28. Knox
TWENTY-EIGHT
KNOX
The morning is strangely cold, and smoke is thicker in the air today, enough that we drive in Julio’s truck with the windows up and our N95 masks on for what few miles stretch between the house and the horse trailer.
The sun rises somewhere beyond the clouds, turning the dark sky to murky gray. It might be ominous if it wasn’t so expected, but the weather is the least of my concerns. The instant my F-250 comes into view on the bridge, my stomach drops. The passenger door is open.
“Shit.” I hit the steering wheel, making Ava jump. Her attention snaps to me, eyes wide, but all I can do is stare at the contents from the cab of my truck littering the ground.
I jerk the column shifter into park and the Chevy lurches to a halt. “How much do you want to bet,” I say, pulling off my mask. I toss it onto the dash. “That it’s all gone?” It isn’t a question and I don’t wait for Ava to answer as I shut the engine off and push the heavy door open.
“At least the trailer is still here,” Ava says, thoughtful as she climbs out, eyeing what’s left of our supplies.
I’m too busy cursing myself to find the silver lining. The glove box and center console are open and the interior is a mess. The bottled waters and extra dog food in the back seat are gone. The ammo we couldn’t carry that was stashed under the seat—gone. After yesterday, I’m more convinced than ever that we’ll need it.
“Fuck!” I hit the fender with my hand in a sudden rage. “Why can’t we catch a fucking break?” Tearing my ball cap from my head, I rake my fingers through my hair. “I should have come back yesterday. I should have?—”
“It’s not like we were sitting around all day yesterday, Knox. Or that we were thinking very clearly. We were in a car accident. We didn’t think?—”
“Exactly! We didn’t think . And I knew better than to leave it all out like this. Now, all of our shit is gone.”
“Oh, because you’re a pro at this stuff? Give yourself a break, Knox.”
“It’s common sense!” I shout. “Of course someone would come along and take our shit. Hell, I would too if some dumbass left it out like this.”
Ava reaches for me.
“Don’t.” I hate the way she flinches at my tone, and it takes a few deep breaths before I can meet her gaze again. “Sorry...I don’t mean to yell at you. But I should’ve known better.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, Ava stares at the truck and trailer. “Maybe,” she concedes. “But this changes nothing. Not really. We have the Chevy and now we have the trailer. We can still get to Ransom with the horses.”
“Not on less than a full tank,” I remind her. “And definitely not pulling a full horse trailer.”
Ava throws her arms up. “Then...we’ll go as far as we can in the truck and ride the rest of the way,” she says, increasingly exasperated with me. “There are worse things than our stuff getting stolen. You know this.”
I meet her gaze again. It’s dark, narrowed, and fixed on me. My shoulders slump. I know Ava is right, but I’m growing far too familiar with the feeling of failure and defeat, and it’s more than my ego and sanity can handle. “It could’ve been avoided, that’s all.”
Like reaching for a wounded creature, Ava rests her hand on my bicep. Her fingers are cool and warm all at once, and her eyes search mine. “Lesson learned,” she says softly. “It’s a shitty lesson, I’ll give you that, but we’ll be fine. I promise.” Her thumb strokes my skin, just below the hem of my sleeve, and it might be the most soothing thing I’ve felt in years. I can’t help the way my eyes drift to her lips, then the column of her throat as she swallows.
“For someone who is scared to hope,” I say, my voice more husky than I expect, “you sound pretty confident.” Last night she was restless with doubt, and now she’s the one reassuring me.
Ava shrugs. “Toxic positivity, remember?” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “And I believe it this time.” She steps closer, her eyes holding a fierce, almost protective sort of certainty. “We have everything we need at the house. And now the horse trailer. We’ll be fine.” Ava’s brow lifts with a silent dare to tell her she’s wrong, but I won’t argue with her.
Instead, I lean in and press my lips to hers. It shocks us both, I think, but Ava doesn’t push me away. As her mouth forms to mine, all the burdens of doubt dissolve, relief flooding in its place. It’s a slow kiss, an exploratory one that feels like a lifetime coming. Her lips brush mine and as I get a brief taste of her tongue, something tickles my cheek.
I pull away and Ava grips my arm like her knees might give out.
When we open our eyes, neither of us says a word. Her cheeks are pink, her lips damp. Her eyes gleam with wonder and, dare I hope, lust. I want to kiss her again—to feed this sudden hunger I have in her presence. But as a gray flake lands in Ava’s hair, and another one on the hand still gripping my arm, we stare dumbly at it.
“Ash,” she breathes. We peer up at the sky in this strangely quiet morning, and suddenly, whatever reverie we found in that single moment between us vanishes. We shouldn’t be on the open road, and we definitely shouldn’t be breathing this air.
“We need to go,” I murmur, and begrudgingly I take a step back. “Let’s get the trailer hitched and get the hell out of here.”