Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
LINC
The drive back from Everton was quiet except for the hum of the tires.
The sky was heavy with clouds that had the look of snow in them, not the kind that dusted the ground and melted by noon, but the kind that stayed.
The air had that brittle cold that burned the inside of your nose when you breathed too deeply.
Kristin kept her hands at ten and two, eyes locked on the road ahead like she could steer us through whatever was coming next.
When we turned off the highway onto the long gravel lane that led to the house, the first flakes had started to fall.
They caught the headlights and spun in tight spirals before hitting the windshield and melting away.
By the time the yard came into view, the ground was already turning white.
The porch lights glowed through the haze, and for a second, the sight of home almost felt peaceful.
She cut the engine and sat there with her hands still on the wheel. Her shoulders were rigid, jaw tight. I wanted to reach out to tell her we were fine, but the words stuck. She had been through enough in the last few days without me adding more weight to it.
“You hungry?” I asked finally.
She blinked like I had pulled her out of somewhere far away. “I could eat.”
That was all she said before she opened the door and climbed out. I followed, pulling my collar up against the cold. The snow crunched under our boots, the sound sharp and hollow in the quiet yard.
Inside, the house was warm. The chili I had left simmering in the slow-cooker filled the kitchen with the smell of spices and tomatoes.
She hung her coat on the hook and stood near the stove with her hands stretched toward the heat.
Her hair had come loose from its braid, a few strands sticking to her cheek.
For a moment, she looked softer, less guarded, and it hit me how much I had missed seeing her like that.
“What?” I asked without turning.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just wondering if you were zoning out or planning another escape.”
I gave her the faintest smile. “Maybe both.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Why? Are you worried I’ll run off with one of your horses?”
“Depends which one you would take.”
“Firefly.”
She laughed quietly. “Figures.”
We stood there a moment longer before I moved to grab bowls from the cupboard.
She joined me at the counter and ladled out two servings like she lived here, like the last three years had been nothing but a blink.
We sat across from each other at the table, and the only sounds were the clinking of spoons and the occasional sigh of the heater kicking on.
Her phone buzzed halfway through. She glanced at it, frowned, then flipped it face down.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Just orders. Nothing important.” Her tone said otherwise, but I let it go. She needed room to breathe, not me breathing down her neck.
After dinner, she cleaned up the bowls before I could stop her.
When I told her to sit down, she ignored me completely.
The bruise on her hip had her moving slower than usual, but her pride kept her upright.
I leaned against the counter and watched her drying the dishes, the movements precise and methodical, like keeping busy could hold everything else at bay.
When the kitchen was spotless, she finally turned. “You’re staring at me again.”
“Habit.”
“Well, break it,” she grumbled.
“Not sure I can.” My words were far more husky than I’d intended. Her lips twitched, but she said nothing and brushed past me toward the living room. I heard the chime of her laptop and the faint tap of keys as she settled on the couch.
I went out to the barn, telling myself it was to check on the horses, but the truth was I needed the cold air and space.
The snow had thickened, turning the yard into a blur.
The wind hissed against the siding. Inside the barn, the horses were quiet, shifting in their stalls, steam rising off their backs.
I checked the waterers and the heaters, ran a hand down Lady’s neck, and tried to shake off the feeling that something was pressing in from all sides.
When I came back to the house, Kristin was still on the couch, legs tucked under her, laptop open. Her hair caught the glow from the screen, turning it almost copper. She looked up when I walked in.
“Everything good out there?”
“Yeah,” I said, kicking my boots off. “Quiet.”
“Good.” She went back to typing.
I dropped into the chair opposite her. “What are you working on?”
“Inventory,” she said. “A couple of invoices from last week are missing. It’s probably nothing, but I want to be sure.”
“You think it ties to that guy from the store?”
She hesitated. “Could be coincidence.”
“Could be something else.”
Her eyes lifted, sharp and annoyed. “You always think it’s something else.”
“Because it usually is.”
She closed the laptop harder than necessary. “You think you can fix everything with your fists and a few threats. It does not work like that anymore.”
“Worked fine before.”
“Until it didn’t.”
That shut me up. The silence that followed was heavy. I leaned back, watching the flames through the glass of the stove door. The sound of the fire eating through the logs filled the space between us.
“I am not trying to control you,” I said finally. “I just do not like the thought of someone watching your place. That man wasn’t there to buy tack. He was there to look around.”
Her voice dropped. “I know.”
That admission landed hard. I turned to look at her and saw that she was no longer angry, just tired. “Then you know I am not imagining the worst-case scenario here.”
“I know,” she repeated softly. “But we can’t live like every shadow is a threat.”
“I can if it keeps you safe.”
She let out a slow breath. “You can’t keep me safe from everything, Lincoln. You tried before. Look how that turned out.”
That one hurt more than I wanted to admit. I stood, restless, and moved to the window. Outside, the snow was thick enough now that I could barely see the barn lights. “You should get some rest,” I said.
“So should you.”
“I will after I make sure the doors are locked.”
Her laugh was small but real. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“Not anymore, not when your safety is in my hands.”
She looked at me for a long time, then said quietly, “You can’t keep living like that.”
I didn’t answer; instead, I checked the locks and turned off the downstairs lights one by one. She shut her laptop and headed for the stairs.
“Goodnight, Linc.”
“Goodnight, Tin.”
She paused halfway up, looked over her shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll try to remember not to,” I said, and her lips twitched before she disappeared down the hall.
I stayed up another hour, pacing between the windows, listening to the wind claw at the siding. Finally, I turned off the last light and went upstairs.
