Chapter Six
Ransom
I traced my fingers along the curve of her spine, watched goosebumps rise in their wake. She stirred, pressing closer against my chest, mumbling something that sounded like "five more minutes."
"Baby, you need to get up." I kissed her shoulder. "Rehearsal's at nine."
Her eyes flew open. "Oh God. What time is it?"
"Eight oh five."
"Vivian's going to kill me if I'm late." She tried to sit up, but I caught her waist, pulled her back down for just a moment.
"You've got time if you hurry."
"Ransom—" But her protest died when I nuzzled into her neck, finding that spot below her ear that always made her sigh. "That's not fair."
"All's fair." My hand skimmed down her side, over the curve of her hip. "Especially when you look like this."
She was beautiful in the morning—hair wild across the pillows, skin warm from sleep, those green eyes still heavy-lidded. Made me want to keep her here all day, forget the world outside existed.
"I really have to go." But she was already leaning into my touch, her breath catching. "They're rehearsing the scenes you're not in. I can't miss—"
"You sure?" My thumb brushed across her ribs, felt her shiver.
"No." She grabbed my wrist, stilled my hand. "But yes. I have to. And you have ranch stuff with your dad, remember?"
Right. The blueprints. Dad wanted to go over the improvement plans this morning—new fence lines, updated equipment, modernization that would finally make the operation profitable again.
I groaned, rolled onto my back. "Being responsible sucks."
"Welcome to adulthood." She kissed me quick, then scrambled out of bed before I could grab her again. "I'm jumping in the shower. Can you make coffee?"
I watched her disappear into the bathroom. The shower started, and I forced myself out of bed, pulled on yesterday's jeans, and headed to her small kitchen.
Rainey's cottage was cozy—handmade quilts on every surface, vintage finds from the shop creating warm corners, everything smelling faintly of old wood and coffee grounds from yesterday.
I found the coffee maker, got it started, then raided her fridge for eggs and whatever else I could throw together for a quick breakfast.
By the time she emerged—dressed in jeans and a soft burgundy sweater, hair still damp—I had scrambled eggs and toast waiting.
"You're perfect." She grabbed the coffee mug I offered, took a long sip, sighed with contentment. "Absolutely perfect."
"Just trying to earn my keep." I watched her eat, quick bites between checking her phone for messages. "What scenes are you running today?"
"The saloon sequences without the ghost. Bunch of dialogue with the sheriff and doctor characters. Then we’ve got full dress rehearsal later this afternoon, as you know." She glanced at the clock—8:35. "I need to leave in ten minutes or I'll be late."
"Tell her you were investigating the case. Thoroughly examining evidence."
She choked on her last bite of buttered toast, laughing. "I'll be sure to mention that."
I pulled her close for a proper kiss—deep, thorough, the kind that made her grip my shoulders for balance. "Be careful today. Any weird feelings, anything seems off, you text me immediately."
"Yes, sir." She gave me a mock salute, but her eyes were serious. "You too. Be safe."
"I'm just going over paperwork with Dad. Not much danger in blueprints."
We left together, my truck heading one way, her small sedan the other—her toward town and the theater, me back toward the ranch.
The morning was cold and damp, fog still clinging to the low spots along the road, the moss on the oaks hanging like tattered curtains in the mist. Through the trees, I could hear the first drops of rain starting—just a sprinkle, but promising more to come.
Dad was waiting in the kitchen when I pulled up, blueprint tube already on the table beside two steaming mugs of coffee.
"Starting to think you might not make it," he said, but he was grinning. "Late night?"
"Had to help with some theater business in town." Not exactly a lie.
"Uh-huh." He didn't push it, just unrolled the blueprints across the kitchen table. "Your mother's at her church committee meeting. She'll be sorry she missed you."
We weighted down the corners with our mugs and spent the next hour deep in discussion—costs, timelines, which improvements would give us the best return fastest. Dad's mind was sharp as ever when it came to the land, and his enthusiasm was infectious.
This could work. We could save the ranch, modernize operations, maybe even expand into agritourism with fall hayrides and pumpkin patches like other struggling ranches had done.
"This is excellent, son." Dad straightened, pride clear in his eyes. "We'll be back in the black in no time with these changes."
