Even from herself.
Chapter 5
Delaney
A lightning bolt cleaves the sky in two. I grip the reins tighter, waiting for Captain Winky to spook and throw us off, but he keeps galloping without changing direction.
The next rain slams into us sideways, and the horse screams—I’m pretty sure I do too.
One second I’m clinging to Daniel’s forearm, Captain Winky’s hooves pounding beneath us, wind whipping my hair into a weapon. The next, rain slams sideways into us—not drops, awall—and Captain Winky screams.
The sound shoots straight up my spine. Horses shouldn’t make that noise. Nothing should make that noise.
“North Line Cabin!” Daniel’s voice cuts through the chaos, his arm banding tighter around my waist. “Half a mile. Hold on.”
I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Rain sheets across my face, filling my mouth when I gasp. My fingers are numb where they’re wrapped around the saddle horn, thighs burning from gripping Captain Winky’s sides. Every instinct screamsbail, get off, hit the ground before he throws you?—
But Daniel’s chest is solid against my back. His voice is steady even when nothing else is.
“Thirty seconds. You’re doing great.”
I’m not doing great. I’m terrified and soaked and probably going to die on a horse in Montana, which is not how I pictured going out. I pictured something dignified. A heart attack at ninety, maybe. Surrounded by grandchildren I don’t have.
Lightning cracks close enough that I smell ozone, and then—a shape. Dark and listing, emerging from the gray like a drunk trying to find the bathroom.
A building. Thank God.
Daniel pulls Captain Winky to a stop under a narrow overhang that barely qualifies as shelter. He’s off the horse before I can process the movement, hands reaching up.
“Come on. I’ve got you.”
I half-fall, half-slide into his arms. My legs buckle the second they hit the ground—turns out terror makes your muscles forget how to work—but he catches me. Steadies me. His hands are warm even through my soaked shirt.
“Inside. Now.”
He loops Captain Winky’s reins around a rusted hitching post under the overhang with quick, efficient movements, then his hand is on my lower back, guiding me toward the door.
It sticks.
He shoulders it once. Twice. On the third try, it groans open, scraping against warped floorboards like it’s complaining about the interruption.
He pushes me through first, follows, and the door swings shut behind us with athunkthat echoes in my chest.
The silence hits first.
Not real silence—rain is still hammering the roof like it wants in, wind howling through gaps in the boards—but the absence of immediate drowning. My ears ring with it.
Then I register the space.
Small.Tiny. Maybe ten feet by twelve, and that’s being generous. One window, so grimy it barely lets in light. A cot shoved against the wall, a wooden chair missing a leg, shelves lined with dusty cans, and a lantern. A woodstove sits in the corner, a basket of split logs beside it, and the whole place smells like mouse droppings and forgotten decades.
“Charming,” I manage through chattering teeth. “Very... rustic minimalist.”
Daniel doesn’t laugh.
He’s already moving toward the shelves, pulling down the lantern, fumbling with a box of matches. His movements are jerky. Wrong. He drops a match, picks it up, drops it again.
His hands are shaking.
