Saddle the Storm (Thornbrush Ranch, #3)

Prologue

Sage

Four Years Ago

Ipressed my foot to the floor, laying on the gas pedal.

The Jeep’s engine roared, accelerating along with my heart rate.

It was pitch black, the moon and stars hidden by thick clouds promising a storm.

A storm I was trying to beat, a storm I was running away from.

A storm, that if I’d stayed a moment longer would have torn me to shreds and swallowed me life and limb.

My headlights bounced across the dark country roads, illuminating only yards in front of me. My eyes shifted nervously to the rearview mirror making sure I wasn’t being followed.

I just needed to make it off the reservation. I needed to make it to Washington.

My heart pounded in my chest. I was sweating despite the cool spring temperatures that were dropping with the approaching rain. I tried to take a deep breath but I winced at the sudden spike of pain along my right side.

My stomach was in my throat.

His name flashed on the center console, momentarily interrupting my “Get Away” playlist and making me feel like I was about to throw up.

Yes, I had a “Get Away” playlist. I made it for this very moment, titling it “Work Out II” so he wouldn’t suspect anything.

It was filled with Miranda Lambert, Shania Twain, and Gretchen Wilson.

They were almost all “fuck him” songs that would keep me from turning around and going back to fawn at his feet.

“Fuck you!” I whisper-yelled, the words burning through my swollen throat, as I hit the button to ignore his call.

“Kerosene” resumed, pumping through my speakers, only to be interrupted again.

This time with his call.

I growled through my teeth but it quickly turned into a hiss with the way it caused my ribs to pinch.

I hit the ignore button again, before bracing a hand across my aching torso.

Music blared once more.

I tapped on the brakes as I went around a curve then hit the gas on the straightaway.

I just needed to get to safety. They knew I was coming and what I was up against.

A notification dinged, the music dimmed, and the virtual assistant’s voice filled the vehicle.

“Clayton Creed said, ‘You can’t run from me. I know you’re going to Sanctuary Ridge’.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

I looked back at the GPS. I was still an hour away.

Bile stung my throat.

The bass from the stereo vibrated the speakers.

Then a drop hit the windshield. Then another one. Big, fat drops. The sky was about to open.

“Shit!” I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my palm. He knew where I was going. Rain would slow me down too.

Another notification dinged.

“New message from Clayton Creed, ‘You’re on Highway 20. You know I can just track your phone, right? Come home, doll, and we can talk’.”

“Hell no!” I cried out, as if he could hear me. “And wind up dead next time? No, thank you!”

“New message from Clayton Creed, ‘I fucked up. Please just come home’.”

Yeah, he fucked up. Glimpses of myself in the rearview mirror showed the angry bruise along my cheek bone, fingerprints around my throat gave evidence just how hard and long he held me down.

There was no explaining this one away. He was always so careful, calculated, meticulous in everything he did because of who he was.

Even with the marks and bruises, there was always a way to hide it or explain it away.

But I wasn’t so accident prone I fell right into his chokehold or beat my cheek against the wall because I tripped.

Headlights flashed around the corner, momentarily blinding me through the rain as I turned on my wipers. I needed to get off the road and figure out what to do.

I pulled off into the shallow ditch, switching on my emergency flashers so other cars saw me in the dark. If he was tracking my phone, I needed to get rid of it and fast.

I pulled up my contacts and found Susan, the woman who I was talking to at Sanctuary Ridge. It barely rang before she answered.

“Sanctuary Ridge, this is Susan.”

“Susan, it’s Sage. He knows I’m coming there.

He’s tracking my phone.” My voice strained to get the words out.

The fingers of my free hand fiddled on the steering wheel, my anxious energy building into a panic as my eyes continued to flick from window to mirror.

“He could be on his way to get me right now.”

“Okay. Okay. Take a deep breath. I have somewhere else safe you can go. Are you still in Oregon? Are you still on the reservation?”

I shook my head as if she could see me. “I’m still in Oregon.”

It almost sounded like she was flipping through an old rolodex through the phone. “Here it is. I just have an address. Do you have something to write this down?”

Placing my phone between my shoulder and ear, I leaned over to the passenger seat where my backpack sat, unzipping it.

