My headlights are my only illumination once I turn onto the highway. I press the accelerator to the floor, wishing my phone would ring and Owen’s voice would be on the other end.
That call never comes.
A hundred yards before the turnoff to the ranch, my foot slams on the brakes. My heart drops to my stomach, dread coursing through my veins when I see Smith’s SUV crashed into another SUV. Both vehicles are in the middle of the road, the driver’s side door to Smith’s car opens, and he falls out.
When he sees me, he groans, “Get out of here. Call the police.”
I should stop and help him, but something tells me this wasn’t an accident. Whoever hit him didn’t want him on the property. As I roll past Smith, the gunshot in his windshield registers. The other driver falls out of his door, and I recognize him. He was at the bar with Dusty the other night. The sick feeling in my gut intensifies, but I refuse to be deterred.
Owen and possibly his mom and sister are in trouble. There’s no way I’m leaving. Not when he’s so close. Turning onto the rough road that leads to the property, I dial 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“This is Daisy McKinnon. Please send someone to the Swift Ranch. NW Juniper off Highway Twenty in Goose Hollow. There’s been a car accident, and I believe something’s happening at the ranch.”
“What exactly do you think has happened?”
When Owen’s Jeep comes into view, I turn off the truck’s lights, not wanting to give my arrival away. “I’m not sure. I just got here. But there was an attempted murder on my life a couple of weeks ago and a fire started at my family’s ranch. I think this is all connected. Is it okay if I keep you on the line?”
“Of course. Please stay in your vehicle, and we’ll send officers your way.”
“Thank you.” I ignore her request to stay in the car. Instead, I turn the volume down in case she speaks again as I roll the truck to a stop behind the Jeep.
As quietly as I can, I get out of the truck, slipping the phone into my jeans pocket. Opening the back door, I reach under the seat, relieved when my fingertips touch the metal of Owen’s shotgun. I grew up with three brothers who taught me to shoot as soon as I was strong enough to lift the gun to my shoulder and pull the trigger, so I’m comfortable with the weapon.
Unsure of what I’m about to walk into, I rack the stock to make sure it’s ready.
I don’t see Heather’s security detail anywhere, which is less than comforting. As I creep up the steps of the house, a shout from the barn grabs my attention. I change my focus, following the voices. Once I reach the barn, I keep to the shadows as best I can, staying close to the side of the building. I trip as I round the corner, and my hand shoots out to the wood siding of the barn to stop myself from falling. I have to swallow a scream when I find Heather's bodyguard at my feet.
In the dark, I don’t see any blood, but just as I lean down to see if he’s breathing, I hear Livvy scream.
“Stop! You’re hurting him!”
Leaving the man on the ground, I rush to the other corner of the barn, peering into the open door. Icy fear dances down my spine, and rage colors my vision until all I see is red. At the far end of the barn, Owen is on his knees. His hands are bound with zip ties, and his face is a bloody mess. Heather and Livvy are ten feet to the left of him, holding onto each other, but from my vantage point I can’t see them well enough to know if they’re hurt too.
Three men stand in the middle of the hay-covered space with their backs to me. Two appear to be wearing bulletproof vests and are carrying automatic rifles. One has his weapon aimed atthe girls and the other at Owen. Yet, it’s the man without a gun who seems to be in control. He wears an expensive suit and holds a blood-soaked knife in one hand and a fist of metal in the other.
“Please let him go. Please,” Livvy pleads again.
“Miss Swift, you can take his place if you prefer?”
“No! You said, me for them. You’ve gotmenow, let them go.”
Barely containing his fury, Owen does his best to keep his tone as neutral as possible. One of his eyes is swelling closed, his face is littered with blood and bruises, yet he won’t back down.
I carefully step into the barn, halting my steps and tightening my grip on my weapon when a horse whinnies. A cold sweat dampens my forehead. My nerves ratchet up as I realize I may know how to handle a gun, but I’ve never shot a person. I’ve never even gone hunting. Still, I’m a great shot. Hell, I can shoot a can from a farther distance than all three of my brothers, but this is different.
My targets may only be thirty feet away, but I have to get off two shots with no hesitation. Once I take my first shot, the other gunman will have time to react. I have to be faster than he is. The man beating Owen doesn’t appear to have a gun, but that knife in his hand is dripping with blood. Owen’s blood.
Fuck this guy.
“You and your friends have been a thorn in my side for weeks. Your cockroach of a girlfriend refuses to die, which is very inconvenient. So… here we are.”
Owen spits in his direction only to be rewarded with a punch to the side of the head by a fist of brass knuckles. I stifle my gasp as Owen topples over. All I want to do is run to him, but that will only make matters worse. I need to think this through. There will be no second chance. I have to get this right. I pray for the sound of sirens in the distance, but I can’t hear anything other than my racing heart.
Nobody is coming to help.
“…the local idiot we hired to burn her family's property to the ground not only did a half-assed job, but got himself arrested on top of it. Since we don’t know him well enough to trust him, we had to deal with the hassle of disposing of him.”
