Chapter Seventeen
Ethan’s truck crunched over gravel as the sun slid westward—hot, slanted, throwing long shadows off the silos. Dust curled in the wake of his tires. He pulled up slow, killed the engine, and sat for a breath.
No sign of her.
Again.
He climbed out, boots hitting the dirt like a decision, and crossed the yard toward the porch where Georgianna James sat in a plastic chair peeling apples with a paring knife, a bowl of skins curled like ribbons beside her.
The porch fan whirred overhead. Country radio buzzed low from the kitchen window—some old Conway song about cheating hearts and hard landings.
“Afternoon,” he said, hand resting on the porch rail.
Georgianna didn’t look up. “You comin’ for my girl, or to make yourself useful?”
“Useful,” he answered. “Always was better with tools than talk.” He scanned the yard. Barn doors wide open. No truck in the lower drive. No hooves on gravel. “You need help with anything?”
She squinted at him, sun catching in the crow’s feet around her eyes. “You any good with bin augers?”
“Good enough,” he said, but her voice was off. Slurred. Slippery.
He looked closer.
Her pupils were too wide for the light. Her gaze not quite tracking. Apple slices were uneven, hands a little too slow. Her skin, waxy. Not drunk. Not just tired.
Something else.
He filed it away. “You been resting today?”
“Did my chores. Took my meds. Sat a spell.” She waved the knife vaguely toward the fields. “This time of year, the days run together.”
He nodded, but he didn’t like it.
“Where’s Amara?”
Georgianna blinked like she had to think about it.
Ethan’s jaw ticked. “Ma’am?”
“She saddled that damn stallion and rode out late morning,” she said, too casual. “Said she was checking fence lines. Probably needed some air.”
“It’s almost six,” Ethan said flatly.
Georgianna shrugged, went back to peeling. “She does that sometimes. Disappears up the ridge or out by the pines. That horse knows its way back.”
“And she doesn’t carry a radio?”
“She’s got her phone.”
“Which she hasn’t answered.” His voice sharpened. “I texted three times. Called twice.”
“Well,” Georgianna sniffed, slicing another apple too thick. “Maybe she’s not ready to talk to you.”
His stomach coiled. “I don’t give a damn if she’s ready to talk. I care that she’s safe.”
Georgianna looked up then, eyes glassy and dull. “You think she’s not?”
“I think nobody’s seen her in hours, she’s not answering, and you’re sitting here high as a kite makin’ cobbler like it’s Sunday.”
Something flickered in her expression—offense or shame, he couldn’t tell. But she turned her eyes back to the apple and didn’t argue.
Ethan exhaled hard, nostrils flaring. He stepped back off the porch like the ground might burn if he stood still.
“I’ll check the north ridge first,” he muttered, already turning for the truck. “Then swing east to the old mine road.”
“Bring the horse back if you find her,” Georgianna called. “He throws a shoe when he gets worked up.”
Ethan didn’t answer.
He was already moving, already grabbing the flashlight, the utility knife, the.45 he’d tucked under the driver’s seat. The sun was falling fast, and if she was out there—
Alone.
Injured.
Tracked.
—then every second counted.
He slid behind the wheel, engine growling to life.
Come on, baby girl. Be stupid. Be stubborn. But be okay.
He’d just thrown the truck into reverse when a figure jogged up beside the open window—long-legged, dusty ballcap, shirt damp with sweat.
Sadler.
Ethan threw it into park, jaw already clenched.
“You seen Amara?” Sadler asked, breath catching. “I been lookin’—she didn’t check the south bin or the paddock and I—”
“You’re just now asking?” Ethan barked.
Sadler blinked, thrown by the force of it. “I—I thought maybe she was with you.”
“Me?”
“You’re something to her, aren’t you?”
Ethan stepped out of the truck so fast the door bounced on its hinges.
“Kid, the woman left on a fucking horse hours ago and you thought she was with me?”
Sadler flushed, spine straightening. “No, I—I just figured, y’know, after what happened, maybe—”
“You figured?” Ethan’s voice was low now, the kind that made grown men shift their weight. “No check-ins. No location. Sun’s dropping and not a soul on this goddamn farm thought to go look.”
Sadler went quiet.
Ethan pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face. The pressure didn’t help.
“You work this land,” he said, voice flint and fire. “You see what she carries. You know what that woman does to keep this place upright. And she goes missing for five damn hours and all of you just—what? Keep sweeping out grain wagons and hoping she wanders back on her own?”
Sadler’s throat bobbed. “I—I didn’t want to overstep, sir. Figured if anyone’d go, it’d be you.”
“Well guess what,” Ethan snapped. “I’m goin’ now. But you better hear me clear—next time you think something’s off with her, you speak the fuck up. You don’t wait. You don’t guess. You don’t shrug it off like she’s invincible.”
Sadler swallowed hard, eyes wide.
Ethan’s breath came sharp. He saw the kid’s fear and regret and knew he’d gone too far. Knew the anger wasn’t really about Sadler. Knew it was the panic clawing up his ribs, wearing the mask of fury.
But he didn’t take it back.
Didn’t have time.
“I’m heading to the ridge,” Ethan said, yanking the truck door open again. “You see anything—anything—off the usual, you radio me. Or you come find me. Don’t wait.”