Mom came through the front door, back from her meeting, bringing a rush of cold air with her. "Oh good, you're both here. How are the plans coming?"
"Better than expected." Dad showed her the plans. "Ransom's got a real head for this."
"Of course he does." Mom squeezed my shoulder, her eyes bright with emotion.
"You've done wonders for your father, son.
He's been up before dawn every day this week, excited about the future.
First time in months he's taken his medication without me reminding him.
Even Dr. Bennett commented yesterday that his color's better, his breathing's improved.
Having you home, having hope for the ranch again—it's given him a reason to fight. "
"Mom—"
"No, let me say this. Seeing him like this, engaged and planning for what’s to come instead of just... existing day to day. You've given us both our lives back, Ransom. We're just so grateful you're here."
"I'm not going anywhere," I said, meaning it. "This is home. This is where I belong."
My phone buzzed. Text from Rainey: Come quickly, something else has happened
My chest tightened with dread. I was halfway to the door, keys already in hand. "I have to go. Emergency at the theater."
"The theater?" Mom's brow furrowed. "Is everything alright with the production?"
"Not sure. I'll let you know." I was already at the door.
"Be careful," Dad called after me.
The drive to town stretched endlessly despite my lead foot on the accelerator.
Every worst-case scenario played through my head—another "accident," Rainey hurt, worse.
My hands gripped the wheel tight enough to ache.
I squealed into the theater's gravel lot and killed the engine, my jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
Inside, chaos.
The cast had formed a semicircle on stage, everyone staring at something. Rainey was in the center, her face drained of color but composed. Vivian paced back and forth, her red hair wild around her face. Clay had his clipboard out, making notes with an unsteady hand.
"What happened?" I vaulted onto the stage, went straight to Rainey.
She pointed to the costume rack. Her Evangeline dress—the elaborate Victorian saloon girl costume they'd spent weeks perfecting—hung in shreds.
Someone had taken scissors or a knife to it, slashing through the crimson silk and black lace.
Threads dangled like entrails from the torn fabric.
But worse was the fake blood—or what I hoped was fake—poured over the entire thing, dripping onto the floor in thick, dark puddles.
The metallic smell of it filled the air, mixing with the mustiness of the old theater until my stomach turned.
"Jesus." The word came out harsh.
"That's not all." Rainey's voice was steady, but I could see the tremor in her hands. "There was another note."
She handed me a piece of paper, same spidery handwriting as before: Final warning. Drop out or drop dead.
I went rigid with anger. Someone had been here. In the theater. Had destroyed her costume with deliberate, vicious intent.
"This is getting crazy!" Brooke's voice cut through my thoughts. She positioned herself near the destroyed costume, hands clasped in front of her. "Maybe... maybe Rainey should step down. For her own safety? And everyone else's too?"
Darcy remained beside her, phone out but not filming for once. She reached out to comfort Brooke, who leaned into the gesture dramatically.
"We can't let fear win," Knox Phillips said, but even the history teacher looked rattled.
"Fear?" Brooke's voice pitched higher. "Someone's threatening to kill her! This isn't about fear, it's about being smart. About protecting people."
"I already called Sheriff Turley," Vivian announced. "He should be here any—"
"What's all this about threats?" Sheriff Turley's voice came from the back of the theater, right on cue. He walked down the aisle, notepad already out, looking tired. "Got a call about vandalism and threatening notes?"
I handed him the paper. He read it, his expression darkening. "Drop out or drop dead. Well, that's more specific than we've seen before. Let me see the damage to the costume."
Turley methodically examined the ruined dress, took photographs, and spent the next twenty minutes getting statements from everyone present.
By the time he finished and left with the costume as evidence, the cast was restless and anxious.
Outside, rain had started in earnest now, pattering against the old roof.
Vivian called everyone to gather center stage. The theater felt colder somehow, the old building creaking in the wind.
"I'm dismissing everyone for the rest of the day," she announced, her usually commanding voice subdued. "Final dress rehearsal is canceled. I need... I need time to think."
A murmur went through the cast—disappointment, fear, frustration all mixing.
"Safety comes first," Vivian continued. "I have to weigh our options. We could go forward as planned, though that seems risky. We could have Brooke take the lead—"
Brooke straightened, trying not to look too eager.
"—or we could cancel the show altogether."
"No!" Several voices spoke at once.