I barely had time to throw some clothes inside before I left, but I made sure to grab my paints and charcoal pencils.

The only thing I had left that was mine.

Not even those clothes were mine, they’d been chosen and bought by Clayton.

Nor this Jeep, a gift from him that felt more like “hush money.” But those brushes and oil paint were mine well before I ever became his.

Grabbing a charcoal pencil from my bag, I scrounged through the glove box before finding a stash of fast-food napkins.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“It's a farm just outside the town proper of Willows, on a county road.”

Willows? My breath caught in my throat. Was this some sort of sign?

“Willows, Oregon?”

“Uh-huh, that’s right.”

The last I heard, my little brother, who’d left home when he was eighteen, was living in Willows pursuing his dream to be a bull rider. I hadn’t seen him since, and just like our parents, he had no idea the hell I’d endured the last two years.

“It’s 5400 SW Crooked River Road, Oregon. It’s in Arnold County and unincorporated, so it may be difficult for someone to find. But it’s between the Deschutes River and the national forest, heading toward a mountain access road.”

I jotted the address down. “That’s okay. I’ll find it.”

Headlights bounced across the road as a car approached behind me. My breath froze in my chest.

“You sure?”

I waited. The car drove by with a whoosh of wet pavement. I released a breath.

“I need to go,” I finally managed, folding the napkin and shoving it into my jean pocket.

“Be safe, Sage. Go directly there and please call us back to let us know you’re safe.”

I wouldn’t be calling back. “Thank you.”

Hanging up the phone, I hopped out of the vehicle, letting the rain pelt my face and drench my shirt.

I looked both ways, up and down the street for any other cars, but the road was dark.

There weren’t even streetlights on this country road, only trees and fields lining either side.

Bending down, I felt beneath the car, circling the vehicle as my fingers skimmed the cold metal surface.

If he was tracking my phone, I wouldn’t put it past him to put one of those AirTag trackers on my car.

Sure enough, a circular tag was stuck beneath my bumper.

Ripping it off, I chucked it onto the road hoping someone would either drive over it or it would inadvertently stick to someone’s wheel and throw him off my trail.

The cold rain soaked me, plastering the loose strands of hair around my face, and clumping my eye lashes together.

I wiped my face with my sleeve, but that too was already wet.

I went back to the driver’s side door and grabbed my phone, positioning it right beneath the front tire.

Jumping back into the running car, windshield wipers on full speed with the pounding rain, I closed the door, soaking wet and dripping onto the leather seats. But I didn’t give a fuck.

Putting the car in drive, I rolled over my phone, braked, shifted into reverse, and rolled over it again. Satisfied with the crunch it made, I threw the car into drive and sped off into the night.

After finding a rest stop, I dried off beneath the hand dryer. It was the middle of the night, nearly deserted except for a few sleeping truckers in the parking lot. I wanted to break down and sob when I saw the rain had soaked through my jeans and smudged the address on my napkin.

Was that 5400 or 5100? Shit. Okay, I could give myself permission to sit in the bathroom stall and have a good cry. At least for a moment.

Ten minutes. That’s all I was going to give myself. Then I was going to buy myself some crappy vending machine coffee and keep driving. The further I distanced myself from my shattered phone, the better.

As soon as I had the chance, one of the first things I was going to do was sell that Jeep and buy myself the one I actually wanted. Not that fancy ass, all the bells and whistles shit. Give me a stick shift and four-wheel drive and I was a happy girl.

But what was happiness? I hadn’t been happy for a long time.

I took a glimpse at myself in the mirror.

My unruly dark hair I inherited from my piece of shit biological dad was matted around my face where it was falling out of its top knot.

My makeup had long since worn off, or washed away, in the rain making my olive toned skin look sallow.

Shadows and smeared mascara bruised beneath my almond-shaped amber eyes, blending into the dark contusion on my cheek.

Eyes I knew I got from my mother and grandmother.

My mouth was stained with the red lipstick I’d applied earlier tonight.

That was only six hours ago but now it felt like a lifetime.

If only I hadn’t made him angry when I refused to wear the transparent lace dress he gifted me.

