"Okay, I get that. But why is everyone treating me like I'm going to break?" Emery gestured toward the production floor, where two workers had been whispering, stopped mid-conversation when they saw her, and suddenly found something fascinating to inspect on the far side of the room. "People are avoiding me. Devon keeps hovering. Your dad looked like he was going to cry when he saw me yesterday—and he’s the man with a sense of humor. What aren't you telling me?"
Gabe was quiet for a long moment. "It's probably just the combination of everything. Last of the harvest wrapping up—that's always stressful. Worry about your accident. And then there's Ethan Blackwell."
"What about him?"
"He left town two years ago. Defended someone accused of embezzlement, lost spectacularly, and it basically destroyed his reputation here—not that he had much of one, unless you did something that needed the kind of criminal lawyer that was known for either making decent plea deals, or winning.” Gabe started stacking papers with too much precision. "He's been working as a criminal lawyer in San Diego ever since. No one knows why he's come back—though we all have ideas.”
"And people think that's connected to me, how?"
"They don't. But there's speculation his return has to do with Riley's mother's case—that maybe he's here as part of her defense team or something. It's got people on edge." Gabe glanced up. "Especially Ashley, because she's in love with him, even if she thinks no one knows."
"Well, that explains a lot," Emery said, thinking of Ashley's combative behavior at the bar and the way she'd looked at Ethan like he was both salvation and damnation.
She gathered her papers and slid them into her portfolio. The harvest activity around them continued—the crush of grapes, the hiss of pneumatic presses, workers calling measurements back and forth. All of it normal, routine, the rhythm of wine production that had been happening in this valley for generations.
"I'm heading back to the guesthouse," Emery said. "Work on these authentication records somewhere quieter."
"Be careful," Gabe said, and the intensity in his voice made her pause.
"Careful of what?"
"Just... be aware of your surroundings. After the hit-and-run—" He stopped himself. "Just be careful."
Emery studied his face, seeing genuine concern beneath the stress. "Okay. I will."
She left through the main entrance, portfolio tucked under her arm and took the path that cut through the vineyard toward the guesthouse. The afternoon sun hung low and golden, painting the vine rows in warm light. Workers moved between the rows with harvest bins, their voices calling back and forth in a mixture of English and Spanish as they assessed the last blocks to be picked.
The vines, heavy with fruit, created a canopy overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze. Emery breathed in the earthysweetness of late harvest—that particular scent of grapes at perfect ripeness mixed with sun-warmed soil and autumn air.
She was admiring a hefty cluster when movement caught her peripheral vision.
One of the workers—a man she didn't recognize—was running toward her. Full sprint. His face twisted with urgency. He shouted, but the words didn’t register.
Emery opened her mouth to ask what was wrong.
He slammed into her like a linebacker, his arms wrapping around her torso as he drove them both to the ground.
A sound cracked through the air. Sharp. Distinct.
Pop! Pop!
They hit the dirt hard, Emery's portfolio flying from her grip, papers scattering. The worker covered her body with his, and she felt rather than heard his grunt of pain as another shot rang out.
"Stay down," he gasped in her ear. "Don't move."
Chaos erupted around them. Workers shouting, people running, someone screaming. The man on top of her—Jesus Christ, he was bleeding—his leg, she could feel hot wetness soaking through his jeans where it pressed against her side.
"You're shot," she said, her voice coming out strangled. "Oh God, you're shot."
"Better me than you," he managed, his breathing ragged.
Other workers flooded around them, creating a human shield. Someone was yelling into a phone—calling 911, calling for help. A woman knelt beside them, pressing her hands to the worker's leg, trying to stop the bleeding.
"The shots came from the production building," someone shouted. "The roof! I saw someone on the roof!"
"There!" Another voice, younger, pointing. "Running toward the access road!"
Two workers took off sprinting, chasing a shadow that disappeared into the tree line beyond the vineyard.
