(Engaged to Audra Sinclair)
“Fence post on the right.”
Audra’s voice cut through my concentration, and I adjusted the wheel slightly, keeping us centered on the road I could barely see. We’d fallen into a rhythm during the drive back—her watching for landmarks, me keeping us steady, both of us talking each other through every turn.
“Good. That means the Hendricks’ place is coming up.”
“Which means we turn left in about a quarter mile.”
“Copy that.”
In the back seat, Jet whined softly. He’d been quiet the whole drive, pressed low against the seat like he understood the stakes.
The storm had worsened in the twenty minutes since we’d left Coop with the puppies. Visibility was down to almost nothing, the headlights illuminating only swirling white. But Audra had survived a psychopathic stalker—she knew how to stay alert, how to spot details others missed. And I’d driven theseroads a thousand times in every kind of weather Montana could throw at me.
Together, we’d manage.
“There.” She pointed. “Mailbox.”
I couldn’t see it, but I trusted her. Slowed, felt for the turn, took it. The tires caught gravel instead of pavement, and something in both of us unlocked.
“We’re on the property,” she said. “We’re almost home.”
Home. The word settled somewhere in my chest.
“We made it.”
The barn was a dark shape barely visible until we were almost on top of it. I parked as close as I could, killed the engine, and sat for a moment. The wind howled outside, rocking the truck, but at least we didn’t have to drive anymore.
“We need to check the animals,” Audra said.
“I know.”
Neither of us moved. We were both aware that we’d probably just come pretty close to dying without really knowing it. We needed a second.
Then Jet barked—a sharp, impatient sound that meantget moving, humans—and the spell broke. We climbed out into the storm.
The cold hit like a physical assault. I’d thought I was prepared for it, but nothing prepares you for a Montana blizzard at full strength. The wind drove ice crystals into every exposed inch of skin, stole the breath from my lungs, made my eyes water until I could barely see. I grabbed Audra’s hand and pulled her toward the barn, Jet pressing against our legs.
The barn door fought me, the wind trying to rip it from my grip, but I got it open far enough for us to slip through. The door slammed shut behind us, and suddenly we were in warmth. Relative warmth, anyway. The body heat of animals, the insulation of hay, the absence of that relentless wind.
“Everyone okay?” Audra was already moving down the aisle, checking stalls, counting heads. “Duke, Rosie, the horses...”
I did my own count. The dogs were fine, huddled in their kennels, tails wagging despite the storm. The horses were calm, heads hanging over their stall doors, curious about the late-night visitors. Fernando the llama regarded us with his usual expression of aristocratic disdain.
“Beck.”
Something in Audra’s voice made my stomach drop.
I found her standing in front of Al Pacacino’s pen. The gate was open. The pen was empty.
“The latch,” she said. “It’s not broken. He figured out how to open it.”
That stubborn, ridiculous, too-smart-for-his-own-good alpaca had escaped. Into a blizzard. On Christmas Eve.
“He can’t survive out there.” Audra’s face had gone pale. “Not in this. He’ll freeze.”
She was right. Alpacas were hardy, but not this hardy. Not in a whiteout with windchills well below zero and visibility measured in inches.
