And the worst, most terrifying part?
I can still feel his hands on my skin.
I can still hear his voice in my ear.
And I want to fall back asleep just to find him again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marshall
Monday
The first crack of thunder comes so sharp and violent, it jerks me awake as if someone snapped a whip above my bed.
I sit up fast, chest tight, sheets twisted around my legs. Lightning flashes white through the thin curtains, bright enough to burn an afterimage against the inside of my eyelids.
Damn.
The storm’s finally here, and it’s not a gentle one.
I scrub a hand over my face, pushing sweat-damp hair off my forehead. The bedroom is hot, too hot, too heavy with the heat wave we’ve been choking through for weeks. Storms after dry spells are the worst. Lightning without rain is a rancher’s nightmare.
Too much spark.
Not enough relief.
Then rain after a fire is almost worse than the fire itself. The ground can’t hold. If it comes down hard enough, it’ll all come rushing downhill. That can be a real nightmare.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and listen.
Not much rain.
A little wind. Just enough to make the window rattle.
But the lightning…
Another streak tears across the sky. Too close. Too bright.
I can feel the vibration all the way through the floorboards. A low thud follows, rolling over the land as a warning.
I stand, stretch my aching back, and pull on a shirt. It smells of cedar smoke and sweat and horses, my whole life, clinging to me even in the dark.
I should try to sleep, but I can’t.
My skin’s prickling.
My nerves are wired.
And my chest feels tight in that same old familiar way, the way it always gets when storms roll through too fast.
Lightning storms were Luke’s favorite. I used to tease him for it.
He loved to watch them same as most people watch fireworks—wide-eyed, amazed, buzzing with some wild energy that made him want to run out into the storm, all foolish and laughing.
My stomach knots. I force the memory back where it belongs.
I cross the room barefoot, step into the hall, and make my way toward the kitchen. The old wooden floors groan under my weight. The whole house feels restless. As if it’s bracing for something.
