31
Open road
December crept into January with winter flexing its muscles.
He’d forgotten how bitter Texas could turn — hard, dry winds slicing across the ranch, dumping snow and ice in their wake.
The cold didn’t just settle in your bones; it scraped like barbed wire.
The sun might rise, but it brought no warmth, just a cold, pale glare, a distant echo of summer long gone.
Winter didn’t mean slowing down; it meant shifting gears.
Anyone who thought they could slack off in the off-season had clearly never worked for Aidan Lawson.
Rafferty spent his days clearing mesquite, erecting calving pens, and hauling feed, checking and double-checking that the herd had enough to carry them through the coldest months.
A few of the hands had taken off for the holidays, claiming family obligations or just chasing warmer air, which only made the load heavier for those who stayed.
But Rafferty didn’t complain. He just pulled on his coat and got back to work. Busy kept him away from Brandy-Lyn.
He still attended sessions with Trent Sykes.
The good doctor had him journaling. Fucking journaling .
Like bleeding onto a page was supposed to fix the wreckage in his head.
So, on the nights he wasn’t vegging out in front of the television with his parents and grandmother, pretending all was good in the land of Rafferty Lawson, he was holed up in his bedroom, pen in hand, pouring his heart out on paper.
Some nights, the words came like a flood.
Other times, he just stared at the blank page until his jaw clenched and his chest tightened.
But he wrote anyway. Because Trent said healing started with honesty, and he was trying.
God help him, he was trying.
But today…
Today marked a year since Kamila discovered his duplicity.
A year since she picked up the barbed whip and tore into his skin.
A year since she pushed that first needle into his vein.
And he was crawling out of his skin.
The walls of the house, the hum of routine, even the sound of the wind through the barn rafters — it all grated.
He needed the open road under him, the roar of the engine in his ears, something wild to outrun the mess in his head.
He fed Elsa and her cronies, gave the horses their obligatory scratch between the ears, then grabbed his helmet and straddled his bike like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.
No destination, no plan — just a lot of distance.
He rode all the way to Ransom Canyon, the wind sharp against his skin and the familiar thrum of the engine between his legs.
The open road helped quiet the noise in his head, mile by mile stripping away the restlessness that had clawed at him all morning.
At the edge of the canyon, he parked beneath a gnarled cottonwood and took in the sweeping view — red earth, rugged ridgelines, and a sky so wide it felt like it might swallow him whole.
He ate a late lunch alone at the little barbecue joint just off the highway — brisket sandwich, sweet tea.
Nobody knew him. Nobody asked questions. It was exactly what he needed. He lingered longer than usual, watching the shadows stretch across the asphalt, before finally swinging back onto the bike and heading out just before sunset.
About ten miles from Bulwark, he took the corner, his knee almost touching the road. Instead of feeling exhilarated, a smudge of trepidation crept in.
Slow down, my love, a voice whispered, the English accent unmistakable. Slow down. Now!
Coming out of the corner, he reduced speed and glanced heavenward. Millions of glittering stars filled the dark sky.
Charlie?
Eyes on the road.
A shiver worked its way down his spine, sharp and involuntary. And not from the cold. He’d often heard his wife’s voice during his dreams, but this was the first time while awake . He looked ahead, the ribbon of asphalt disappearing in the darkness beyond the headlight.
Slower.
Goosebumps broke across his flesh, spreading over his shoulders, arms, thighs. “Next you’ll be seeing her ghost,” he muttered.
Another corner loomed, and he slowed further. A quick glimpse showed his speed hovering above thirty-five. He steered into the corner and—
“Fuck!” Swerving, he barely missed the crumpled mass lying in his path. He fought to keep the heavy machine from tipping over, made a wide turn, and slowly backtracked, making use of the headlamp to light the scene.
It was an animal. A mule deer.
The deer moved, giving a weak bleat, its chest rising and falling with rapid pants. He cut the engine, kicked out the side stand, and climbed off, placing his helmet on the seat.
