Chapter 1
One
NEARLY A WEEK LATER
HER HANDS CLUTCHING the steering wheel, Harper wove her way up the mountain—the curving road leading to the small ranch town of Jeopardy Falls. Something outside of her pulled her there—an invisible rope tugging her forward, guiding her to Second Chances Ranch and Deckard.
Cold slithered through her body—a chill that refused to leave her bones ever since she’d been shoved into that metal container prison.
Warmth refused to envelop her no matter how high she cranked up the thermostat.
Snow and sleet fell in shards—pelting like the sheets of rain on the night of her escape.
The men’s voices clanged in her ears, her skin crawling at the whoosh of their harsh taunts—the memories raw and fierce.
She feared they’d found her—saw their shadows bobbing in the back seat as she bounced over the juts in the dirt road.
A smothering fear she’d never known until they’d thrown her into that steel container, then it consumed her, thickening in her veins—seeping through every part of her.
Their cruel, merciless faces flashed in the rearview mirror.
No. She clenched the wheel, pain shocking her sliced hands.
They aren’t real.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them, but the faces remained.
Stop seeing them!
Sparse tears trickled down her cheeks—the moisture still not fully returned to her body.
So dry. Her mouth still parched, her tears as weak as she was.
Trembling, she turned left, entering the ranch’s drive. Would this be a second chance for her? Could she find normalcy here, though she hadn’t elsewhere? Her demons taunted that she never would.
Her car slid sideways across the ice.
Let go. Give into the slide.
But her grip fought with the steering wheel.
She scarcely managed to right her car and avoid sliding straight off the embankment running parallel to the long, winding drive.
Freezing rain streamed down, stabbing the windshield. The wipers swished back and forth at a frantic pace, just like the pulse thwacking in her throat.
Her parents had begged her to stay with them over Christmas, but the need for safety propelled her. Get somewhere safe. Get to Deck. Only he could protect her, at least from external foes—her inner demons she was on her own to battle.
Disconcertion riddled through her. What would he think of her, bruised and broken, showing up on his doorstep like a lost animal?
He’d rescue her like a feral cat. Not at the soul level—no one could rescue her there.
It was as dead as the bodies littering that otherwise desolate hill in Syria.
As vanished as her colleagues, Tracey and Amanda, who’d been pulled from the container—both screeching at their turn—begging the men to stop. But they’d had no mercy.
The three worked with the humanitarian group in Syria, there to identify the dead in a rebel-torn area of the hostile country.
Working in an abandoned village of bodies left in the rebels’ cruel wake, they’d identified many victims, then buried them in proper graves.
Her car bounced over another rut in the ice-covered mesa road, jarring her and her thoughts as Deckard’s house—the first of three on the property—came into view.
Riley’s sat in the middle and Christian’s home last on the lane.
The lights from Deck’s porch glowed like fireflies in the inky black sky. Shone as beacons in the moonless night.
Shifting her car into park, she fixed her attention on the stillness surrounding her.
Her bestie, Andi Forester was dating Deck’s brother, Christian.
She and Greyson Chadwick, another friend of the group, were already spending Christmas at the ranch.
During their call earlier today, Andi had insisted Deck would be thrilled to see Bristol too, but . . .
She bit her scabbed, swollen lip, and the metallic taste of blood trickled in her mouth.
Grabbing a tissue, she swiped at it—the red smearing on white like the victims’ blood had covered the barren scrub outside the rusted metal container, the smell of death assailing her nostrils night and day until the two blended into one inside the windowless box.
Her heart thumping against her chest, she uncurled her fingers from the steering wheel, her hands furling like claws ready to pounce, the movement lancing the slices on her palms.
The frigid temps burned her lungs with each ragged intake of breath. Pain stabbed her cracked rib, stealing the air from her in a whoosh.
She shook it off.
You can do this. You have to, or you won’t survive.
Primal instinct had drawn her here. Now it was time to step out of the car. Her hand wrapped around the door handle as the ghosts whispered from the back seat. She refused to look, to see their shadows—the faces that had tormented her for blurred days on end.
Enough!
She shoved her door open, a groan wresting from the metal screws—the sound too similar to the screeching of that prison door.
You. Can. Do. This. You have to.
The bitter air seared her lungs. Snow and ice crunched beneath her boots as she rounded the car, then grabbed her presumptuous new duffel bag off the passenger seat. Again, Andi had assured her Deck would welcome her to stay, but would it be out of caring or pity?