Sadler nodded, stiff. “Yes, sir.”
Ethan slammed the door shut, tires spitting gravel as he tore down the drive, dust chasing him like a ghost.
He was already scanning the horizon. Already pulling up the last known GPS ping on the watch he’d forced her to wear. Knowing even his nicest gestures had strings. Already playing back every word Amara hadn’t said to him as she watched him leave.
Please don’t let me be too late.
The watch GPS blinked at him—gray bar, signal frozen. No new ping in over five hours. This was exactly why he’d come back.
“Come on,” Ethan muttered, thumb jabbing the refresh like pressure would change the outcome. Nothing.
The sky was turning the color of old bruises. That heavy Appalachian kind of dark that came early and stayed late. The kind that swallowed signals, sound, and reason.
He snatched the phone from the passenger seat and hit Brock’s name.
Two rings.
“Yeah?” Brock’s voice, clipped. Breathless.
“She’s gone,” Ethan said, cutting to it. “Took the horse out hours ago. Nobody’s heard from her.”
Silence. Then… “Fuck.”
“Yeah.” Ethan turned hard onto the old ridge road, tires skating on loose shale. “I’ve done the loop from the house to the west line. Nothing.”
“I’ll come now.”
“Good,” Ethan said. “But listen to me—don’t talk to anyone. Don’t tell anyone she’s missing. Not her mother, not Sadler, not some kid at the feed store. Nothing.”
Brock exhaled hard through the phone. “You think—what? Someone took her?”
“I don’t know yet,” Ethan ground out. “That’s the problem.”
More silence.
Ethan shifted, eyes flicking to the trees as he hit a stretch where the woods thickened on both sides.
“I’ll take the fields north of the ridge,” Brock said.
Ethan nodded, as if Brock could see it. “I’ll loop from the south and work my way in. She rides the stallion—he might’ve carried her far if he spooked.”
“I’ll check the trails by the old logging road too,” Brock added. “Anything washed out with the storm last week?”
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “South line’s soft. Some spots could eat a hoof.”
He didn’t say it, but they both heard the word hiding behind trails and fields and woods.
Creeks.
Neither one of them said it out loud.
But it was there.
Haunting the silence like a bell that hadn’t been rung yet.
“I’m ten minutes out,” Brock said, voice low now. Focused.
“Good,” Ethan said. “Bring a flashlight.”
“Copy that.”
Ethan set the phone on the dash. The sky was sinking fast, smothering color. He flipped on his brights and scanned every tree line like it owed him answers.
Come on, girl. Give me something.
He downshifted, truck growling as it climbed.
And somewhere in the blur of pine and dusk, something old and cold turned over in his chest.
* * * *
Within an hour, Ethan’s truck skidded to a stop first, gravel spraying. Brock’s F-150 pulled in sideways, dust boiling under the tires.
Ethan was out before the engine died, slamming the door so hard the whole truck shuddered. Brock climbed out slower but met him halfway in the middle of the road, boots crunching, faces half-lit in the high beams.
“Anything?” Ethan demanded, chest heaving.
“Nothing,” Brock bit out. “Nothing but deer trails and broken branches. She’s not up past the ravine.”
“You sure?”
“No, Ethan, I’m just fucking guessing,” Brock snapped. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Ethan paced a tight circle, hand dragging through his hair. “Goddammit.”
“Where’d you check?”
“Logging road. Southeast corner. Nothing. I got no tracks, no signal. Not even hoofprints after the slope.”
“Fuck,” Brock spat. “You show up again, next thing—Amara’s run off and maybe got herself killed.”
“You think this is about me?” Ethan stepped in close, chest-to-chest, heat radiating off both of them. “She’s missing, Brock. That girl is out there somewhere, maybe shot, maybe worse—because someone’s got plans for her land and she got in the fucking way.”
Brock shoved his chest once, hard. “Then stop wasting time yelling at me and do something!”
Ethan’s hand clenched like it wanted to hit something.
Instead, he just breathed. Once. Twice. “You think I’m not doing something?
” His voice dropped, lethal now. “I’ve been doing something since the second I got here.
Since Wooldridge turned up dead. Since Lainey started talking.
Since Houston stopped telling me the whole truth.
I’ve been tracking, Brock. What the fuck have you been doing? ”
“Building her a goddamn future,” Brock growled. “While you’ve been sniffing around like you still own her.”
Ethan’s jaw flexed. A long beat of silence pulsed between them.
Then—
A noise. Hoofbeats. Slow. Unsteady.
Both men whipped their heads toward the curve in the road.
Out of the shadows stepped the stallion.
Blood matted the horse’s flank. Foam streaked its neck. One leg dragged, nearly buckling with each step.
“Jesus Christ,” Brock breathed, already jogging forward.
Ethan was faster—he met the animal halfway, hand at its shoulder, murmuring low. His fingers found the wound. Warm blood. Not fresh. His chest turned to stone. “She’s not with him.”
“Then where is she?” Brock whispered.
The stallion blew hard through its nose. Dusted with sweat. Ears flicking wild.
Ethan stepped back, palm dragging down his face. He turned to Brock, eyes blazing under the high beams.
“Fuck, we are running out of time.”