PROLOGUE #3
"Out where?" His words slurred but sharp, every one soaked in whiskey and hate. "Whorin’ with that Blackwood boy again?"
The screen door slammed against the wall as I tried to slip past him, but he moved faster than a drunk bastard should. His hand shot out and clamped on my arm, fingers digging right into old bruises.
"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 flickered 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 grandmother 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.