Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
KRISTIN
The air in the bedroom was still warm from the fire Linc had kept going through the night.
The smell of smoke lingered faintly, sweet and earthy, curling around the quilts and into the folds of the curtains.
I stretched under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent trudging through snow, hauling trees, and laughing harder than I had in months.
My body felt heavy in a good way—the kind of exhaustion that comes from joy rather than worry.
For once, there was no noise. No trucks starting outside. No phones buzzing on the nightstand. Just the soft crackle of cooling embers and the steady rhythm of Lincoln’s breathing beside me.
He lay on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting near my hip like it had forgotten to let go. The sheet tangled low around his waist, the morning light catching on the curve of his jaw and the faint scar that cut across it. Every inch of him looked too peaceful for this world.
I should’ve gotten up. I had orders waiting, emails to answer, and at least a dozen messages from the warehouse asking for decisions. But right then, I just watched him, tracing the outline of his hand with my eyes, memorizing the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Yesterday had felt like a reprieve, a bubble of laughter and cocoa and snow where nothing dark could reach us. The ranch families, the tree farm, the kids squealing when the sleigh hit a drift, it had been the kind of day you wanted to bottle and keep forever.
But forever never lasted long around me.
Lincoln stirred beside me, a low sound escaping him as he blinked awake. His eyes found mine almost instantly, and the slow grin that followed could’ve melted frost off the windows. “Mornin’, Mrs. Felder.”
I groaned into the pillow. “You like saying that way too much.”
“Maybe I just like reminding you it’s real.” His voice was rough from sleep, gravel deep, but soft around the edges.
“Still feels strange.”
He reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair off my face. “Strange good or strange bad?”
I hesitated, then smiled. “Strange good.”
He leaned in and kissed me slowly, unhurried, the kind of kiss that made the world shrink until there was only the two of us: the fire, the sheets, the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was low. “Coffee or breakfast first?”
“Both. In bed. Please.”
He chuckled and rolled out of bed, pulling on his jeans. “You get one. Pick.”
I threw a pillow at him. “Coffee then. And don’t you dare burn the bacon again.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder that promised trouble. “No guarantees.”
While he clattered around in the kitchen, I pulled on his flannel shirt and padded barefoot to the window.
The wood floor was cold under my feet. I pressed a palm to the frosted glass and stared out over the pasture.
The view hit me right in the chest—frost-silvered fields, the barn roof gleaming white, the tree we’d brought home leaning against the porch rail waiting to be dragged inside.
It should’ve looked peaceful.
But something about the yard felt off.
At first, I couldn’t name it. Then I saw the tire tracks.
Two sets. One from our truck. The other thinner, newer, cutting across the end of the drive and looping near the barn before turning back toward the road.
We didn't have any visitors last night. Everyone had gone home from the tree farm, and Linc had locked the gate after we drove in. I was sure of it.
A chill crept up my spine.
I told myself it was nothing. A neighbor, maybe, cutting across the property by mistake. But the feeling didn’t fade. It hung there, heavy and stubborn, like fog refusing to lift.
When Linc came back in with two steaming mugs, I tried to sound casual. “Did anyone stop by early this morning?”
He handed me a mug and shook his head. “Not that I saw. Why?”
I nodded toward the window. “Tracks.”
He stepped beside me, following my gaze. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift most people would’ve missed.
“Could’ve been someone turning around,” he said, easy as anything, but his eyes stayed on the tracks a moment longer than they should have.
“Right,” I said, forcing a smile. “Probably nothing.”
He slid an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Probably.”
But when he thought I wasn’t looking, I saw his gaze drift toward the gun safe by the door.
By midmorning, the world had returned to normal.
The tree stood upright in the living room, half-decorated and shedding needles faster than I could sweep them up. The smell of pine mixed with the cinnamon candle I’d lit, filling the air with a cozy chaos that almost drowned out the unease in my chest.
Almost.
“Hold that side,” I told Linc, balancing on the stool as I tried to loop garland across the top.
He steadied the tree with one hand and my leg with the other. “You know, we could’ve picked a smaller one.”
“You know, you could’ve said that yesterday before you pretended it wasn’t heavy.”
“I was trying to impress you.”
I grinned down at him. “You already did, lumberjack.”
He looked up, eyes dark with amusement. “Careful, Mrs. Felder. Compliments like that come with consequences.”
“Threats, you mean.”
“Promises.”
I laughed, and for a little while, it was easy to forget about the tracks in the snow. Easy to just be us again.
After lunch, I drove into town. The wind had picked up, sweeping thin veils of snow across the gravel road.
The sky was bright but cold, that winter blue so sharp it made your eyes sting.
I kept the heater turned up high, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping my thermos.
The tires hummed against the packed snow, steady and familiar.
The warehouse sat just beyond Everton, a wide, weathered building with a tin roof and a faded sign that still read Everton Feed people used it all the time. Still, my pulse climbed.
At the next bend, the vehicle vanished behind the trees. I searched the mirror again and again, but it didn’t yield any results. The quiet inside the cab grew louder than the engine.
By the time I turned onto our lane, I almost believed I’d imagined it. But then my headlights swept over the gate, and my stomach dropped.
It was hanging slightly open.
We never left it open.
I eased to a stop at the bottom of the drive, every instinct tightening at once. The snow was still fresh enough to hold every print, and there, cut across our own tracks, was a new set. Narrow tread, light, and sharp at the edges.
