Page 101 of Not Another Yesterday
“Shit,” he breathes.
In quick, calculated movements, Ronan turns his back to me, positioning himself between me and whatever’s out there.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“A mountain lion.”
The words sink in like ice water. I crane my neck to see past him, and there it is, crouched low, eyes locked on Ronan, muscles coiled. Perfectly still. Perfectly dangerous.
A strangled cry gurgles in my throat.
“Baby, I need you to very, very slowly back up to the house, okay?” he says.
My heart stutters. Not because we’re about two minutes away from getting mauled by a mountain lion, but because Ronan just called mebaby. I’m sure it was a slip-up, an old habit, a relic from our shared past, but still, it results in an overwhelming need to wrap my arms around him and kiss him. Maybe for the last time.
“Keep your eyes on it. Move slowly. Don’t run. Not until you’re closer to the house,” he says, low and steady, though every muscle in his body looks ready to spring.
I start to back away. Two steps, then three. I stop.
“What about you?” I whisper.
His head shakes just slightly. “It’s locked on me. I just need you to get to the house, baby. Please.”
The grass where the lion crouches shifts and rustles; it takes a tentative step out of its hiding spot, moving in slow motion as if its tempo somehow camouflages it.
I do as Ronan said, backing away slowly, my eyes darting between him and the predator.God, how far away am I from the house?The distance feels impossible. Every step is its own little battle against panic. I don’t dare go against his instructions, so I keep my eyes fixed on the broad line of his back. His shoulders rise and fall with deliberate breaths, his body taut and still, a living barrier between me and certain, painful death.
It feels like an eternity, but finally my heel knocks against wood.
That’s my cue.
I tear my gaze from Ronan, whip around, and bolt for the door. My legs are jelly and fire all at once, and I pray my sudden movement doesn’t trigger the mountain lion to pounce and tear into Ronan.
“Help!” I scream the second I slam the front door behind me. “Help! Please!”
I sprint into the living room, headed for the stairs, ready to rip Steve out of bed, or the shower, or wherever the hell he is. But I only make it a few steps before Perry barrels out of his bedroom, Saoirse right behind him in her flannel pajamas, eyes wide.
“What happened?” Perry asks, his voice a rougher version of Frank’s.
“Mountain lion,” I gasp, pointing a trembling finger toward the door. “Ran. He’s still out there.”
Saoirse lets out a strangled cry. Perry doesn’t waste a single breath. He spins and disappears into his room again. Seconds later, he’s back, rifle in hand.
“Where exactly?” he asks, calm but clipped.
“Right outside,” I say, voice shaking. “In the grass near the barn. He was keeping it distracted so I could get away.”
Perry’s already moving, Saoirse on his heels as he pulls open the front door and steps out onto the porch.
I follow, stopping at the threshold. I’m not about to get in anyone’s way, not when Ronan’s life depends on his grandfather taking the perfect damn shot.
“What’s going on?” Steve says, approaching from behind me. He reaches my side, then freezes. “Oh shit.”
Ronan is still exactly where I left him, his back to us. But the mountain lion is no longer hidden in the grass. It’s fully emerged now, ten feet from him, eyes fixed on its prey.
Perry racks the weapon, the metallicshick-shickloud enough to make my heart jump into my throat. Then he shoulders it, and I cease to breathe. This angle is crap, and I pray that Perry is a skilled marksman. One wrong move and Ronan…
“Ran, I got it in sight. Don’t. Move!” Perry shouts before he, too, sends a muttered prayer. “God, let my aim be true.”