And jerked at the eerie growls from across the road.
A trio of eyes gleamed in the dark.
His blood chilled. Coyote.
He fucking hated coyote.
Rafferty rushed across the blacktop waving his arms. “Get gone, you fucking devil creatures,” he roared.
They turned tail, emitting high-pitched yip-yawls as they scattered into the dark.
“Cowardly fuckers,” he swore, moving back to the deer.
First thing — get the animal off the road.
They’d both be roadkill if a truck passed by.
“Okay, here’s the thing, darlin’. I need to move you, and it’s gonna hurt like the dickens, so please forgive me. Yeah?”
Hunching down, he maneuvered a gloved hand under its neck, the other under its rear end.
The deer grunted. “I know, I know. It hurts.” Hoping his tenuous grip held, he straightened, pulling it close to his body as he walked to the guardrail.
He lay the animal down on a patch of grass and stood, removing his gloves while moving back to his bike.
The faint smell of copper told a grim tale.
He unlatched the saddlebag and grabbed hold of the flashlight.
A glance at the blacktop showed a shimmering stain where the deer had collapsed.
He unzipped his jacket, removed his cellphone, and dialed the sheriff’s department, quickly explaining the problem and his position before walking back to the poor creature.
She — a quick look showed the deer was a female — hadn’t moved, and the flashlight revealed the gaping wounds on her neck and side. And a torn ear.
Fucking coyotes.
He smoothed a hand over the doe’s back. Her eyelid lifted. “Help is on the way, girl.” She closed her eyes and exhaled.
No! Had she died?
He held a hand to her nose and watched her ribs. She was breathing. Shivering. He placed the flashlight down, shrugged out of his leather jacket, and gently covered her body.
The cold evening immediately sliced through the thin cotton, chilling him. He got to his feet, looking around. Lights from the town glimmered down below. Far down below.
He was near the top of the escarpment, and if he hadn’t slowed down …
Well, suffice to say it was a long way down, and the guardrail was there for a reason.
Looking up, he whispered, “Guess you’re still looking after my sorry ass. Thank you, babe.”
Like a fool, he waited, listened.
Charlie didn’t reply.
He gave a harsh laugh and settled down beside the deer to wait for help.
*
“Well?”
“Give me a chance to examine her properly,” Siobhan snapped.
He rubbed a hand over his head, hooking it behind his neck. “Sorry. It’s just …” He trailed off, shrugging.
His sister’s look softened. “No, I am sorry. You did good rescuing her. Let me clean her wounds, put her on a drip, and by morning we’ll know more.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go home. It’s pointless hanging around here. I’ll give you a call first thing with an update.”
He nodded. “Thanks,” he said, giving the unconscious doe a light rub. “You hang on, Rosie.”
“Rosie?”
He met Siobhan’s gaze again and told her the circumstances of how he stumbled upon the deer, ending with a shrug. “Calling her Rosie seemed appropriate.”
Siobhan crossed to him and gave him a hug. “I’m glad you’ve got a guardian angel looking after you.”
He returned her hug, blinking rapidly. “Me, too.”
“And we’ll do our best for Rosie.” She cupped his cheek. “Promise.”
“There’s nobody I trust more to look after her.” It was a true statement. His sister was an excellent veterinarian. “I’m glad you were on call tonight.”
“Now leave and let us get to work on her. Shoo,” she added, waving her hands.
He flashed her a smile and gave the assistant a chin lift. “Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, chilled to the bone despite the jacket Kurt had loaned him, he pulled up to the Main House like a half-frozen popsicle.
It was in darkness, and he walked around to his veranda, glad his room had an outside door.
He paused before climbing the step, looking through the opening in the grove of trees to the cabin a couple of hundred yards away.
It, too, was shrouded in darkness.
And he couldn’t help but wish he was climbing that veranda.