Chapter 19
NOAH
Holy shit.
One second, the cabin is filled with the shriek of the car being fed to an apex predator, and the next, there is nothing in my ears but the rhythmic hiss of the shattered radiator and the eerie tink-tink-tink of a dying engine.
Rue. Fuck. This is bad.
My vision swims. The world tilts at a twenty-degree angle, the passenger side of the SUV buried in the soft, sucking sand of a Texas bar ditch. I’m shoved against the back of the passenger seat, the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap.
“Rue?” My voice is a croak, barely audible over the ringing in my ears.
She doesn’t answer. She’s slumped against the door, her forehead resting against the glass, perfectly still. Her hands, which had been white-knuckling the steering wheel just seconds ago, are limp in her lap.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Panic slices through the numbness I’ve been cultivating since I crawled out of the black waters of Moccasin Lake, and instantly, any indifference to the woman in the front seat dies.
Don’t be dead. Dammit, Rue, don’t be dead.
I struggle against the seatbelt, my injured arm screaming in protest as I use it to shove the blanket away. Every muscle in my body is shouting that it’s had enough—ten years of prison food and a week of running from the law have left me hollowed out,but I ignore it.
“Rue!” I bellow through the car.
I scramble over the center console like a frantic animal, my boots kicking at the empty water bottles and the shoebox of unopened letters left scattered on the floor. Bullet whines, unharmed in the front seat.
But Rue isn’t unharmed.
“Rue! Look at me.”
I reach her, my fingers trembling as I brush a strand of blonde hair from her face. There’s a smear of red along her temple, a stark contrast against her pale skin. I press two fingers to her neck, my own heart beating so hard I’m afraid I’ll miss hers.
But there it is, a pulse. Steady and strong. She’s okay. She’ll come to.
I let out a breath that sounds too much like the beginning of a sob, dropping my forehead against her shoulder. The coldness I’ve been using as armor dissipates for a moment, shattered by the sight of her broken and quiet. I don’t want Rue to get hurt.
And I just want to stay here.
I want to hold her until the sun comes up and the world makes sense again.
However, Bullet lets out a sharp, piercing bark from the seat beside her, and the reality of our situation rushes back in. The surviving headlight is canted toward the sky, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Outside, the desert is a void of blackness…
And we’re sitting ducks.
We need to get moving. I pull back and cut the engine, my jaw tightening as I force the mask back into place. I can’t be the man who worries too much. I have to be the man who survives.
And our plan just got royally fucked up.
“Wake up, Little Rabbit,” I mutter, my voice returning to that flat, clinical edge. “We got a lot of shit to figure out.”
But still, she doesn’t stir.
I climb into the passenger seat, switching places with Bullet, and shove against the door, but it doesn’t budge.
The front fender is crumpled inward, the steel plate of the Pathfinder having absorbed the impact of a mountain lion that must have weighed two hundred pounds.
I slam my shoulder into it, once, twice, gritting my teeth against the fire in my arm.
On the third hit, the latch gives way with a screech of tortured metal.
I stumble out into the night. The air is cold, smelling of sagebrush, burnt rubber, and the sweet, permeant scent of antifreeze.
I walk to the front of the car and stop.
The mountain lion is a heap of tan fur and muscle tangled in the wreckage of the grill. It’s dead—the impact was direct and lethal. But it took the car with it. The radiator is twisted into a horseshoe, and the front left tire is canted at an impossible angle; the tie rod snapped like a twig.
We aren’t driving to Arizona. We aren’t driving anywhere.
A coyote howls in the distance. It’s a high, mocking sound that echoes across the flats. I look up at the interstate. The big rig that was tailing us is long gone, its taillights a memory.
I should’ve never told her to slow down.
I look at Rue through the open door, guilt crushing my conscience. She’s slowly starting to stir, her fingers twitching against the seat.
“Noah?” she whispers, her voice sounding small and disoriented. I want to rush to her, kiss her all over, and tell her how big a relief it is that she’s okay.
But that’s not what comes out.
“You wrecked the shit out of this thing. It ain’t going anywhere.”
“What?” She struggles to an upright position, her eyes wide and glassy as she takes in the wreckage. “Oh shit…”
“The car is a tomb,” I snap, grabbing her backpack and slinging it over my good shoulder. “We’re just asking for a trooper to pull over and see what’s going on now.”
“They’ll know it’s my car,” she says, her expression winces with pain as she swipes some of the blood from the side of her head. She struggles with the driver’s side latch, and I realize the gravity of her concussion.
Fuck. I rush around to the driver’s side of the car and jerk the door open.
She stumbles out, her shoes catching on the door runner, but I don’t let her fall. I can’t. I reach for her, steadying her as she falls against me.
“Let’s go,” I command, pointing toward the passenger side of the car and out of the sightline of any passing vehicles. Bullet hops out along with us, and I tie the leash to Rue’s wrist.
“What about the groceries?” She peers up at me with concern in her eyes. “I spent like a hundred dollars on those.”
I nod but can’t come up with an answer for her. “You just need to sit down and get some water first.”
“There’s not going to be anyone for miles… What are we supposed to do?” Rue’s voice clears, but still trembles. I recognize the panic.
I feel it, too.