Chapter 3 - Lily
I must be out of my goddamn mind.
Following a strange man down a dark rural highway in the middle of Montana, my two-year-old daughter sleeping in the backseat, all my worldly possessions packed in my trunk. This is how women end up on true crime podcasts. This is how horror movies start.
But Rosie made that sound. That little whimper she makes when she's cold, and something in me just... broke.
I can't keep doing this. I can’t keep sleeping in parking lots and telling myself it's an adventure. I can’t keep pretending that living out of my car is sustainable or healthy or anything other than slowly destroying both of us.
The truck ahead of me signals and turns onto a long driveway. A wooden sign catches my headlights: Promise Ranch. At least that part wasn't a lie. There really is a ranch, and it really is called Promise Ranch.
I hesitate at the entrance, my hands tight on the steering wheel. Last chance to turn around. Last chance to choose the devil I know: cold car, restless sleep, constant vigilance over the devil I don't.
Rosie whimpers again in her sleep.
Fuck it.
I turn onto the driveway and follow the truck's taillights. The road is dirt and gravel, winding through darkness punctuated by occasional fence posts. In the distance, I can see lights. Buildings. The outline of a barn against the night sky.
It looks... real. Like an actual working ranch and not some elaborate setup to murder unsuspecting single mothers.
The truck pulls up in front of a small cottage set apart from the main house. White siding, front porch, flower boxes that probably look nice in daylight. Homey. The kind of place I used to dream about when I was pregnant and stupid enough to believe the father would stick around.
I park behind the truck but don't get out. The big man, I never got his name, which is another red flag I'm choosing to ignore, climbs out and walks toward my car slowly like he's approaching a wild animal that might bolt.
Smart man.
I crack my window again, just an inch. "This is it?"
"This is Wade's cottage," he says, keeping his distance. "Wade and Sierra usually live here, but like I said, they're gone for the week. Place is yours if you want it."
I stare at the cottage through my windshield. It looks warm and inviting. I can see curtains in the windows, a couch through the front window. It looks clean. Safe. Normal.
"What's your name?" I ask suddenly.
He blinks, like the question surprises him. "Mason. Mason Reid."
"I'm Lily." I don't give him my last name. Not yet. "And this is Rosie."
"Nice to meet you, Lily." His voice is rough but not unkind. "You want to come inside? I can show you around, make sure you're comfortable."
Every instinct I have screams that letting him inside with me is a bad idea. But he hasn't actually done anything threatening. Hasn't tried to touch me or get too close. Just offered me shelter and kept his distance.
"Okay." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "But I'm keeping my pepper spray in my hand."
"Fair enough."
I climb out of the car and open the back door to get Rosie. She's deeply asleep now, Mr. Trunk clutched to her chest. I lift her, settling her weight against my shoulder, and grab my pepper spray from the cup holder.
Mason sees it but doesn't react. Just turns and walks toward the cottage, pulling out a key from his pocket.
"Door locks from the inside," he says as he unlocks it. "Deadbolt and chain. Windows all lock too. Nobody's going to bother you out here."
He pushes the door open and steps back, letting me enter first.
The inside is even nicer than the outside suggested.
Hardwood floors, a cozy living room with a fireplace, a kitchen that's small but functional.
Everything is clean and well-maintained.
There are photos on the walls—a dark-haired man and a curvy blonde woman, both smiling. The couple who lives here, I assume.
"Bedroom's through there," Mason says, pointing to a door off the living room. "Bathroom's attached. Kitchen's stocked. Help yourself to whatever."
I walk slowly through the space, taking in details. No hidden cameras that I can see. No signs of violence or struggle. Just a normal, lived-in home that happens to be temporarily empty.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, turning to face him. He's still standing by the front door, giving me space. "Really. What's in it for you?"
Mason's jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he's not going to answer. Then he shrugs, his expression carefully neutral.
"I told you. There's a kid involved," he says. "And it's going to get cold tonight."
The answer is too simple. Too clean. There's more to it than that. There has to be, but something in his tone tells me he's not going to elaborate.
"And the ranch?" I press. "You really inherited it?"
"From Frank Delaney." Mason's expression softens slightly. "He was more of a father to me than my own father ever was. He took in six of us over the years. Guys who had nowhere else to go. When he died, he left us the ranch. All six of us own it together now."
Six men. Living together on a ranch in the middle of nowhere Montana. That should sound suspicious, but something about the way he talks about Frank, about his brothers, rings true.
"So, there are five other guys here?" My grip tightens on the pepper spray.
"Yeah, but they're in their own cottages. Nobody's going to bother you, Lily. I promise." He pauses. "And if anyone does, you call me. I'll give you my number."
