The woman’s voice softened even more. “Honey, you don’t gotta apologize for stayin’ alive. I’m Abilene Willow. You’re on my land, the Windy Willow Pastures. You’re lucky I came up this way today.”
“My name is Rick.” He said the most common name he could think of that’d be too hard to research. “Rick Johnson.”
“Well, Rick Johnson, you picked the coldest darn night of the year to run off.” She paused, then asked gently, “That stick…are you…vision-impaired?”
He exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, I am.”
“Oh, bless you.” Her compassion deepened thick as a quilt. “You can ride back to the house with me. It’s quite a ways to walk.”
“I can manage.”
“Sweetheart, it’s half a mile. Come on now. You can trust me.”
Her voice eased through him, kind, steady, impossible not to trust.
He heard the ATV’s motor click as it idled lower. The subtle vibration in the soil told him exactly where it was, and he walked straight to her.
“Well, shoot,” she said with a chuckle. “You said you’re blind?”
He smiled faintly. “Last time I checked.”
He climbed on, scooted as far back as he could and rested his hands on the seat edge, careful not to touch her.
The engine roared to life, and as Abilene took off, the scents in the air changed to the sharp, woody smell of pine and the muskiness of animals. The farther she drove, the stronger it got.
Abilene slowed, shouting over the motor, “Almost there!”
After a few minutes of bumping over uneven terrain, she came to an abrupt halt and shut the vehicle down. The buzz of the engine was replaced by the sound of hooves clomping on packed dirt, men talking, and barking dogs.
She helped guide him down, although he didn’t need it.
“What kind of farm is this?” he asked.
“We raise chicken, cattle, hogs, but primarily goats. We sell the best goat cheese on the East Coast, and we’re the only farm in northeast, North Carolina with organic, grass-fed cows.”
He could hear the pride in her voice and found himself smiling despite the cold. “Sounds nice.”
She led him into a blissfully warm house that still smelled like breakfast. The aroma of coffee, eggs, bacon, maple syrup—and was that cinnamon rolls—made his stomach roar.
“Sorry,” he murmured, embarrassed.
“Don’t be. I’m sure you’re starving. You sit yourself right here.” She guided him onto a stool in front of a counter. “Let me fetch my husband.”
“Okay,” he whispered.
It made sense she’d alert her husband to the strange man she’d found hiding in the barn and was now in his home.
He counted her footsteps as she crossed the hardwood floor and faded through another doorway.
The silence left behind tiny details he never would’ve paid attention to if he still had his sight. The muted hustle and bustle of people working outside, the hum of a refrigerator to his right, wood crackling in a fireplace in another room, the ticking of an old clock over his head. And even more strange, the beat of his own heart.
Minutes later, heavy boots stomped through the door. “Abi, why’d you holler for me to come all the way back up here? My breakfast ain’t even got to my stomach yet.”
“Because you need to meet our visitor,” she bit back. “And try to use some manners for once.”
The banter was easy, affectionate, and Gage could hear the smiles in their voices.
Determined steps came to a halt a few feet away from him, and Gage instantly read the man’s build from the way his breath drifted down on him. He was tall, six-foot-two, maybe three. The low gravel of his deep, commanding voice made him envision a solid, barrel-chested man who could probably handle himself.
