Morrie had been missing for hours in this weather. If he was hurt, if he was lying out there in the rain, he could die of exposure
The thought hammered through Rowan’s mind as he guided the ATV through another sweep of the south pasture, headlights cutting through the relentless downpour. He shouldn’t have left the ranch, shouldn’t have let Sierra and Huck out of his sight, but Sierra knew how to handle a gun, and Morrie wasn’t answering his walkie. If Rowan had to tear apart every acre of this land to find him, that’s what he’d do.
Three hours of searching in the downpour had soaked Rowan through to the bone. What had started as a light evening drizzle when he’d left the ranch had turned into a relentless Colorado cloudburst that turned every dirt road into a muddy trap and reduced visibility to mere feet beyond the ATV’s headlights. His radio crackled with static as Saxon’s voice cut through the storm.
“Anything on the south section?” Saxon’s words were barely audible through the interference.
“Negative.” Rowan had to shout over the rain hammering against his helmet. “Moving toward the junction now.”
The junction. The place where three ranch properties met—Blackwood land, Jenkins land, and Tom Hendrick’s spread. It was rough country, cut by ravines and dotted with stands of pine that could hide a dozen men. If someone wanted to ambush a lone rider, it would be the perfect spot.
Rowan guided the ATV down a steep slope, the machine’s tires fighting for traction in the gloopy mud. His headlights swept across the landscape in arcs, picking out details that disappeared as quickly as they appeared—a flash of fence wire, the gleam of standing water, the ghostly shapes of cattle huddled under sparse trees.
Then he saw it.
A splash of color that didn’t belong in the monochrome world of rain and shadow. Rowan killed the engine and climbed off the ATV, his boots squelching in the mud as he approached what looked like a heap of old clothes in a drainage ditch.
It wasn’t clothes.
Morrie lay crumpled on his side, his weathered face pale and slack, his hat off, tossed away, rain streaming down his face. Blood had soaked through his denim jacket, spreading across his abdomen in a dark stain. His breathing seemed shallow and labored, each breath a visible struggle.
“Morrie!” Rowan dropped to his knees beside the unconscious man, his hands automatically checking for a pulse. Weak but steady. He grabbed his walkie. “Saxon, I found him. He’s injured.”
Static answered him, then Saxon’s voice, tense with concern. “How bad?”
“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Unconscious, lots of blood loss.” Rowan was already assessing their options. The nearest hospital was forty minutes away in good weather. In this storm, it might as well be on the moon. “I need to get him somewhere warm and dry. Call 911, tell them to meet us at the Jenkins place.”
“The Jenkins place? Rowan?—”
“It’s the closest shelter.” He refused to think about what going to his stepfather’s house would mean, couldn’t let childhood trauma interfere with saving a man’s life. “Just make the call.”
Rowan gathered Morrie in his arms, surprised by how light the wiry foreman felt. The older man had always seemed so solid, so permanent, but injury had made him almost fragile. Rowan settled him as gently as possible in the passenger seat, buckling him in.
The Jenkins ranch house sat on a rise about half a mile away, its windows glowing yellow against the storm. He fixed his eyes on those lights and drove toward them through the driving rain.
The ATV made it halfway up the sloped dirt road before the mud claimed it.
Aw. Of course. The wheels spun, kicking up mud, but no purchase, the engine whining as the machine settled deeper into the saturated earth. He tried reverse, tried rocking it forward and back, but it only wedged the ATV deeper into the muck.
“Sorry, Morrie,” he muttered, gathering the unconscious man in his arms. He carried him fireman style, arm and leg secured over his shoulder. He didn’t want to think of what he might be doing to his injury.
The guy was heavier, suddenly, than before.
The Jenkins house loomed larger as Rowan climbed the hill. Green metal roofing gleamed wet in the porch lights, and smoke rose from the stone chimney despite the rain.
Please be home.
He climbed the wooden steps, his boots echoing on the covered porch.
Rowan raised his fist and pounded on the heavy wooden door.
Catherine answered. She wore her hair pulled back in a neat bun, and her eyes widened when she saw him standing there with an unconscious man draped across his shoulders.
“Oh my goodness! Come in, come in!” She stepped back. “What happened?”
“Gunshot wound. He needs immediate medical attention.” Rowan stepped into the warmth of the house, water dripping from his clothes onto the hardwood floor. “I called for an ambulance to come here.”
“Good.” Catherine was already moving toward the back of the house. “Mack! Alden! We need help!”
