy .
I leave the dogs in the shade of the trailer. The woman slips inside the back while Henry lowers the ramp. She talks in soothing tones to the mare, her words mixed with the clicking of metal hinges and the horse’s hooves scraping the metal floor. Henry swings the divider open, and the woman leads the mare down the wide ramp and toward the barn. Her ears prick in my direction, and I resist the urge to reach out to stroke her neck and apologize for scaring her. Instead, I climb the ramp, the scent of alfalfa and horse manure sharp in my nostrils. The quarter horse jerks his head back and stomps.
“You got him?” Henry asks from behind me.
I’m already slipping into the stall. “Hey, boy,” I say in a steady voice.
His ears prick, and he shifts his feet. I run my hand along his side to his left shoulder, watching for signs that he’s going to do something stupid like body-check me into the divider or kick, but he huffs several breaths as I stroke his soft neck.
“Let’s get you out of here.” I keep one hand on him while I click the lead rope to his halter, then check the straps.
“Ready?” Henry says.
I nod, my eyes fixed on the horse.
Henry swings the divider open, and with a click of my tongue, I lead the boss down the back of the trailer. I feel the man’s eyes on me as we pass, but I keep moving, focusing my energy on getting his workhorse safely delivered to the barn. The boss tries to rush me down the ramp, but I use a firm hold on his lead rope. When we get to the gravel, his gait steadies, and we walk into the barn. The sweet scent of hay and dust itches my nose.
The woman comes out of the mare’s stall—Beatrice, according to the nameplate—and shuts the gate. “Leo’s in that one.” She nods to the stall across from the mare. I lead Leo to his stall, but he’s on autopilot now, and the rest of the chore goes off without incident. I’m shutting the gate on him when Henry leads the third horse into the barn and settles her in the stall next to the mare.
“The bunkhouse is this way,” the woman says, leading me outside. The dogs and I follow her, the bright sun making me squint. We round the barn to the side where a set of stairs zig once to a door.
“It’s open,” she says. “Supper’s at six.”
I give her a look.
“Henry and I raised four sons on this ranch.”
Henry steps out of the barn and adds, “Plus, a couple of their friends.” He eyes her, the warmth between them so powerful that I take a step back.
If the couple senses my unease, they don’t show it. Henry puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders, and the two of them turn toward the house. Honey and Rex trot alongside.
I watch them go, the breeze kicking up a tendril of dust.
When they’re inside the house, I heave another long sigh. Exhaustion drops through me, thick and soft. At the very least, I could change my clothes. Maybe dinner isn’t such a bad idea either.
Henry wasn’t put off by my silence. He also didn’t try to reassure me with meaningless words. Almost like he knew I’d balk if he had.
After grabbing my pack from the truck, I climb the stairs, the metal railing warm under my palm. Inside is a bare bunk bed, a futon couch, a nightstand, a shelf with tattered books, and a bathroom. The air is stale and warm, like the space hasn’t been used for some time. There’s a giant Tupperware tub on the floor next to the bed. I peek inside. There are folded towels and sheets in two stacks. I brush my fingers across one of the towels. It’s soft and warm.
Unable to stop myself, I lift it from the stack and press it to my face. It holds a faint scent of the detergent and is so plush I stand there like a fool, fighting the emotions churning their way to the surface.
I lock the door, then carry the towel and my pack into the tiny bathroom. I only intend to change my clothes and wash up enough to feel human again, but taking off my watch seems to trigger a hard craving to shed everything else—my wet socks and sneakers, my clothes.
I turn on the shower and step beneath the warm water. Shivers cascade through me in painful waves. I brace against the shower wall and close my eyes. Only then do I realize I’m crying.
I’m mucking Bea’s stall when Henry’s frame darkens the doorway. “Zach.”
Something in his tone sends icy prickles down my spine. I glance up, my breath making pale clouds in the morning air. My backpack is packed just like it has been every morning since I arrived four days ago, but it’s upstairs in the bunkhouse.
“State patrol needs my statement. About that Jeep.” He grimaces. “I’ve held them off this long.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him as understanding fires between us. Since that afternoon I arrived soaking wet, we’ve shared meals and done barn chores side by side with the radio on in the background. I let Barb wash my clothes and trim my unruly hair. Not once have they asked me for an explanation or made demands.
Henry flashes his palm in a “wait” motion. “You don’t have to run.”
Yesterday, he caught sight of the scars my stepdad gave me. It was careless of me to be out in the open without a shirt, but the afternoon was hot, and I was working alone. He looked away, shaking his head.
“They don’t have to know about the trailer,” Henry adds.
“I won’t ask you to lie for me.” I squeeze my eyes shut for an instant, picturing my little brother William. Right now, he’s safe with our family friends, the McCabes. But I need to stay alive to keep it that way.
Henry rests his hands on his waist. “Besides hitching a ride in my trailer, you did nothing wrong. In fact, it’s the opposite. You saved those kids.”
I gaze out the open stall door to where Leo and Beatrice are grazing, with the rugged mountains rising above the rolling foothills. In the last few days, I’ve started to question my plan to head south. The Huttons have been more than welcoming. Small-town Finn River would be easily overlooked by Kristov. And Montana is fifteen miles away if I need to jump the state line in a hurry.
But if the law catches up with me, they’ll know who I am and the mess I’ve left behind. And it won’t be long before Kristov finds out, too.
“State Patrol is more interested in the accident than you.” Henry shuffles the toe of his boot. “If it goes well, maybe you’d consider staying.”
I frown. “Why?”
He sighs as if frustrated, but his eyes are kind. “Finn River’s a good place, with good people.” Before I can reply, he rocks back from the doorway and shuffles out of the barn.
Moments later, his truck engine purrs to life, and the tires crackle on the gravel as he cruises down the driveway. In the silence that follows, with shaking hands, I carry the pitchfork to the tack room. As much as I’d like to believe Henry will protect me, there’s only one person I trust to do that: me.
Leaving is the safest option.
Damn it.
Or I could stay put. I could repay the Huttons for their kindness by helping out here. Maybe they’d help me find work. I could keep in regular contact with my friend Sawyer back home while I save up for the day William and I can be together again.
Do I run, or risk it all by staying?