The same as the ones I’d seen that morning.
I sat there for a long moment, one hand frozen on the gearshift, the other gripping the wheel until my knuckles ached. My heart hammered so hard it hurt.
Finally, I rolled forward, slow enough to feel each bump. The yard looked calm. The horses stood quietly in the pasture, heads down. The house lights glowed faintly through the windows, a picture of peace. But my gut didn’t buy it.
I didn’t breathe until I saw Linc step out onto the porch.
He had a mug in one hand, shoulders relaxed, but I saw the way his eyes swept the property before they settled on me. When I parked, he came down the steps, boots crunching through the snow.
“The gate was open,” I said as soon as I opened my door. My voice came out quieter than I meant.
“I know.”
“Did you leave it that way?” I asked hoping he’d say yes because he knew I was on the way.
He shook his head once. “No.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy and cold.
“Probably kids,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “Or hunters cutting through.”
“Probably,” he said, though his gaze lingered on the trees longer than it should have.
He met my eyes then, jaw set. “Come inside.”
I followed him, the warmth of the house swallowing the chill, though not the unease.
The rest of the evening looked normal on the surface.
We finished decorating the tree, getting tangled in lights and laughter, pretending nothing was hanging over us.
Linc strung the star across the top while I held the ladder and complained about the mess of tinsel on the floor.
We cooked dinner together, the kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and rosemary.
We played music. We laughed. It should’ve felt ordinary, but everything had a fragile edge to it.
Linc stayed close. Every move he made was deliberate. Calm, easy, measured. He didn’t mention the gate again, and I didn’t ask.
After dinner, he said he wanted to check the horses.
I watched from the window as he pulled on his jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and crossed the yard.
The light bobbed across the snow, bright against the dark.
He paused at the barn door, standing still long enough that my breath hitched. Then he disappeared inside.
Minutes passed. The light didn’t move.
I wrapped my arms around myself and waited.
When he came back, his boots were crusted with snow, and a faint smear of mud streaked his jeans. He brushed the snow from his jacket, hung it on the hook, and gave me that easy smile that was meant to reassure. “Everything’s fine.”
But when he took his coat off, I saw the gun holster under his arm.
He never wore it unless he had reason to.
We watched a movie later, something lighthearted that neither of us really followed.
Linc’s arm was around me, his hand absently tracing the back of mine.
I tried to focus on the screen, on the flicker of color and sound, but my mind kept drifting to those tire tracks, to the sound of crunching snow that wasn’t ours.
By the time we went to bed, the fire had burned low again. The wind had started up outside, rattling the eaves and making the old boards creak. I lay there beside him, eyes open in the dark, listening to the rhythm of his breathing until I drifted in and out of uneasy sleep.
Sometime after midnight, I woke to silence.
Linc’s arm was heavy around my waist. The house was dark except for the faint glow of the tree lights in the next room. I slipped free, pulled on one of his flannels, and padded barefoot down the hall.
The floorboards were cold under my feet. The house still smelled of smoke, pine, and coffee from earlier. I poured a glass of water and stood by the window, staring out over the yard.
The moon hung high, silvering the snow, making the world look almost unreal. The tree lights behind me flickered softly, casting tiny colored reflections across the windowpane.
That’s when I saw it.
Near the fence line, half hidden in the shadows of the pines, something moved.
At first, I thought it was a deer. The shape was low, quiet, and careful. But then it straightened. Tall. Broad. Human.
My heart lurched.
The figure paused, still as stone. Even from this distance, I could feel the weight of its stare. Then it turned and slipped into the trees, vanishing as silently as it had appeared.
The glass shook in my hand. Water sloshed over my fingers. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
The back door creaked open behind me. I spun, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
“Hey.” Linc’s voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp, already searching my face. “You, okay?”
“I,” My throat tightened. “Someone’s out there.”
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t doubt me for a second. He crossed the room in three strides, his movements fast but precise.
“How long ago?”
“Seconds.” I swallowed hard. “He was by the fence.”
He flipped the porch light on. The yellow glow reached only halfway across the yard, illuminating the first line of drifts. The snow glittered untouched. No sign of movement now.
He turned back to me, voice low. “Go upstairs. Stay there.”
“Lincoln.”
“Please, Kris.” His tone was soft but final. The kind of tone that carried both fear and command.
I nodded, throat thick, and backed toward the stairs. He waited until I was gone before moving again.
Through the crack in the bedroom door, I heard the metallic click of the gun safe, then the soft creak of the back door. A moment later, the muffled crunch of his boots on snow drifted up through the stillness.
I pressed a hand to my chest and forced myself to breathe. My heart thudded against my ribs, wild and uneven.
Outside, the wind picked up, low and restless. I stepped to the window and peered out across the white expanse of the yard. The light from the porch still burned, casting a golden circle that barely touched the barn. Beyond that, the dark stretched endlessly.
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him out there. Linc. Moving through the night like a man who had done this before. Quiet, steady, deliberate.
A single light flicked on near the barn. Then another near the paddock. He was working his way around the perimeter.
The longer I watched, the colder the house felt. My breath fogged against the glass. Every creak and whisper from the wind sounded like footsteps. I wrapped my arms tight around myself, willing the world to stay still.
“Please,” I whispered, voice barely there. “Let it be nothing.”
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t nothing.
It was the start of something.
And whatever it was, it had finally come to find us.