BOOK 1 IN THE COWBOYS OF COPPER CREEK SERIES #3
"I asked you a fuckin’ question!"
"Let go."He leaned close enough that I could smell the sour
booze on his breath. "You think you’re too good for this
house now? Too good for me? You think that rich cowboy’s
gonna save you?" He laughed, the sound jagged as broken
glass. "You ain’t shit, Ivy. You never been shit. White trash
daughter of white trash. That’s all you’ll ever be."
"Let. Go."
"Or what?" His eyes went wild. "You gonna run cryin’
to his daddy? You think Owen fuckin’ Blackwood’s gonna
give a damn? That man wipes his boots on people like us.”
He shook me again, hard enough my teeth clacked. “You
really think his boy’s gonna throw his fancy life away for a
piece of backwoods ass like you?"
I tore free and stumbled back, grabbing the porch rail.
"I’m leaving."
His upper lip curled like a rabid dog. ”The hell you
are."
"I’m eighteen. You can’t stop me."
He straightened up, swaying but steady enough to be
dangerous. "You walk out that door, you’re dead to me, you
hear? You’re no fuckin’ daughter of mine." He jabbed a
finger toward the darkness where the Blackwood lights flick‐
ered faint and far. "And you tell that pretty-boy cowboy if
he comes near my land again, I’ll put a bullet through his
fuckin’ skull. I’ll make his daddy watch me do it."
My stomach twisted. "Don’t you dare—"
"I’ll fuckin’ dare," he snarled, spit flying with every
word. "He steps foot here again, I’ll kill him, then I’ll come
for you. You don’t get to shame me, you ungrateful little
bitch."
“I’m eighteen. I can do whatever I want.” He came a
step closer. The smell of whiskey and sweat rolled off him.The slap came fast, the crack echoing in the night. My head
snapped sideways, blood flooding my mouth.
I wiped the blood off my lip and met his eyes. "I was
never your daughter," I said, steady even through the sting.
"Daughters are things you love. And you don’t know how to
love anything but that goddamn bottle."
He lunged for me, but I was younger, sober, desperate. I
dodged, but he caught my hair, yanking me back with
enough force to tear some loose. His fist caught my ribs,
driving the air from my lungs. My nails raked his cheek,
drawing blood. A lamp shattered—the one my grand‐
mother had given Mama as a wedding gift.
Then suddenly she was there, my mousy mother who'd
never stood up to him once in her life, who'd spent twenty
years looking at the floor and making excuses for bruises.
She was wielding a cast-iron skillet like a weapon, the one
she made his eggs in every morning, scrambled soft the way
he liked them.
"Run," she hissed, blocking his path with her small
body, skillet raised. "Get your things and run, baby."
"Mama—"
"GO!"
I didn't need to be told twice. I grabbed my suitcase
from behind the barn, the tarp catching on the handle,
tearing as I yanked it free. Behind me, I could hear them
fighting—my mother's screams turning from fear to rage,
his curses, more breaking glass. Part of me wanted to go
back, to help her, to save her the way she was trying to
save me.
But I was my father's daughter in at least one way—I
knew how to save myself first.
I'm sorry, Mama, I thought, but I kept running.The bus station was on the edge of town, all cracked
concrete and flickering fluorescent lights. I bought my ticket
with crumpled bills I'd been saving for two years, hidden in
a tampon box because Daddy would never look there. The
clerk barely glanced at me, just took my money, and slid the
ticket across the scratched plexiglass window. One way to
Austin. No return trip planned.
The bathroom was a horror of graffiti and questionable
stains, but it had a mirror and a lock that mostly worked. I
assessed the damage under the harsh light—split lip already
swelling, blood drying rusty on my chin, the beginning of a
spectacular bruise along my jaw. My ribs screamed with
every breath. Hair a tangled mess with some strands
missing where he'd pulled. I looked exactly like what I was
—a girl running from something. Running to something.
Just running.
I cleaned up as best I could with rough paper towels
and cold water that smelled like sulfur, then sat on a bench
to wait. 4:47 a.m. seemed like a lifetime away. Every set of
headlights made me tense—could be Daddy, could be the
sheriff, could be Wyatt. Anyone who might try to stop me
or save me or make me stay.
But the hours crawled by, and no one came.
When the bus finally arrived at 4:47, exactly on time, I
climbed aboard without looking back. The steps were steep,
and my ribs protested every movement. The seats were
worn polyester patched with duct tape, and they smelled
like a thousand previous journeys. I found a seat in the rear,
as far from the driver and other passengers as possible.
I pressed my face to the window as Copper Creek
disappeared into the darkness behind us. Somewhere
behind me, Wyatt was sleeping in his truck by the creek,trusting I'd be there when he woke. Somewhere, Liam was
lying awake, keeping my secret. Somewhere, my mother
was nursing her own bruises, paying the price for my
freedom.
The sun was rising as we crossed the county line,
painting the sky the color of fresh blood and old promises. I
touched my throat where the horseshoe necklace should
have been, feeling its absence like a phantom limb.
"Forever," I whispered to the window, to the passing
fields, to the boy I'd left sleeping by the water.
But some forevers, I was learning, ended before they
even began.
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