Before His Hours Run Out
1. Chapter 1
Catherine Van Tassel
“Isincerely can't thank you enough, Catherine,” Brenda’s voice bubbles through my car’s Bluetooth speakers, thick with tears and obvious relief. “When you called to say the paperwork was finalized, I swear I felt like I could finally breathe again for the first time in years.”
The crack of emotion in her voice makes me feel for her, and I cringe at the thought of what her life would be like if I hadn't been up to the task of handling the state of her affairs. All those years I spent in the dusty stacks at college paid off big time.
I ease around a pile of autumn-colored leaves piled at the edge of the road, keeping both hands steady on the wheel while the rich aroma of nutmeg and espresso fills the space, a cozy comfort against the foggy Halloween night.
I’m driving down an old tree-lined road where the trees arch over the asphalt like a canopy of skeletal fingers as I make my way to my parents’ house for dinner and to help with trick or treating.
“Listen, I'm just so happy I could be a help and you’re going to be fine now,” I say softly, lifting my pumpkin latte to take a comforting sip before I move to set it back down in its cupholder.
“When your ex-husband tried to freeze your assets and tie up the estate in court, he didn't count on a paralegal ripping through the genealogy records. You're a Worthington and it’s your family's money, and honestly I’m shocked the case wasn’t tossed out as soon as his lawyers presented it to court. I’m sure our firm will be sending over some questions for his attorneys and we’ll be fighting to make him pay the fees too. ”
“Which is why I called to thank you,” Brenda sniffles, sounding lighter already.
“Thanks to you, my kids are tucked into bed, and their trust funds are safe. He thought he could use his flashy, aggressive lawyers to drain me dry and take everything. He truly thought he could marry into the family and try to bleed us for all we’re worth and then leave me with nothing, and so soon after Dad’s passing. ”
I wince. But at least she sounds more angry now than sad?
I adjust my glasses on my face and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror as the streetlamps cast long dancing shadows through the branches overhead. My face looks tired from the weeks of overtime but the genuine happiness and strength in Brenda's voice makes it all worthwhile.
“He underestimated you,” I reply back, my chest swelling with pride.
The Worthington case isn't just any standard estate case. It’s been one of the most televised, high-profile, nasty divorces.
It’s so huge it's been in the tabloids for months and we’ve been fighting even longer than that.
But we won. “You have the money and the kids, and he got nothing. Now go pour yourself a mug of something warm and enjoy the night. You’re safe. ”
The call disconnects with a soft beep and the quiet of the car settles over me, save for the crunch of copper and crimson colored leaves being compressed under the tires as I drive along the winding road.
I lift my foot off the gas a bit and slow down, enjoying how the fallen leaves swirl in the headlights as I pass through the small town making my way downtown, and the jack-o'-lanterns glowing like little orange coals from the porches of the houses along my way.
I glance down at the dashboard clock, which flashes a reminder I’d really rather not see. 8:00 p. m. - Harrison’s Halloween Bash.
Harrison is the firm’s founding partner’s grandson and is currently hosting the firm’s exclusive party of the year, and I’m not invited.
Even though I've spent the last three weeks pulling so many hours, I can't even count them in the dusty archives surviving on takeout and caffeine to secure the Worthingtons a win.
As soon as I found the records, the whole firm celebrated and, in their usual fanfare, left me to do the rest of the work, which is honestly how I prefer it.
Although I fully suspect my name is missing from the guest list because of my constant refusal to go out with Harrison on a date, the jerk.
But there's no way in hell.
Mixing work with relationships can only cause stress and drama. Besides, it’d be the worst time for me to get caught up in a relationship when I've been so focused on my career for this long.
The idea of babies and a mortgage with another person to depend on has never left me with fuzzy insides.
Love can wait.
I pickup my cup for another sip of coffee, its warm, caffeinated ambrosia a comforting hug to my senses.
I glance at the manila folder sitting in the passenger seat and smile.
Inside are the finalized Worthington files that guarantee Brenda can protect her family’s massive fortune.
A quiet warmth of satisfaction blooms in my chest from a job well done that rivals the heat of my latte.
Harrison may think he throws the best party in town, but he’s not the one who helped save the future of the firm.
I press my foot a little firmer on the gas and let the old tree-lined road carry me away from the office drama and toward the edge of town.
My parents are sure to be setting up the candy by now for trick-or-treaters and there's sure to be a crackling fire and a bowl of homemade soup waiting on me. I’m looking forward to relaxing. It’s been a month.
The chaos happens all at once.
A streak of jet black darts out from the shadow of a big oak tree and sprints right into the path of my headlights. My heart leaps into my throat as instinct takes over while my brain short circuits.
Oh my god, don’t hit the cat!
I slam my foot on the brakes and yank the steering wheel hard.
The tires instantly lose their grip on the wet, slicked leaves that carpet the edge of the road and start to hydroplane.
The car moves in a terrifying skid and peels across the asphalt even as I shove both feet on the brake.
My pumpkin spice latte launches from the cupholder and sprays hot liquid over me and the dashboard while the headlights sweep wildly across the darkly shadowed tree line.
Time slows to a crawl and I brace myself, locking my arms as the car plows over the curb and collides violently with the thick trunk of an old maple tree with a massive crunch of metal.
The jarring impact jolts me forward and snaps my seatbelt, throwing my head directly into the exploding white airbag coming at my face. The world goes black.
A heavy, damp chill seeps into my bones and drags me slowly to consciousness. My head throbs with a rhythmic, pulsing ache and I groan, expecting to find my seatbelt or the vinyl of my steering wheel, but my fingers sink into cold wet earth instead.
