It’s everywhere—front page of The Washington Herald, then syndicated across half the country before noon. Landon Mercer’s smiling campaign photo stares back at me every time I open my phone. Only this time, the headlines aren’t about his speeches or policy plans.
They’re about him.
And me.
And all the others.
Some women, like me, have revealed their names; others are going by Jane Doe or remaining anonymous.
I can’t escape the words splashed across screens and in print:
Congressman Landon Mercer Accused of Predatory Pattern.
Allegations of Abuse Against Colorado Congressman Stretch Across States.
Survivor Speaks Out: Colorado Vet Names Herself After a Decade of Silence.
Reporters have been calling nonstop. The clinic phone has been ringing so much that I unplugged it—so have Cade’s and my cell phones. A journalist even snuck into Blue Rock, pounding on the house door, until Tillie ran him off with a meat cleaver.
Now the gate is locked, and a hand stands guard outside, as if Cade has the resources for this nonsense. Hugh wants to help, but he has only three people, and all three are handling an influx of outsiders into Wildflower Canyon—politicians, reporters, and gawkers.
Outside the mayor’s office, a protest is demanding justice for the survivors. Signs on the news catch my eye:
Believe Women.
No More Silence.
Justice for Mercer Survivors.
Thank God it’s not calving season anymore—‘cause I’m holed up at Blue Rock with Cade and Evie, curtains drawn, doors locked. For once, the ranch feels less like open land and more like a fortress.
Joy, Mav, and Aria come by that evening with food and bourbon. Aria brings one of her pies, bless her heart, and Joy’s carrying a bottle of champagne.
“Are we celebrating something?” I ask, confused.
“Hell yeah, we are,” Joy exclaims. “The asshole is going to get his due, and that’s worth good bubbles.”
We gather in the living room after dinner—Evie istucked in bed upstairs, Bandit sprawled at the foot of her bed. Cade’s insistence that dogs don’t sleep on beds has made absolutely zero impact on where the dog sleeps.
Cade has his arm around me, but my stomach’s been twisting all day. I managed to take two sips of champagne before panic weaved through me.
“You don’t have to,” Cade tells me softly, his eyes full of empathy.
“I feel weak for being afraid of alcohol.”
“I’ve met plenty of alcoholics who don’t drink, and no one can call them weak. If it’s a trigger for you, don’t do it.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, Dove, just like that.”
He leaves his drink untouched as well, to show me I’m not odd for refusing champagne.
Mav settles into a chair, glasses perched low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone. “Have you read the article?” he asks us.
Cade nods. I shake my head.
Aria frowns. “Why haven’t you read it, Sarah?”
