Page 22 of Deacon

My body is numb with fear. My feet pump, taking me further from town. The state route is empty, or I might be desperate enough to try hitchhiking. So, I keep my eyes on the white line at the edge of the pavement and keep moving.

There’s no other option.

About three miles in, the road narrows and becomes gravel for a while before widening again. Here, I feel a little safer. I can move through the grass ditch at the edge, the woods on my left side for cover. At least, if I need to run, I won’t be out in the open.

It poses a different problem—the bridge.

I see it up ahead and, right away, my stomach sinks. Sputtering and wet, I climb out of the ditch and move down the road until I can’t get any further. The creek is swollen, red-brown water roaring over the bridge. It’s a one-lane without guardrails, and the water surging over it is moving treacherously fast.

I can’t get through that.

The only thing stronger than the disappointment is the panic. Right then, the wind gusts so hard, I stumble. My jacket rips from my hands and disappears into the creek to my left.

Fear settles in like ice.

Real fear.

I should have gone back to the café and slept on the floor until the storm broke. Now, I’m miles from town, the storm only strengthening, the temperature dropping. If I walk back, it’ll be pitch black by the time I get to the drop-off point, so I’ll have to walk two miles in the dark on the state route. If I go forward, I’m likely to drown. If I try to wait it out in the woods, I could die from exposure.

I turn, taking in my surroundings.

All around me, Ponderosa Pines stretch up to the sky. The woods are unforgiving, and if life has taught me anything, it’s that I’m vulnerable. I can be hurt.

A faint rush reaches my ears. I blink, squinting up at the road. Through the rain, two lights appear, pale white, about the level of a truck.

I don’t know what to feel. Maybe I’ll die of exposure in the woods, but I would rather do that than meet the wrong kind of man. Falling asleep and never waking up is preferable to torture.

My brain tells me to move.

My feet stay planted.

The lights get closer until I can see the vehicle clearly. It’s a huge, dark gray truck with a tire strapped to the roof. It pulls up and around to my right and stops. I’m rooted to the ground. My body is frozen, even though a scream claws its way up my throat.

The passenger door is pushed open.

There’s a man sitting in the driver’s seat. He’s tall, larger than Aiden by a few inches, and he’s broad without being bulky. His dark hair is shaved and fades up to a little length on top. It’s the same deep shade as his hooded eyes. He’s in work pants and a charcoal Henley that clings to his broad shoulders.

My pulse flutters so hard, I feel it on my tongue.

He leans over. “You need help, sweetheart?”

His voice is low with an undertone of gravel. It doesn’t sound like he raises it much.

I shake my head, speechless with fear.

“Let me take you home,” he says. “I can bring my truck over the bridge.”

Again, I shake my head. Why won’t my legs work?

He sighs, one hand resting on the wheel. It’s then I notice all the dark tattoos over his exposed skin. There are even some going up his neck to his strong jawline.

“Are you Freya Hatfield?” he says.

That catches me off guard. I clear my throat twice.

“How did you know that?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Deacon Ryder,” he says. “I live on the ranch next to your farm.”

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