The drive back down the mountain was just as tedious as going up. Then her headlights swept across the road before her—and her heart stopped.
A tree lay sprawled from one side to the other.
“Oh my god!” Her whisper was drowned out by the rain slapping the car.
The tree was too large to drag. Branches tangled across the narrow descent like a barricade. It hadn’t been there minutes ago.
Fern stared through the fast-moving windshield wipers, pulse roaring in her ears as she tried not to panic.
But there was no way down. She could turn around again and drive back up, hoping more trees didn’t block the road. There must be more than one road on the mountain, but she couldn’t locate a route without her phone.
Her hands were locked so hard on the wheel that her fingers grew chilled.
She slammed the car into park and sat there, rain pounding the roof, heart hammering so hard it made her chest ache. She dumped her bag again, even though she knew better. The phone wasn’t there.
She dragged in a deep breath. “I took all the precautions. Sometimes life just isn’t perfect.” Speaking the words solidified them in her brain and chased away the last remaining echoes of Chris’s voice in her head.
Headlights flared in her rearview mirror, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
A truck emerged through the downpour behind her, dark and solid, headlights cutting through the rain. Relief hit fast, loosening something tight in her chest before logic could catch up.
A black truck.
The ranch trucks were black.
The rain came down too hard to make out logos or markings. She let herself believe—just for a second—that someone had noticed she hadn’t checked in. Crew. Maybe even Upchurch.
The thought steadied her enough to breathe.
She stayed in the cab, watching as the truck pulled in behind her and stopped.
Her relief didn’t erase her caution. She didn’t open the door right away. She cracked the window instead, rain splashing in, cold against her skin.
The driver’s door of the other truck opened.
A man stepped out.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark jacket plastered to him by rain.
Not Crew.
Her stomach tightened.
He didn’t approach immediately. He stood there for a beat, rain streaming down his face, then took a few steps closer—but not too close.
Just like Upchurch had that day.
Fern pushed her door open and stepped out cautiously, rain drenching her in seconds. She stayed beside the car, one hand braced on the door. “The road’s blocked,” she called. “Tree down.”
“I know,” the man said.
His voice carried easily through the rain.
“I saw it fall.”
Something cold snaked down her spine.
She didn’t move closer. Didn’t relax her grip on the door. “I’m waiting it out,” she called to him. “Storm should pass.”
