By the time the sky starts lightening with the first weak glimpses of sun, my brain feels as though it’s been wrapped in cotton wool, foggy with exhaustion and dread. When Jesper rejoins me in the kitchen, I’ve long since come to the realization that I will be completely useless in the search for Nate. I can’t fucking ride well enough to be any help whatsoever. In fact, I’d probably just slow everyone down. Just like when Max was hurt, I’m incompetent and good for nothing but worrying.
“Let’s go, son,” Jesper says, pressing a hand to my shoulder as he passes. I push to standing as my legs automatically comply with the order, and trail after him as we leave the house, ground soggy beneath our boots.
“I’m not a good rider,” I remind him. “I’ll just slow everyone down.”
“We’re taking the truck,” he responds, clicking the key fob and sending light arcing across the dark yard. “Axel and the rest of the guys have already left on horseback. We’ll drive the roads. Slim chance he’ll have made it down on foot, and an even slimmer one that nobody will have spotted him if he did, but we can’t make any assumptions.”
Without argument, I climb into the passenger seat and keep my gaze trained on the window. My eyes already burn from a sleepless night, but I hardly blink as we drive slowly along the empty roads. Every now and then, Jesper’s phonepings with a text message and he glances at it before continuing on. I don’t ask. If the messages were good news, he’d tell me.
Several times, I think I see movement in one of the fields lining the road, but each time it’s nothing more than tall grass or a tree that’s vaguely man-shaped. We startle several deer, but see nothing else living.
Two hours of driving five miles an hour down abandoned roads and Jesper’s phone rings. Fear so heavy in my throat I can hardly breathe around it, I watch as he brings it to his ear. He listens for barely thirty seconds before dropping the phone back into the cupholder and swinging the truck around in a violent U-turn.
“They found him.”
23
Nate
I slideoff the rump of the horse and stagger, hip smarting in pain so sharp my vision wavers. Fingers shaking violently with cold, despite the borrowed Carhart I’m wearing, I pat the horse in thanks. Mr. Paulson steps out on the porch, raising a hand. I lift my own in reply, too tired to yell a greeting. At the sound of an engine, I turn to watch my uncle’s truck fly down their gravel drive, dust kicking up around it and rocks pinging off the side. He’s gunning it, as though it’s a highway and not someone’s driveway.
“Thanks,” I tell the man who let me ride double behind him.
“No problem,” he says, nodding toward Mr. Paulson, before turning his horse toward the barn. I take a step toward the truck, wanting to see Marcos and knowing he’s inside.
Uncle Jes’ truck isn’t even fully stopped, before the passenger door is flung open and Marcos emerges. Too tired and cold and in pain to do anything else, I open my arms andwait for him. I’ve barely caught a glimpse of frantic brown eyes before he’s pressed against me.
Instead of barreling into me the way I’d been expecting him to, he’s as gentle as though he’s hugging an infant. My heart beats sluggishly in my chest and I close my eyes for a second, breathing him in. I can feel his hands clenched tightly in the fabric of the jacket, low on my back, as he hugs me. He lets go much sooner than I’d like, but when I try to grab him back he only snatches my hands from the air.
“Come on,” he says, voice tight and expression more serious than I’ve ever seen it. I try to smile at him, but my facial muscles don’t seem to be working. I’m too tired to try. He tugs me gently along, both of my hands clasped between his. “Come on. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine! I’m sorry I’m late,” I tell him, and he makes a distressed noise. Jesper rounds the truck and joins us on the passenger side. He puts a hand on the back of my head, running it down my hair to my neck and squeezing. I smile. “Hey, Uncle Jes.”
“Let’s change those clothes quick, kid. You’re soaking wet,” he tells me, as Marcos tugs down the zipper of the Carhart jacket. I’m grateful for his help—my fingers feel like sausages and I probably couldn’t have managed on my own. I’m at the point where I’m simply too tired to move; too tired to pay close attention to any words they’re saying.
Marcos silently removes my filthy and sodden clothes, tossing them into the bed of the truck and helping me into fresh ones handed to him by my uncle. In less than two minutes, I’m changed into dry clothes. I want to make a joke about being naked on the driveway, but can’t get it up. Too exhausted to do anything more than stand here, I onlymanage a small smile for Marcos when he meets my eye again.
“Hi,” I greet him. He puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me, which, honestly, does far more than the dry clothes in helping me feel better. Now, if I could just crawl into bed and sleep all day, I’d be fine.
I struggle climbing up into the truck, pain flaring to life in my chest and pelvis. I clamp my mouth closed to keep any sounds from escaping, and settle in as gingerly as I can. Uncle Jes has the heat blasting, and fiddles with the vents so that they’re pointing at me while Marcos clips my seat belt into place.
“I’m fine,” I tell them, and am ignored. My uncle is talking but the words don’t make sense to me, and it’s hard to make myself pay attention. I lean against Marcos as we turn around in the driveway, and start heading home. I don’t know why I’m shaking so badly—I’m not even that cold. I close my eyes.
“Stay awake,” Marcos tells me, nudging my leg.
“I’m really tired.”
“I know,” he says softly. “But keep your eyes open. Once you’re warmed up, you can go to sleep, okay?”
“Horse fell,” I tell them, opening my eyes quickly enough to see Jes nod. “Ran off before I’d even stood back up. We need to find her.”
“She’s at the barn. No worse for wear other than a nasty scrape and likely some strained muscles. I’ll call the vet out to check the pair of you out.”
I laugh, but stop quickly as pain lances through my ribs. Ouch.
“Are you hurt?” Marcos asks again. I look at him, willing my tired brain to focus. He’s so lovely and handsome and serious. God I love him. “Nate. Are you hurt? Or just cold?”
“I’m not even that cold,” I argue, and the truck picks up speed as though my uncle put his foot down. “My leg hurts a little bit, and my ribs. But it’s not bad. I just landed weird, that’s all.”
