Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Annie
The cold hits me the second I step outside.
The sky is still caught somewhere between black and blue, dawn dragging itself slowly over the mountains while the ranch sleeps in uneasy silence.
I pull my cardigan tighter around myself and head for my Subaru with my coffee clenched between both hands.
I need five minutes.
That’s it.
Five minutes where nobody is arguing, nobody’s hiding things, nobody’s looking at me like I’m either fragile glass or the center of a war zone.
My head feels too full. Like someone stuffed cotton behind my eyes overnight.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I reach the car.
Then I stop.
At first, my brain doesn’t process what I’m seeing.
It just… stalls.
Because the front of the car sits wrong. Too low. Too uneven.
My stomach folds in on itself. “No,” I whisper.
Coffee sloshes over my hand as I move faster, panic intensifying every breath. And there it is.
Both front tires. Shredded.
Long, vicious cuts split through the rubber like someone carved them open with intentional patience.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
That’s not vandalism. That’s a message. A trap.
My pulse hammers; I can hear it in my ears. I spin instinctively, scanning the ranch. The barns sit dark against the weak dawn light. Paddocks still. Fences silvered with frost.
Nothing moves.
But that feeling is back.
The one that’s lived under my skin for weeks now.
Watching.
I take a slow step backward.
Another.
Don’t panic.
Panic gets you stupid.
And stupid gets you hurt.
My fingers tighten around the coffee cup until the cardboard creases inward.
Think.
Think, Annie.
My gaze flicks toward the main house… then catches movement near the far barn.
My entire body locks.
A figure. Tall. Half obscured by the side of the building. Watching the house. Watching me.
Every instinct I have screams at me to go after them. Demand answers. Take the fight back.
But another voice cuts through the adrenaline.
Survival isn’t bravado. It’s strategy.
I learned that too late growing up. Too late with my parents. Too late at jobs where men smiled while figuring out how much they could get away with. Too late here.
But not this time.
My breathing steadies by force.
Slowly, carefully, I lower my coffee onto the hood of the car. Then I reach into my cardigan pocket and pull out my camera.
The familiar weight grounds me. My thumb taps once against the body.
Focus.
I lift it slowly, keeping my movements casual. The lens catches the barn. The figure.
Click.
Another.
Click.
Then video. The zoom trembles from my pulse, but I keep filming. The person shifts. Like they realize.
For one horrible second, I think they’re coming toward me.
Instead, they step backward into the shadows beside the barn and disappear completely.
Gone.
My stomach turns over hard. I lower the camera slowly, every nerve in my body screaming now.
I don’t chase.
That’s the important part.
The old version of me would have. Would’ve marched straight over there fueled entirely by spite and bad decisions. But the old version of me also thought surviving meant handling everything alone.
Now I know better.
I grab my coffee again with shaking hands and back toward the house without taking my eyes off the barns.
Every window suddenly feels exposed. Every shadow too deep. By the time I get inside, my heartbeat is completely out of control.
The kitchen lights are on, country music hums softly from somewhere near the stove, and Duke is standing barefoot at the counter in gray sweatpants and a black thermal, hair messy, coffee mug in one hand while he digs through the fridge with the other.
For one completely irrational second, relief hits me so hard I almost cry, which is ridiculous.
I’m not a woman who cries because she saw a hot man before sunrise. Even if said hot man smells like coffee and clean soap and looks unfairly good half asleep.
Duke glances up. The smile that starts forming dies. “Annie?”
His whole body changes. Like someone flipped a switch beneath his skin.
The mug lowers slowly. “You okay?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
He crosses the kitchen fast. “Hey. Hey, talk to me.”
“My tires,” I say finally. “Someone slashed my tires.”
Duke goes completely still. “Where?”
“Both front ones.” My fingers tighten around the camera strap hanging against my chest. “And there was someone by the barn.”
His jaw flexes hard enough to hurt. “You saw someone?”
“I got footage.”
That gets his attention. “You went after them?”
“No.”
The answer comes fast. Firm. Because I know exactly what the brothers are going to hear if I hesitate.
Duke studies me carefully. “Good.”
I blink.
Then his expression hardens again. “I’m going to see the car.”