Hurrying for the porch and what she hoped was safety, she slipped but righted herself, avoiding slamming onto the ice-slicked earth.
Reaching the door, she held her trembling gloved hand poised over the doorbell.
Deck wouldn’t hound her for answers, for details of her “ordeal,” as her parents called it when they pressured her to talk.
Deck held his own secrets, his own demons, so surely, he’d let her have hers.
Forcing her hand, she pressed the bell and waited.
Footsteps and a shadow breaking the inner light through the cut-glass door moved toward her. She wrestled the overpowering urge to bolt but held immovable in fear.
“Harp,” Andi said, her voice a whisper as she leaned out and enveloped her with a hug, then pulled back, worry etched on her brow.
Harper had tried not to go rigid. Really, she had. But her body moved and reacted of its own accord now, and it terrified her.
Footsteps sounded behind Andi. Was it her bestie’s boyfriend, Christian, or—her breath caught in her throat—Deckard? The man she’d come to see. The man who’d keep her safe.
“Harper?” His deep voice echoed in her ears.
Deckard.
Warmth flashed through her—only for a second, but it was a second longer than she’d experienced since being thrust into that container.
She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of how he’d react to the bruises, to the forming scars, then on a sharp breath opened them. Concern clenched his jaw, an unknown emotion radiating in his eyes. It wasn’t pity, not like how her parents had looked at her.
The man was stunningly handsome. She’d forgotten how much so. His good looks next to her battered body and barrenness of soul marked a stark contrast.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern lancing his raspy voice.
His question . . . Answer it. The words refused to come. She just stood there, frozen before finally managing a nod.
He struggled to get a read on her, his eyes assessing each bruise.
But he didn’t freak out like her folks had at the sight of her.
She couldn’t blame them on that count, but gratitude that Deck wasn’t losing it welled inside her.
Anger held in the fists curled at his side, his shoulders broad, his stance tight.
He wanted to take justice on who’d hurt her.
But they were a world away. It was all that consoled her.
She shuffled her feet on the de-iced porch—gravel-like pellets shifting and grating beneath the soles of her boots. “Can I come in?” she asked, the sound small. She couldn’t even keep the hurt from her voice. Beyond embarrassing.
“Of course.” Deck stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Please,” he said with a sweep of his arm.
Moving inside, he held out his arms, indicating a hug. They always hugged hello and good-bye.
He wrapped her in his arms, and she tried her best not to stiffen, but . . .
Epic fail.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” she pushed on, trying to diffuse the confusion and concern in Deck’s light blue eyes.
“Don’t be silly.” Andi moved to wrap her arm around her shoulders, and she jerked back. Again, not of her own accord.
Andi frowned but quickly masked her disappointment.
“Andi, why don’t you get Harper some cider to warm her up.
It’s freezing out there,” Deck said, already looking out for her.
Protecting was what he did best, and why she was here, risking the questions that would come.
He would keep her safe. She trusted that with all her might, despite how her traitorous body might protest otherwise.
Riley rounded the corner, followed by Greyson—Deckard’s most trusted friend and a fellow PI in their firm.
He’d been the one to sell the practice to Deck, though she didn’t know why.
Riley stopped short as her gaze shifted to Harp’s swollen eye.
Grey held behind Riley, resting his hands on her shoulders.
Hmm. An unusual personal touch from Grey. He and Riley were close but not that level of close . . . unless she’d missed something.
Riley schooled her features from concern to softness. “Harper, I’m so glad to see you.”
Of course Riley would read the room and react accordingly.
“Let’s get you something warm to drink,” she repeated Deck’s suggestion. “Cider or cocoa?”
Her hollow stomach flipped. Comfort from food and drink, other than water, had alluded her—pounds dropping off—but she craved warmth. “Cocoa, please.”
“You got it.” Riley smiled. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen? I’ve got a whole cocoa bar set up, and we can make it the way you like it.”
Of course Riley did. She was the Christmas elf, according to her brothers. All things merry and festive, they’d said.
“I’m so glad you came,” Deck said, keeping a comfortable distance between them. All the MacLeods, Grey, and Andi kindly did as well.
She placed her order for dark chocolate and whipped cream from Riley’s plethora of offerings.
“Thanks,” she said when Riley handed her the red mug dotted with white snowflakes. She cupped it, hoping it would infuse some heat into her bones.
Deckard’s gaze flashed to the duffel bag she’d set off to the side as they’d entered the kitchen. “I hope you plan on staying awhile.”
She would thank God for Deck’s kindness, but God had abandoned her on that scrubbed hill of death.