Chapter 16
Sadie
One Month Later
I can almost forget what it felt like to be hunted.
Not because the fear is gone, but because something steadier has taken its place.
Safety. Slowly earned. Carefully built.
My arm still aches if I move wrong, but it’s healing. So am I.
Maisie’s limp has faded, though she still insists on sleeping close enough to touch.
And Wyatt? He never lets his guard down. Not completely.
He checks the locks every night. Walks the perimeter twice a day. Keeps his truck gassed up, his rifle within reach.
Most days, he heads out for a few hours to help Tank and Tex with fence checks, drone flyovers, general “keeping Havenridge secure” things. It’s part habit, part duty, and part quiet vigilance he never quite sets down.
He left again this morning, kissing my temple, tugging gently on a lock of my hair, and giving me his standard instructions: “Doors stay locked. Phone on you. Call me if you need me. For anything.”
The phone is loaded with a simple home screen and a handful of pre-programmed numbers besides his: Shay. Marlie. Tank. Tex. Vet.
I’m getting used to life here. Getting used to the weight of his absence meaning work, not danger. To the sound of his truck rumbling away meaning he’ll come back, not vanish into silence.
There’s an ease to our time together now. Laughter. Mornings that smell like sleep-warmed skin and freedom. Evenings where we fall asleep tangled together while the world remains quiet around us.
He makes me feel wanted without asking for anything I’m not ready to give.
Loved, even though neither of us has said it yet.
I’ve wanted to every time he sends me over the edge with his hands and mouth.
Every time he makes my tea just the way I like it.
Every time he catches me watching him with that look that says he sees everything and still chooses me anyway.
Maisie sighs from the rug by the stove, her nose tucked beneath one paw.
Across the room, our Christmas tree glows faintly in the morning light.
Wyatt cut down one of the smaller pines outside the cabin with what he claimed was “surgical precision,” then dragged it in like it was a battleground trophy.
We decorated it together with tinsel and twinkle lights while holiday songs played in the background.
I’ve had too many years where the joy of Christmas felt like something other people got to experience. But this year, it’s different. Not shiny or loud, but warm and real.
I flip another page in the veterinary wound care manual Wyatt picked up for me last week.
He handed it to me with a casual, “Thought you might like this,” but my throat tightened the second I realized what it meant.
He believes in me.
I run a finger under a line of text about managing deep-tissue injuries with topical antimicrobials when my phone buzzes on the table beside me.
Shay: Can you meet me at the far barn? Cheese Puff won’t put weight on her back leg. Need your eyes.
This is part of my life now—helping small animals with big personalities. And Shay knows I’m always happy to help.
I grab my coat, then stop. I need to let Wyatt know where I am.
I dial his number.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Voicemail.
Okay. Probably deep in the far woods, where reception is held together by hope and duct tape.
I text him:
Me: Going to far barn. Shay needs help with Cheese Puff. Back soon. All good.
Not Delivered.
I try again.
Still Not Delivered.
The storm must be killing reception. Or that whole side of the property is a dead zone.
I can’t leave without telling him something. He’ll worry.
I scribble a note and weigh it down with my mug:
Wyatt—
Shay texted. Goat injury. Went to far barn to help.
Tried calling + texting. No service.
Back soon.
—Sadie
I scratch Maisie’s ears. “You stay and be adorable.”
Her tail thumps solemnly.
I button my coat and step out into the storm.
The walk takes twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes. Long enough for the cold to creep under my clothes.
The far barn looms through the snow. The doors are half-open, light spilling out like a beacon.
“Shay?” I call, stepping inside.
It smells like hay, winter, and faint goat musk.
Then I see her.
Shay.
She’s on her knees, her freckles stark against her pale, terrified face.
A man stands behind her with a gun pressed to her shoulder.
My stomach drops so hard I swear I hear it hit the barn floor.
I recognize Harry instantly. The beard. The dead eyes. The way he holds a gun like it’s an extension of his ego.
“Hello, Sadie,” he says lightly, like we’re brunch friends instead of enemies. He holds up Shay’s phone. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
Oh, God. He sent the text.
Shay looks up, eyes wild. “Don’t,” she breathes. “Run. Sadie… run!”
Every cell in my body screams flight.
But I step closer instead, palms raised. “Let her go.”
Harry tsks, disappointed. “We both know you’re not negotiating anything. Clarissa wants the numbers your father gave you. Now.”
My heart slams painfully.
Shay jerks when the gun digs into her shoulder. “Sadie—”
“Okay.” My voice sounds thin, far away. “I’ll go with you. I’ll give her the numbers. Just let Shay go.”
Harry smiles. It’s worse than the storm.
“Let her go first,” I insist. “Now. Or I don’t say a word.”
Shay shakes her head hard. “Sadie, don’t—”
“Shut up,” Harry snaps, shoving her.
She winces as he pushes her toward the open barn door. “She walks out. I keep her phone. That’ll give us time before anyone realizes what happened.”
“Go,” I whisper. “Please. Just go.”
Our eyes meet—hers full of terror, mine full of apology for bringing this to her door.
Shay runs.
Harry watches her disappear into white, then turns the gun on me. “Your turn.”
Blood drains from my body.
I think of Wyatt. The way he held me like I was something worth protecting.
I might never see him again.
But I take a step toward Harry anyway, lifting my chin even though my knees tremble.
Because I brought this danger here.
Because Shay is safe and loved and deserves the life she has.
Because I promised myself I wouldn’t run just to save myself anymore.
“I’m ready,” I say.
Harry grips my arm with cold, cruel fingers and shoves me into the passenger seat of his SUV. The door slams shut behind me, echoing like a jail cell closing.
The tires spin through the snow. The barn disappears.
And all I can hear is Wyatt’s voice: You’re safe here.
Not anymore.