When I got to the little house, I walked through all therooms, searching for any sign of life. Charlie’s dolls were situated carefully on her bed just as she’d left them. She’d given them a stern talking to before we left for the beach. Telling them that they’d better behave while she was gone. Theo’s half built Star Trek, Romulan Bird of Prey model was lying on his desk, the tube of glue carefully capped. Seeing their things and knowing they may never be back to play with them almost did me in.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. There was an email notification from a Fiona Whitmore of Bluebird Literary, one of the biggest literary agencies in the country.
Dear Ashton and Tally Dupree,
Congrats on your wedding. I hope this message finds you well. I recently had the pleasure of reading your Spy vs Sigh series on Incognito, and was truly impressed. The electrifying chemistry between your protagonists and the edge-of-your-seat plot twists kept me captivated until the very end. (When does the next chapter come out?!)
I believe your work has the potential to?—
I clicked the lock button, turning off the phone. It was the sixth similar email I’d received since the day…Tally went missing. They were all the same. All wanting to sign a contract, or at the very least, requesting a phone call. It’s what Tally and I had hoped for, but without her…
If I knew she was coming back, I would’ve pursued them. But as it was, how do you tell an agent that, just kidding, my actual life is just as drama-filled as the book I’ve written, and the co-author is MIA, maybe, probably forever?
You don’t.
I set the phone on my desk and sat down in front of my computer.
I checked our Incognito chat thread twenty times a day, hoping Tally would message me there, but as always, it was blank.
As I stared at our empty message screen, desperation attempted to do me in one more time. Maybe if I left a message, she would see it. Then again, maybe it would somehow give her away. I didn’t know how. Our accounts were private. But I had no idea if there were hackers looking for any information they could find about the Hawkins’s whereabouts.
I lifted my hands from the keyboard and walked to the floor to ceiling windows on the back of the house that overlooked the woods. How was I supposed to finishSwoonwithout her? If I set Jack and Raven up for another mission, our readers would definitely be expecting a third book. We’dpromisedthem a third book. But I couldn’t write another book without Tally. I wouldn’t. ShewasRaven.
I sat down at the desk. After a half hour of typing, deleting, typing, and deleting again, finally, inspiration struck. The ending would divide readers, sure, but it felt right. If Tally came back—please, let her come back—we'd have solid ground. And if not, well, some stories are best left a little unfinished. I turned off my phone to avoid any distractions, laid my fingers on the keyboard and got to work.
Three hours later, after the sun had set, I was finally done. It needed to be edited but I’d done Jack and Raven’s story justice. I turned my phone back on.
My head came up at the sound of an ambulance in the distance. We lived on a back road. It wasn’t unheard of to hear sirens, but this one sounded close. My phone buzzed on the desk. It was Peyton. I pressed the green check button to answer.
“He—”
“Ashton!” Peyton cried like a woman who’d witnessed something horrible. An ambulance tone blared through the phone at the same time that I heard it outside, even closer.
I stood with a jolt. “Peyt, what’s going on? Are you here at the ranch?”
“It’s F-F-Ford.” She sobbed. “You have to come. I’m at his house. He o-o-overdosed.”
Adrenaline ripped through my body. I sprinted down the hall and out to my truck. My keys were in the ignition as always whenever I was here or at my parent’s ranch. The engine cranked to life and I flew up the road.
When I screeched into the circular driveway, the ambulance almost ran me over, heading back out. Peyton was on the sidewalk, curling in on herself, sobbing. I slammed my brakes in front of her and waved for her to get in.
“What happened?” I asked, smashing the gas pedal to the floor before she had the door all the way shut.
She climbed across the bench seat of my truck and tucked herself against me, crying. “I t-tried to call you but you didn’t answer.”
“I’m so sorry. I turned my phone off.”
“Ford sent me some texts.” She whimpered. “I knew something was wrong. The way he was talking wasn’t normal. He’s usually all swagger and pick up lines. But these were so…” She croaked. “Heartbreaking. So I got in my car and came as fast as I could. I called Lemon. Everyone’s on their way.”
“Was he awake when you got to him? Is he awake now?”
She shook her head, her face surrendering in grief. “He wasn’t breathing and he was so blue. I had to do CPR.” She laughed through her tears. “He finally got his way and I had to put my mouth on his.” But then she sobbed again.
If Ford made it, it was because of her. He’d texted the right person. With my bitterness and jackass behavior lately, Iwouldn’t have taken him seriously. I was sick in my gut, ashamed of myself.
My shaking fingers tightened around the steering wheel. This was my fault. I’d been terrible to him. All the years of drugs and alcohol were a cover up for a pain he clearly couldn’t handle on his own. I should’ve been better. Should’vedonebetter by him. Especially this past week. He was family! What was wrong with me?
The worst thought of all was,when was the last time I told him I loved him?I couldn’t even remember it. We were cowboys. Born and bred to be tough. We kept our feelings close to the chest.
