Chapter 14
Fourteen
The production building hummed with the controlled chaos of late harvest—workers moving between fermentation tanks, the sweet-sharp smell of crushed grapes hanging heavy in the air, clipboard-wielding supervisors calling out updates on sugar levels and pH.
Emery stood at a stainless-steel workstation with authentication records spread before her, trying to focus on provenance documentation while the activity swirled around her.
Gabe worked beside her, ostensibly reviewing her notes, but his attention kept drifting.
He'd flip a page, stare at it without really seeing it, then flip back like he'd forgotten what he just read.
His jaw was tight, his shoulders hunched, and he'd barely said three words since she'd arrived twenty minutes ago.
In a matter of twenty-four hours, the whole winery felt like—everyone was tense, conversations stopping when she walked into a room, concerned glances exchanged over her head like she was made of glass and might shatter if someone looked at her wrong.
Emery slapped her pen down on the counter. "Okay, what the hell is going on?"
Gabe's head snapped up. "What?"
"You. Everyone. The entire winery is walking around like someone died, and I'm taking it personally." She crossed her arms. "If this is about the hit-and-run, I'm fine. A few bruises don't make me an invalid."
"It's not that." Gabe set down the papers and rubbed his face. "I'm just stressed about the gun collection being stolen. Those guns were dangerous enough in locked cases. Now they're out there somewhere, in the hands of God knows who."
The explanation made sense, but something in his delivery felt off. Too rehearsed.
"Okay, I get that. But why is everyone treating me like I'm going to break?
" Emery gestured toward the production floor, where two workers had been whispering, stopped mid-conversation when they saw her, and suddenly found something fascinating to inspect on the far side of the room.
"People are avoiding me. Devon keeps hovering. Your dad looked like he was going to cry when he saw me yesterday—and he’s the man with a sense of humor. What aren't you telling me?"
Gabe was quiet for a long moment. "It's probably just the combination of everything. Last of the harvest wrapping up—that's always stressful. Worry about your accident. And then there's Ethan Blackwell."
"What about him?"
"He left town two years ago. Defended someone accused of embezzlement, lost spectacularly, and it basically destroyed his reputation here—not that he had much of one, unless you did something that needed the kind of criminal lawyer that was known for either making decent plea deals, or winning.” Gabe started stacking papers with too much precision.
"He's been working as a criminal lawyer in San Diego ever since.
No one knows why he's come back—though we all have ideas.”
"And people think that's connected to me, how?"
"They don't. But there's speculation his return has to do with Riley's mother's case—that maybe he's here as part of her defense team or something. It's got people on edge." Gabe glanced up. "Especially Ashley, because she's in love with him, even if she thinks no one knows."
"Well, that explains a lot," Emery said, thinking of Ashley's combative behavior at the bar and the way she'd looked at Ethan like he was both salvation and damnation.
She gathered her papers and slid them into her portfolio.
The harvest activity around them continued—the crush of grapes, the hiss of pneumatic presses, workers calling measurements back and forth.
All of it normal, routine, the rhythm of wine production that had been happening in this valley for generations.
"I'm heading back to the guesthouse," Emery said. "Work on these authentication records somewhere quieter."
"Be careful," Gabe said, and the intensity in his voice made her pause.
"Careful of what?"
"Just... be aware of your surroundings. After the hit-and-run—" He stopped himself. "Just be careful."
Emery studied his face, seeing genuine concern beneath the stress. "Okay. I will."
She left through the main entrance, portfolio tucked under her arm and took the path that cut through the vineyard toward the guesthouse.
The afternoon sun hung low and golden, painting the vine rows in warm light.
Workers moved between the rows with harvest bins, their voices calling back and forth in a mixture of English and Spanish as they assessed the last blocks to be picked.
The vines, heavy with fruit, created a canopy overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze. Emery breathed in the earthy sweetness of late harvest—that particular scent of grapes at perfect ripeness mixed with sun-warmed soil and autumn air.
She was admiring a hefty cluster when movement caught her peripheral vision.
One of the workers—a man she didn't recognize—was running toward her. Full sprint. His face twisted with urgency. He shouted, but the words didn’t register.
Emery opened her mouth to ask what was wrong.
