Page 12 of Guarded from Treachery

Lungs seizing, my gaze jumps from the rearview mirror, to the sides, and back again. The few cars on the road take on an ominous quality.

Is the red Honda following a careful three car-lengths behind me just being respectful? Or is the driver staying back because he’s trying to avoid detection? And what about the dark van a quarter-mile back? Is the driver innocent or biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to run me off the road?

It’s only when gray dots edge into my vision that I realize I’m holding my breath.

Exhaling heavily, I suck in greedy gulps of air until my head feels steadier and my vision clears.

Get it together.

I’m almost there. Regardless of the result, I know I’ll be safe at Blade and Arrow Security. So at least I’ll get a brief reprieve from the suffocating fear.

When I turn onto County Road 230, the last named road before I reach the Blade and Arrow ranch, I almost sob with relief as the red car and black van continue on without me.

Was it paranoia brought on by stress, as the police social worker suggested? Or a legitimate worry after everything else that’s happened?

I don’t think it’s paranoia.

No. I know it’s not. I’m not crazy, and I’m not imagining things. I just need to convince Matt of that.

As I make my way down the tree-lined road, I try to focus on calming myself down. I use that box-breathing technique I’ve read about as being good for stress—four count to breathe in, four to hold, four out, four to hold again and repeat. One at a time, I release my hands from the wheel and flex them, working the sore muscles out.

A few minutes later, the app alerts me again, telling me to turn onto a long driveway. About a hundred feet down it, I come to a tall metal gate with an intercom box on the side of the road ahead of it.

When I press the little button, my heart starts going crazy again. I never used to be the nervous type, but as of late, I feel like I’m constantly on the verge of jumping out of my skin.

Then a low voice rumbles through the speaker. “Isla?”

Oh.

Matt.

“Yes,” I answer a little shakily. “It’s me. Um. Do you need my identification or anything?”

“No.” There’s a smile in his voice, and some of the tension in my body releases. “I can see you,” he explains, “on the little camera on the gate. And I definitely remember what you look like.” As the gate opens, he adds, “There’ll be another gate closer to the ranch. About a half-mile up. I’ll let you through. Then just park out front and I’ll come out to get you.”

As the gate closes behind me, the oddest sensation comes over me. Not one of fear or anxiety, but of safety. And once I park my car outside the expansive ranch and I spot Matt standing out on the front porch, the feeling of security gets even stronger.

Matt jogs over to me as I’m getting out of the car, his expression an equal blend of pleasure and concern. His eyes are that warm chocolate color, soft with worry as he inspects my face. But his lips are curved into an almost shy smile as he says, “Isla. It’s good to see you. How are you doing?”

A beat later, his ears flush. “Sorry. That makes it sound like you’re just…” He shakes his head. “Obviously you’re not okay or you wouldn’t be here. I just meant…”

Inexplicably, my heart warms. And my lips tug up in the first smile I’ve had in weeks. “I know what you meant. It’s fine. It’s good to see you, too. And I’m feeling better now that I’m here.”

His face brightens. “Well. That’s good.” He glances back at the front door to the ranch. “You must be tired after that drive. Why don’t we get inside, I’ll grab you something to drink, and you can relax a little before we get into anything else. Does that sound okay with you?”

“It sounds good,” I reply. “As long as you don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” He gestures for me to walk ahead of him, his hand brushing against the small of my back for a moment. The brief contact sets off little zips of electricity in its wake, leaving a flush of warmth behind.

As we walk towards the ranch, instead of looking at the details of the building, like I should, I keep sneaking quick glances at him instead. Though it’s dark out, the front yard is suffused with light—both from small spotlights attached to the exterior of the ranch and twin rows of solar lanterns along either side of the path.

In profile, Matt’s features are all strong lines and angles, from his angular jaw to his Romanesque nose. A brush of stubble sets off full lips with a smile still teasing at them, and his dark hair is freshly tousled, like he was just running his hand through it.

I remember him being tall, but walking beside him like this really makes me appreciate the difference in our heights. I’m five-six, and the top of my head barely reaches his chin, so I’d imagine he’s easily six-two or taller. And he’s big—not heavy, but thick with muscle—his T-shirt stretching across a broad chest and very impressive biceps.

Should I be paying attention to how he looks when I’m here for a much more pressing reason?

Probably not. But I can’t seem to help myself.

---