The thought made something dark and eager coil in his gut.
“We’re going to stop up here and take a little break,” he said, glancing at Helen again. Her face was bloody now, a bruise already blooming across her cheekbone. But he didn’t mind that. Never had.
The anticipation had his foot pressing down on the accelerator without him meaning to. The truck surged forward into the next curve?—
—and it was sharper than he remembered.
Way sharper.
He pumped the brake and jerked the wheel but the truck was already sliding, the back end fishtailing out as the tires lost their grip on the gravel. Helen screamed—high and thin and useless—as the world tilted sideways.
And then they were falling.
Trees rushed past in a blur of shadow and moonlight. The truck crashed through branches, bounced off trunks, the sound of tearing metal screaming in his ears. Helen’s screams cut off abruptly when they hit the first big impact. Harley caught a glimpse of her face—slack and empty, already gone—before his head cracked against the steering wheel.
Blood ran into his eyes, hot and thick. He tasted copper. His hands scrambled for the door handle, clumsy and uncoordinated, but it wouldn’t budge. The door was crumpled inward, jammed shut by the impact.
That’s when he smelled it.
Gasoline.
The soft whoosh of ignition came from somewhere beneath the hood. Flames licked up through the vents, greedy and bright in the darkness. Smoke filled the cab and Harley yanked at the door handle again, panic finally cutting through the alcohol haze in his brain.
It wouldn’t open.
The heat built fast. Faster than seemed possible. The flames found the upholstery and the old dry foam inside the seats and suddenly everything was burning. His clothes. His skin. The air itself.
He opened his mouth to scream and breathed in fire.
And in that last moment of clarity before the pain consumed everything else, Harley Whitlock thought of his daughter. Of the way she’d looked at him beneath that oak tree, blood running down her back, and spoken his fate with absolute certainty.
Your death is near, and it comes with screams of horror and flames.
The little witch had been right after all.
Chapter Three
Present Day
“Beckett Hamilton! I’ve got something to say to you.”
Beckett stopped in the middle of his tracks and closed his eyes, praying the shrill voice that was the equivalent of nails scraping across a chalkboard was a figment of his imagination.
“Are you listenin’ to me?”
Not a figment of his imagination. He should’ve listened to his father when he’d warned him to stay clear of town. Women were nothing but trouble. And this one was more trouble than most.
He’d been up since before dawn with his father at the barn. They’d been culling cows that weren’t fertile to sell off, and administering vaccinations to the ones that were pregnant or still had breeding potential. After that, he’d ridden out to the hay field to check on a baler that was acting up, and while he’d been out there he’d noticed a section of fence had fallen down. Life was never boring at Hamilton Ranch.
He’d already put in a full day and it was barely noon. His muscles ached and a fine layer of dust coated his clothes. He wouldn’t have it any other way. But he’d gotten cocky. A good day’s work and a crisp, clear day, and he’d decided he’d have lunch in town with Levi and Hank O’Hara.
It had been at least a month since he’d thought of Hazel Trout—maybe six weeks. They’d gone out a handful of times over the course of a few weeks, but by the third date he’d realized they had nothing in common. She was sweet enough, but every conversation felt like work, and he’d known it wasn’t fair to either of them to keep pretending there might be something there. So he’d ended things gently—or so he thought. But apparently his version of letting her down easy and her version of being let down hadn’t aligned.
He’d always tried to be honest and upfront when he dated. The ranch had become his life, especially since his father had retired two years before and put everything in his hands. Between the cattle, the land, and keeping the business profitable, there wasn’t much time or energy left for romance. He’d learned early on to be clear about his priorities, and most women appreciated the honesty even if they were disappointed.
But Hazel had been more persistent than most. And she hadn’t been at all interested in staying friends or parting on good terms. He hated that it had come to that, but like his father said, it was his own fault for not thinking things through. Hazel wasn’t the kind of woman that would be satisfied with anything less than catching herself a cattleman. And a cattleman with money was even better. Beckett filled both those shoes.
For the last month she’d called and called. And when he’d stopped answering the phone or her texts she resorted to leaving messages. They started out sweet, but by the time she was done his ears had been ringing. He hadn’t even bothered to listen to the last dozen or so she’d sent. She’d been sighted driving past the ranch a time or two, but there was a gate that led up to the main house and he’d made sure it was closed at all times.