He slammed into her like a linebacker, his arms wrapping around her torso as he drove them both to the ground.
A sound cracked through the air. Sharp. Distinct.
Pop! Pop!
They hit the dirt hard, Emery's portfolio flying from her grip, papers scattering. The worker covered her body with his, and she felt rather than heard his grunt of pain as another shot rang out.
"Stay down," he gasped in her ear. "Don't move."
Chaos erupted around them. Workers shouting, people running, someone screaming. The man on top of her—Jesus Christ, he was bleeding—his leg, she could feel hot wetness soaking through his jeans where it pressed against her side.
"You're shot," she said, her voice coming out strangled. "Oh God, you're shot."
"Better me than you," he managed, his breathing ragged.
Other workers flooded around them, creating a human shield. Someone was yelling into a phone—calling 911, calling for help. A woman knelt beside them, pressing her hands to the worker's leg, trying to stop the bleeding.
"The shots came from the production building," someone shouted. "The roof! I saw someone on the roof!"
"There!" Another voice, younger, pointing. "Running toward the access road!"
Two workers took off sprinting, chasing a shadow that disappeared into the tree line beyond the vineyard.
Then Devon was there, skidding to his knees beside her, his face drained of all color. "Emery, talk to me. Are you hit?"
"No. He—" She looked at the man who'd tackled her, who'd taken a bullet meant for her. "He saved me."
"Miguel." Devon gripped the man's shoulder. "Hang on. Ambulance is coming."
"I'm okay, boss." Miguel's smile was tight with pain. "Just my leg."
The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Emery's hands were shaking—no, her entire body was shaking. Someone had shot at her. Actually shot at her. And this stranger, this vineyard worker she'd never even spoken to, had seen it happening and thrown himself into the line of fire.
"Can you move?" Devon asked, his hands running over her arms, her shoulders, and her legs. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
"I'm fine. I'm not hurt." But her voice didn't sound right, too high and thin. "Miguel's the one who's bleeding."
The ambulance tore up the vineyard road, followed by Sandy's patrol car. EMTs swarmed Miguel, assessing his wound, applying pressure, and loading him onto a gurney with efficient speed.
Sandy appeared at Emery's side. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
Emery's teeth chattered despite the warm afternoon. "I was walking. Miguel ran at me. Then gunshots. Two of them. He got hit covering me."
"Did you see the shooter?" Sandy asked.
"No. I didn't see anything until Miguel knocked me down."
"Witnesses say someone was on the production building roof. They jumped down and ran toward the access road,” Sandy said into her radio, calling for backup, for additional units to search the property.
"Ms. Tate, I need to check you out." One of the EMTs—a young woman with kind eyes—knelt beside her. "Make sure you're not injured."
"I'm fine. Miguel's the one who needs help."
"They're already loading him. He's stable—bullet went through the fleshy part of his thigh, missed the femoral artery. He's going to be okay." The EMT started checking Emery's vitals anyway. "But you were in a hit-and-run two days ago. You're coming to the hospital to be examined."
"That's not necessary—"
"It absolutely is," Devon said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're getting checked out."
"Devon, I'm fine—"
"Someone just shot at you.” His hands trembled as he helped her stand. "You're going to the hospital if I have to carry you there myself."
Sandy barked out orders, coordinating search teams. Workers clustered in groups, some still staring at the production building roof, others gathered around where Emery and Miguel had fallen.
Her scattered authentication records lay in the dirt, a deputy was already collecting them with carefully gloved hands.
"This is an active crime scene, and we’ll need to lock down the production building," Sandy announced to the gathered workers. "I need everyone to remain on the property. We'll be taking statements from each of you."
More patrol cars arrived, along with a second ambulance, and deputies spread out to search the buildings and the property. The ambulance doors stood open, Miguel already loaded inside, an IV in his arm and an EMT wrapping his leg wound with practiced efficiency.
"I'm riding with her," Devon told the EMTs, his tone making it clear this wasn't negotiable.
The female EMT nodded. "Fine. But we need to leave now."
Devon helped Emery into the ambulance, his hands gentle despite the urgency. She was still shaking, adrenaline and shock making her limbs feel disconnected from her body.