It was to wear to dinner with his business associates — contracts that his multimillion-dollar ranch depended on.

He wanted to show me off like a sex object, even though I protested, not wanting to be subjected to blatant stares by those men.

Apparently, I was an ungrateful bitch who was out to embarrass him.

How dare I try to sabotage this meeting?

How dare I seek to ruin what he was building?

He claimed he was doing it for me, for us.

Lies. All of it. All he was doing was using me for his own gain.

Tears pricked at my eyes and stung my injured throat. Shuffling into the stall, I locked the door, and sat on the toilet seat, my head falling into my hands as sobs wracked my body.

Images flashed behind my eyelids. His red, twisted face.

His grip on my arm before he threw me into the closet where my side caught the edge of a shelf.

I wasn’t sure if my ribs were just bruised or actually broken.

Then his fingers wrapped around my throat.

I thought for sure he’d kill me this time.

Spit sprayed my face as he seethed, as he reminded me who was in charge, demanding I do as I was told.

By some miracle, he released me, told me he’d give me ten minutes to dress and make myself presentable while he cooled off.

But instead of dressing, I grabbed a backpack, stuffed what I could grab inside, and snuck out, running as fast as I could through the emergency exit until I reached the Jeep in the underground garage.

Ten minutes. That’s all I had then. That was all I was going to give myself now. Then I’d pick myself up by my bootstraps and figure out where the hell I was going.

The gray sky lightened and the rain dissipated.

Dawn was quickly approaching as I turned down Crooked River Road outside of Willows.

Stopping at the gas station, I got some general directions: Turn down a gravel road lined with Ponderosa pines, drive until you reach a mailbox on the right-hand side numbered 5100, take the turn that will wind through the trees until you reach the house.

Birds were starting to chirp and rain dripped from the pine boughs.

I could see barns in the distance, horse paddocks, and what looked like a horse track.

A white-washed sign swung from its post on the breeze, labeled “Crooked River Farms”.

A silhouette of a dog and a horse were carved into the wood on either side of the name.

I didn’t know if this was the place but I was about to find out.

Pulling up in front of a well-kept farmhouse, I saw a woman step out onto the porch.

She was stuffing her pants into her boots, her blonde braid swung over one shoulder.

When she heard me approach she straightened, her eyes squinting in the early morning light.

She looked friendly enough, lines bracketing her mouth and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes told me that she must smile a lot.

Being an artist, I’d like to think I was observant and could read people, but lately I was doubting my judgement.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, as I got out of the vehicle.

“Um, I’m looking for a place to stay.” My voice was still hoarse and raspy, and it hurt to speak. I really hoped he hadn’t damaged my vocal cords. “I was given this address by someone who was helping me, but I’m not sure I got the number right …”

The woman’s eyes trailed down to my neck and I felt myself fidget under her gaze, wondering if she was judging me or if the bruises gave away my situation. But her green eyes were only kind and compassionate when they connected with mine.

“Who gave you the number?”

I gulped, not sure how much I wanted to reveal. “Um … Susan from Sanctuary Ridge.”

She still hadn’t stepped off the porch, and she looked like she was thinking as she considered me, her eyes tracking my disheveled appearance and the Jeep.

“I’m not sure I know a Susan. But I have plenty of room to spare. The last of our kids finally moved out this week, so we’re officially empty nesters with a dog and horse problem.” She chuckled softly at her own joke, making me feel a little more at ease.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose. My address got smeared in the rain and I think …”

She brushed me off. “I gotta feed the dogs. Why don’t you come with me to the barn and tell me all about it?”

Without another glance, she stepped off the porch and started walking toward the barn.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked, only glancing over her shoulder to make sure I followed her.

“Sage.” I fell in-step behind her.

She nodded, not asking me for my last name and I was grateful for it. “Nice to meet you, Sage. I’m Agatha Riggs and my husband, Bill, is around here somewhere. We have two daughters who’re married to horse trainers in Colorado, and my baby boy thinks he’s going to live forever riding bulls.”

A bull rider. My heart skipped a beat. This had to be fate. How big was Willows anyway? When I was ready, I’d find my brother.