I force my eyes to open and panic claws at me even as I try to orient myself with my new environment.
I’m not in my car, and it registers that something hard and lumpy is pressing uncomfortably at my back as I stare up at a sky clogged with thick and swirling clouds of fog that completely blot out the moon.
Where the hell am I?
The tree-lined street I was just driving along is gone, and instead, a sprawling and creeping labyrinth of twisted vines stretches out in every direction around me.
I sit up slowly and wince, pushing a strand of my inky black hair from my face as a hard wave of dizziness hits while I look around.
I squint, unsure whether my nearsightedness is a blessing or a curse when I find huge pumpkins littering the ground.
But they’re not bright and cheery like the jacko’-lanterns gracing the porches I passed earlier.
They’re all misshapen, gnarled, pale, and lopsided, their skin covered in deep vein-like ridges.
The air is completely still and thick with the scent of decay and rot from leaves and turned soil.
A low, freezing mist crawls across the dirt, kissing at my ankles, and suddenly I wish I would've thrown some jeans on instead of my matching black skirt and long sleeved shirt.
A soft rustle breaks the silence and I snap my head toward the sound just as a strange nudging sensation registers at the back of my thighs, followed by a muffled noise.
“Excuse me, miss, but would you mind shifting just a tiny bit to the left? You're sitting on my stem.”
I gasp, shock and fear colliding in my sternum as I scramble backward on my hands and bare knees through the cold dirt, my eyes wide on the patch of pumpkins where I was just sitting.
Resting there is a mid-sized, round pumpkin.
Its skin is a warm, bright orange unlike the others, and its stem is twisted and bent slightly to the side against big leafy green foliage.
I watch in absolute disbelief as the deep ridges on its front shift and soften, forming and folding into a mouth, with a shy grin and two wide, crinkly eyes.
“That’s much better, thank you,” the pumpkin says, its voice raspy and full of gravel as it gives me a comforting but embarrassed smile. “Are you alright, sweetheart? You fell straight from the sky out of nowhere and it looks like you took a tumble.”
“Ahhhh!” A blood curdling scream escapes my lips, the sound ripping through the silent fog. In a total panic I lash out with my right foot and kick directly into the side of the talking vegetable.
“Ouch! Hey, watch the rind, lady!” the pumpkin yelps, his orange face twisting into a look of offense and pain.
“Whoa, easy there! Please don't scream, and don’t kick me again.
It's alright, I promise,” the pumpkin says quickly.
The heavy lines of his orange brow furrow and his voice carries a reassuring tone as he tries to defuse my panic.
“Just take a deep breath. You're completely safe here, I swear it.
I'm a gentleman. Well, a pumpkin man, but I mean you no harm.”
The pumpkin is talking.
“Ohmygod ohhhmygod ohmygod,” I chant. I freeze, my chest heaving with panic, shifting from foot to foot as pain shoots through the one I used to kick the pumpkin’s hard shell. I can’t tear my attention away from the sympathetic face of a man made out of a gourd.
I start to open my mouth to actually reply when a powerful rustle breaks the silence, coming from the dense tree line a stone’s thrown away.
The pumpkin’s mouth snaps shut as he turns toward the sound.
I turn my head in the same direction he looks and see, emerging from the mist, a beautiful, majestic black horse as dark as the night.
Its coat is sleek like polished polished obsidian shining in the dimness, and its long mane flows like a silken wave.
It pauses suddenly and turns its head to stare right at me as it exhales a soft plume of white steam into the chilly air.
I watch in awe as the gorgeous creature steps across the open field, his big hooves moving through the tangled vines of the pumpkin patch, kicking up scattered leaves.
A big saddle rests across his back, and despite his imposing size, he doesn't look wild or dangerous.
His dark eyes that seem to hold a deep intelligence as they lock onto me.
With a light whinny, the horse tosses its black mane and begins to walk toward me, ignoring the pumpkins dotted along his path.
“Whoa, whoa, hang on a minute, Brom!” the pumpkin shouts, his tone shifting from soothing to exasperated and angry.
The deep orange ridges that make up his face contort as he glares up at the animal.
“Stuck here in the dirt and of course you're going to prance and visit the pretty girl before greeting your master. Whatever happened to loyalty?”
Brom stops right in front of me, fixing his attention on the talking pumpkin man.
Without warning, the horse lets out a roaring snort, and a stream of flame shoots from its nostrils toward the pumpkin.
Wait. What?
My breath seizes in my lungs as I jolt to move back and away, but the flames stop short of scorching the pumpkin’s gourd.
In the same instant, Brom's silky black mane ignites into a fiery display of orange and golden flames.
The fire dances against the dark night, casting long shadows across my body, illuminating the thick fog.
The horse gives a huff, completely unbothered by the inferno that seems to sit along his form like a second skin. Meanwhile, the pumpkin man’s gentle expression transforms to a stern and furious scowl.
“Bloody fantastic. Turn into a campfire, why don't you?” he snaps, dripping irritation and vitriol as he stares up at the horse.
“Typical. You show off for the first filly you see and ignore the guy who gives you sugar cubes, and then you give me a sunburn while you're at it.
You're a real piece of work today, Brom.”
There’s a horse made out of crackling fire, and apparently talking vegetables have a supply of sugar cubes. I'm dead. The car crash definitely killed me and now I'm stranded in a weird purgatory where talking pumpkins exist.
Mom and Dad are going to be so upset I missed soup night.