Page 97 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“He was the first to ride out,” Marigold tells me. “As soon as we got the call, he went to start the search. He’s got a sat phone with him. Don’t worry.”

I nod, chewing at my lip. “How old is the girl?”

“Ten,” Marigold says softly.

So young. She must be freezing in this weather. And scared.

My heart aches for her.

Mrs. Darling gives my shoulder a squeeze. “They’ll find her,” she says again, sounding as if she’s reassuring me more than herself. “It’s not even dark out yet. There’s plenty of time.”

I nod quickly, not wanting to add to her burden with my worry. “Right. It’ll be fine.”

Her smile is wan.

Once the final search crew is ready to go, Colton starts doling out directions. He’s utterly serious for once, his usual smile and easygoing attitude absent. The first group left shortly after Jackson went out, taking trails to the east of where the girl went missing. Colton’s group will head west.

“We ready?” he asks them.

Everyone nods, and they walk out into the rain. I watch from the porch with Marigold, feeling useless.

“I got lost once when I was seven,” I tell her, a hand on my stomach. “Or so I’m told. I don’t actually remember it, but my mom likes to tell the story. We were shopping. I didn’t even go far. They found me inside a circular rack of clothes. But for the fifteen minutes it took, my mom was terrified.”

Marigold nods, her expression pinched.

“I hate to think of what they’re feeling,” I admit. “The girl. Her family.”

“Tara,” she says gently. “That’s her name.”

I nod in a jerk. “Tara. We should have blankets and cocoa ready for when she’s found. She’ll need to warm up. And…her parents?” Marigold nods, a confirmation. “They’ll want to see that their daughter is safe.”

Mrs. Darling wraps her arm around my shoulder, squeezing once before leading me back toward the door. “We’ll do just that.”

Marigold and I pull blankets out of the cupboard, setting them on the coffee table in the living room. We don’t make the cocoayet, but we ready the mix and collect mugs. After that, she excuses herself to check in with Hank, and I pace.

I pace the living room, peeking out through the window toward the horse barn. Everyone’s already gone. I pace past the couch, refolding one of the blankets before setting it back down. I pace the perimeter of the braided, oval rug that takes up most of the floor space and then head to the dining room to pace past the long windows at the back of the house.

With a stutter inside my chest, I spin and jog up the stairs. I grab my raincoat, throw it on, and head out the door.

The rain mists my face as I make my way to the horse barn. I can’t say I’m thinking all that rationally, but I can’t sit inside and do nothing. I want to help.Needto. And another set of eyes couldn’t hurt, right?

I almost expect my efforts to be fruitless, but when I get to the barn, I find Shorty still within his stall. I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s the only horse I’ve ridden, and I’m not sure I would have been able to saddle another. But I find his gear, and I lead him into the hallway, knowing exactly what to do.

Shorty waits patiently while I get him ready to ride, his hoof absentmindedly scratching at the dirt a couple times. Maybe he feels the restless energy in the air, too. The crackle of danger. The oppressive fog.

I cinch his saddle tightly, but nottootight, just like Jackson taught me. I adjust the stirrups to the length I know I’ll need. Then I fit the bridle over Shorty’s face, running my trembling hand along his nose as his breath huffs against my skin.

“We’ve got this, Shorty. Right?”

He huffs again.

Once he’s ready to go, I check the saddle one last time. Deciding Shorty isn’t holding a big breath just to sneak in an extra inch of wiggle room, I grab the reins and jump up onto his back.

“All right, Short-stuff. Let’s go.”

Instinct has me ducking as we travel through the doorway out of the barn, even though there’s plenty of headroom. Shorty’s ears flick when the rain starts pelting us. It’s not coming down too hard at the moment, but it’s not particularly comfortable, either. I give Shorty’s neck a rub, offering him a silent thanks for his cooperation.

We head along the soft, muddy path toward the start of the trail. We’re near the tree line when I finally look back at the house. There’s no one running after me. No one telling me to stop. No one at all, as far as I can tell.

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