“I’m just saying, Saramaria,” he murmurs, his tone careful. “The papers are complicated. There’s a lot of history there. We can sit down with them in the morning, go over everything line by line. There’s no need to make decisions while you’re upset.”
Upset. The word makes my teeth grind together.
I stop walking and turn to face him. The flashlight beam catches his eyes, reflecting the light back at me. He looks tired. There are lines around his mouth that weren’t there a few days ago.
“I’m not upset, Rhett,” I say, keeping my voice even though my heart is fluttering like a trapped bird. “I’m furious. There’s a difference. And I don’t need you to hold my hand while I read my own grandfather’s betrayal.”
He sighs, a sound that’s more air than noise. “He didn’t betray you. He was trying to secure the ranch’s future.”
“By giving it to you?” I snap.
“By ensuring it was maintained,” he corrects me gently. “Look, we can talk about this. We can argue about this. But not tonight. It’s late. The storm is here. Let’s just get through the night, okay?”
I look away from him, staring at the darkness of the living room beyond. “Fine,” I say. “Talk in the morning. Whatever.”
I turn and walk into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. I don’t slam it—I’m not a child—but I close it with enough force to make a point.
I’m alone in the dark.
I click off the flashlight. The room is pitch black, save for the faint gray light filtering through the heavy curtains. The silence is heavy, broken only by the muffled sound of the wind beginning to pick up outside.
I stand in the center of the room, my breath coming fast. I feel it rising in me, that familiar, suffocating tide. The OCD. It usually lives in the back of my mind, a neat little compartmentalized box I keep shut with rules and routines. But tonight, the box has shattered.
The day has been a violation of everything I need.
I woke up to a schedule that wasn’t mine. I drank coffee that was too bitter. I drove into town and heard people saying vile things about a woman I know. I walked around in the cold and the damp. I came back to find three Alphas invading my space. I burned my grandfather’s things—something that went against every instinct I have to preserve and protect.
And now this. The power is out. The darkness is absolute.
I walk over to the bed, the mattress squeaking slightly as I sit down. I reach for the nightstand, my fingers fumbling in the dark for my book.Her Highlander’s Surrender. I need to read. I need to escape into a world where the problems are solved by a brooding man in a kilt and a love that conquers all.
My hand finds the cover, but I pull back. I can’t read. There’s no light. The flashlight battery will die if I use it for reading, and I need to save it in case of an emergency.
I stand up again, pacing the small rectangle of the floor. I feel gritty. I feel dirty.
I need a shower. I need to wash away the smell of the smoke, the grime of the day, the feeling of the town’s judgment on my skin.
I remember the pipe. The broken pipe in the bathroom that Boone looked at days ago hasn’t been fixed yet. Or maybe I did? No, it still leaks. And even if it didn’t, the water pump runs on electricity. No power, no pump.
And even if there was water, I’m not going outside. I’m not walking across the dark, freezing yard to the shower cabin Knox uses. Not in this rain. Not with the wind howling like a banshee.
I feel trapped.
I look at my hands in the dark. I can see the faint outline of them. I imagine the germs. The dirt from the feed store, the gasoline from the pumps, the soot from the fire pit. It’s on me. It’s coating my skin.
I rub my hands on my jeans, but it doesn’t help. I need to be clean. I need order.
I strip.
I pull off my sweater, tossing it onto the floor. I kick off my boots, not caring where they land. I unbutton my jeans with shaking fingers and shuck them off. I stand in my underwear in the freezing cold room, shivering.
I need different clothes. I need clothes that are clean. That are safe.
I fumble in the drawer, my hands brushing against soft fabric. I pull out a pair of loose cotton shorts and a thick, oversized sweater. Socks. I need warm socks.
I dress quickly, the fabric sliding over my skin. It feels better. Not perfect—my skin still feels crawly—but better.
I climb into bed. The sheets are cold, but I pull the quilt up to my chin, burrowing into the mattress. I close my eyes.
