Page 1 of Whispers of My Skin

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Please God, don’t let the car overheat.

Just let it keep going, please.

Shit, the traffic light just turned red, damn it!

I’m sorely tempted to ignore it and keep going.

But the speed camera atop the metal structure stops me—I can’t afford the luxury of picking up a stupid traffic fine on top of everything else. In my previous existence, I wouldn’t have worried about such a trivial matter, but everything changes when you’re running on an empty bank account.

Do I have the faintest clue what I’m doing?

Not in the slightest. But don’t judge me, not when you know nothing about me or how I ended up in this God-awful predicament.

I’m Tara.

Tara Rhett. Nice to make your acquaintance.

I glance once more at the dashboard of my old Mercedes Benz, or to be more precise the needle that marks the engine temperature. It doesn’t look good and I still have a long way to go.

I have to get there, I must. It’s not that my life depends on it—not at the moment anyway—but my whole future is riding on where I’m headed.

The damn light remains unchanged. All I see is red. Both the traffic light and the warning light indicating the engine could expire at any second. Much like my life really.

For fuck’s sake, how much longer is this light going to keep me waiting here?

Please change. Please. It’s not too much to ask, is it?

Finally, finally the damn thing turns green, and I speed through the intersection as if I were driving a flashy sports car instead of this worn out heap. Thankfully the engine cools after a few minutes of easy running on the highway, and I heave a sigh of relief, because it looks as if I’m going to make it there now.

I’ve no idea what I’m going to do if he turns me down. I don’t have a Plan B. I’m out of options and out of time.

This has to work.

One way or another.

Don’t give up, you’re not a quitter, I keep telling myself. You can do this. Faith over fear, Tara.

As I take the route instructed by the faceless voice on my phone, the landscape that stretches in front of me changes with every mile as I leave the city behind me. Fewer houses, less traffic, more trees, fresh air.

I love the open country, I always have. I might be a city girl from San Antonio, but there’s always been something about the countryside that calls to me on a basic level. The peace intoxicates me, rescues me from the dark place where I’m mired in problems.

Before too long, the computerized voice informs me that my destination is a few hundred feet ahead.

The moment of truth has arrived.

I’ve always hated asking for any kind of favors, or feeling indebted to anyone. That’s not my way.

And yet, here I am swallowing my pride.

“You have reached your destination,” the voice announces once more—as if I could have missed the large ‘Dale Ranch’ sign.

It’s an older building, probably been here for at least fifty years, but it looks tidy and well maintained. The lawn has been recently cut and is still green despite the scorching heat. However, there’s not a single flower bed or decorative shrub, no chairs or tables with pretty umbrellas to sit under while sipping a cool beverage. Clearly, this is a functional, no-frills workplace, from the open doors of the barn and the warehouse, where some people are milling around, to the corral ahead of me.

So far, so good.

Taking a deep breath, I gather every last piece of courage as I slowly ease out of my car, put my cell phone in my purse, and head for the door.

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