I should say no. Should tell him I don't need his number, that I can take care of myself. But the truth is, having a contact, someone who actually lives here and knows the area, might be useful.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
Mason pulls out his phone and rattles off his number while I program it into mine. Then he heads for the door.
"I'll leave you to get settled," he says. "Like I said, help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen. If you need anything, call. Otherwise, I'll check on you in the morning."
"Mason."
He pauses at the threshold, looking back at me.
"Thank you." The words feel rusty in my mouth. I'm not used to thanking people. Not used to accepting help. "For this. For not being a creep."
Something that might be a smile tugs at his lips. "Night, Lily."
Then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him. I hear his truck start up and drive away, leaving me alone in this stranger's cottage with my sleeping daughter and more questions than answers.
I lock the door. Deadbolt and chain, just like he said. Then I check every window, every closet, every possible hiding place. The cottage is clear. Just me, Rosie, and a safety I haven't felt in months.
The bedroom has a queen bed with clean sheets and enough pillows for three people. I lay Rosie down gently, building a barrier of pillows around her so she won't roll off. She doesn't even stir, just curls up with Mr. Trunk and keeps sleeping.
I should sleep too. Should take advantage of this real bed and relative safety while I have it, but I'm too wired. Too aware of how easily I just trusted a complete stranger. Too conscious of how fucking good Mason looked in his flannel shirt.
I shouldn't be attracted to him. Shouldn't be thinking about what those big hands would feel like on my body or whether that rough voice would sound different in bed. I haven't had sex in over three years, and my vibrator died somewhere in Nevada two months ago.
I force myself into the bathroom and strip off my clothes, catching my reflection in the mirror.
The fluorescent light is harsh and unforgiving.
My breasts are too big, heavy and pendulous.
My stomach is soft and rounded, stretched skin from pregnancy that never bounced back.
My thighs are thick, rubbing together when I walk.
I was always curvy, but after having Rosie, I never lost the extra weight. Never had the time or energy or money to worry about getting back to some imaginary ideal body. I'm just trying to survive, to keep my daughter fed and safe.
But looking at myself now, I can't help wondering what Mason saw when he looked at me.
Did he see the exhaustion? The extra weight?
The stretch marks and cellulite and all the imperfections I usually try to ignore?
Did he see someone worth helping, or just someone desperate enough to accept help from anyone?
I turn away from the mirror and step into the shower.
The hot water is instant and endless, a luxury I'd forgotten existed after months of questionable motel showers and gas station bathroom sinks.
I stand under the spray and let myself cry.
Just for a minute. Just long enough to release some of the pressure that's been building in my chest for six months.
Then I wash my hair, scrub my skin until it's pink and clean, and step out feeling marginally more human.
There's a robe hanging on the back of the door—Sierra's, probably. I pull it on, soft terry cloth that smells like lavender detergent. It's just a tiny bit small across my chest and hips, but it's clean and warm and I don't care.
I pad back into the bedroom and climb into bed next to Rosie, pulling her against me. She makes a small sound and snuggles closer, her little hand fisting in the robe.
"We're okay, baby girl," I whisper. "We're going to be okay."
I almost believe it.
Sleep comes faster than expected, pulling me under before I can overthink everything that happened tonight.
Before I can second-guess following Mason here or wonder what the morning will bring.
For the first time in months, I sleep deeply.
Dreamlessly. Without waking every hour to check the locks or listen for approaching footsteps.
Next Day
When I wake, sunlight is streaming through the bedroom window. Real sunlight, not the harsh glare of parking lot lights. Rosie is sprawled across my chest, drooling slightly, her hair a wild tangle.
And I can smell coffee.
I sit up slowly, trying not to wake Rosie. The smell is definitely coffee, rich and strong, coming from the kitchen. Did I make coffee last night? No. I was too exhausted to do anything but check the locks and fall into bed.
Which means someone else made coffee.
My heart starts racing. Someone is in the cottage. Someone got past the locks I checked three times before sleeping. I slide out of bed and grab my pepper spray from the nightstand, moving quietly toward the bedroom door. Through the crack, I can see into the living room. Empty. But the kitchen—
Mason is standing at the stove, his back to me, cooking something that smells like bacon and eggs.
He's wearing different clothes than last night—a henley that clings to his broad back and jeans that hug his ass in a way that should be illegal.
He turns around, and I see his profile. Strong jaw, dark stubble, big, strong hands that make me wonder if he could scoop me up and put me on top of the kitchen counter.
"I know you're awake," he says. "I heard you moving around. Made breakfast if you're hungry."
I should be furious. Should demand to know how he got in, what the fuck he thinks he's doing cooking breakfast like we are longtime friends who haven't seen each other in a while. But all I can think is that nobody's cooked me breakfast in three years.
And that his ass really does look incredible in those jeans.
Fuck.