Her door was closed. I undressed and stood by the window in my room, watching the yard fade to white. The storm had teeth now. It would keep building through the night.
I told myself I was just checking the weather. That was the excuse I always used when I couldn’t sleep.
Around 2:00 a.m., the house was silent. The kind of silence that feels wrong. I had just started to drift when a faint flicker caught my eye. The motion sensor light at the far end of the barn blinked once. Not long enough to be a wind or a stray cat. Just a flash, then darkness again.
I sat up and waited. Nothing.
Another flash, weaker this time, and gone.
I slid out of bed and grabbed my jeans and Henley. The floorboards creaked under my feet, too loud in the quiet house. I stopped at Kristin’s door. I could hear her breathing, slow and steady. She was asleep. I wanted to keep it that way.
Outside, the cold hit like a wall. The snow had piled up against the porch steps, powder blowing sideways across the yard. I stayed in the shadows, moving slowly. The light on the barn didn’t come on again, but the feeling that someone was out there clung to me.
I scanned the yard. Nothing moved. The fence line was just a pale smudge against the darkness. I kept my hand near the pistol tucked in the waistband of my jeans, not because I thought I would need it, but because I always did when something felt wrong.
When I reached the barn, I stood still and listened. The horses were quiet, shifting in their stalls, the occasional snort cutting through the wind. I checked the doors, the latches, the windows. All locked. The snow was unbroken except for my own footprints.
Still, I could not shake it. The same prickling along the back of my neck that had kept me alive more than once before.
I stayed out there for twenty minutes, scanning the dark, until the cold bit through my gloves. Finally, I went back to the house. The porch light flickered when I passed under it. Probably nothing. Probably the storm.
Inside, I locked the door and stood for a long time in the dark hallway, waiting for the feeling to fade. It didn’t.
Upstairs, I checked on her again. The door was still closed; there was no light under it. I leaned my forehead against the wood for a second and let out a breath I’d been holding. She didn’t need to know about the light. Not tonight.
I went back to my room, peeled off the shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside, the snow continued to fall, steady and relentless. Somewhere in that white noise, I thought I heard something else. A faint hum, like an engine idling far away. It faded before I could be sure.
I told myself I was imagining it, I told myself it was because I was tired.
Sleep came in fits. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flash of that light.
When morning came, the world was buried under a clean white blanket. The sky was pale, the air sharp. From the window, everything looked untouched. Peaceful, even. If I had not been awake half the night, I would have believed it.
Kristin was already downstairs when I walked into the kitchen. She had made coffee and was standing by the counter in one of my old shirts, her hair still damp from the shower. She smiled faintly when she saw me.
“Morning.”
“Morning.” I poured myself a cup and tried to ignore how easy that looked, how normal.
“Did you get some sleep?” she asked.
“A little.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You look like hell.”
“Feels accurate.”
“Need to talk about something?”
“Just a bad night,” I said.
She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t press the issue. She poured herself another cup and leaned against the counter and glanced out the window. “You ever notice how quiet it gets after snow like that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Too quiet sometimes.”
She smiled faintly. “You hate the quiet.”
“Only when I know it is lying.”
She frowned. “That’s cryptic, even for you.”
“Just means I like knowing what I’m dealing with. And yesterday is telling me we have no idea what’s going on.”
“Well, right now you’re dealing with me, coffee, and a day that probably involves shoveling.”
I laughed, the sound short but real. “Guess that beats last night.”
She looked at me over the rim of her mug. “What happened last night?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Linc.”
“Nothing,” I repeated, softer this time. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
She studied me for another moment, then sighed. “You do that thing where you think keeping me in the dark is protecting me. It’s not.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” The furrow between her brows deepened, and I immediately regretted not watching my words closely.
I set the mug down and stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the soap in her hair. “If something happens, I’ll tell you. Until then, I just want you to breathe.”
She looked up at me, eyes steady. “You don’t get to decide when I breathe.”
I smiled faintly. “No, but I can try to make sure you get the chance to.”
That earned me a shake of her head and the ghost of a smile. “You really have a hero complex.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just like knowing you’re safe in my house.”
Her expression softened for a heartbeat before she looked away.
“It’s not your house anymore, Lincoln. It’s ours, remember?
” She faked a southern accent and smiled slyly, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Sweet Home Alabama was a movie we’d watch on repeat during the cold winter months.
Her mimicking the joint bank account scene always made her crack up.
I nodded. “Right. Ours.” The word hung there between us. It felt bigger than either of us could handle, but neither of us walked away from it.
When she turned to rinse her cup, I caught sight of something on the counter. A small wet mark near the window, right where the wood met the frame. It could have been condensation, maybe melted snow from where we’d come in last night, but it looked fresh. Too fresh.
I reached out and ran my finger through it. Cold. Clean.
“What is it?” she asked, glancing back.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, wiping it with my thumb. “You got plans for the day?”
“I have a few calls to make for the warehouse. I’ll work from here until the roads clear.”
“Good.”
She watched me for a moment longer before heading upstairs to grab her laptop.
I waited until I heard the door close before I looked back at the window.
The mark was gone, but the chill that had been creeping through the frame was not my imagination.
The seal was fine. The glass intact. But something had brushed the outside of that pane in the night, something that left just enough of a trace to tell me I had not dreamed it.
I made a mental note to check the yard again once it came back on. But for now, I would let her believe everything was fine.
She needed normal, and I could give her that, even if I had to lie through my teeth to keep it.
The snow had covered whatever footprints might have been there. The light in the barn was off. The day stretched clean and white, and I told myself that was enough.
But deep down, I knew better.
It was only the beginning.