Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I’m so sorry, Lorne.
I step forward, holding my gaze on Conor and my arms up.
The man reaches my side and stabs the syringe into my neck while pressing the plunger.
The sting brings my hand up to slap at it. I’m certain he hit a major blood vessel, because all movement and thought instantly slows down.
I take a step, and fuck, that’s hard. Everything seems like too big of a task.
I wave a hand out in front of me, reaching for something to grip as I float, spin, and tumble into blackness.
With clenched teeth, I wrestle a calf into position and sweep my gaze over the corrals for the hundredth time. Raina’s been gone a while.
How long? Thirty minutes? Longer?
My chest tightens. She should’ve been back by now.
I drop the branding tools and jog toward the chutes, dialing Erin’s phone along the way.
It goes to voicemail.
My scalp chills. If Erin stayed between here and the house, she wouldn’t be out of service range.
I try again.
Voicemail.
“Jake!” I search for his wide shoulders amid the chaos of herding and sorting cattle and spot him near the trailers. “Jake!”
He wraps up his conversation with a ranch hand and strides toward me.
“Raina’s been gone too long.” My heart hammers as I approach him. “Erin isn’t answering my calls.”
His gaze drifts across the field, and his eyebrows knit beneath the hat.
“Fuck.” He removes his phone and makes a call.
An eternity comes and goes before his dark eyes flick to mine. “Conor isn’t picking up.”
We alert Jarret and race to the house on horseback.
It’s the longest ride I’ve ever taken. Longer than the ride to hunt down Conor’s rapist. Longer than the ride in the police car after I killed Wyatt Longley. Longer than the eight years I spent behind bars.
My mind plunges into a howling abyss of nightmares that ends with Raina and Conor lying bloody and lifeless on the kitchen floor.
Jake and I reach the back porch, dismount, and charge into the house.
Music blasts into us as we open the door. Deafening and eerie, the raspy voice croons an alternate version of Ain’t No Sunshine through the speakers.
I know the song well, but this isn’t a cover I’ve ever heard.
“Raina!” I bellow over the din.
Jake takes off toward the office, and the chilling melody follows me into the empty kitchen.
A partially packed cooler of food sits on the floor. Unfinished meal preparations scatter the counters.
My stomach bottoms out.
I check the mudroom, common areas, bedrooms, and both porches. No one’s here. No sign of struggle.
And Erin’s SUV is gone.
Did they run an errand? Raina’s not supposed to leave the property.
I try Erin’s phone again and get voicemail.
Don’t panic.
In the background of my roaring pulse, Ain’t No Sunshine comes to an end and starts again.
The humming instrumentals have an undertone of Native American influence. The original song is haunting, but this version laces my bones with ice-cold dread.
I storm toward the stereo to put my fist through it, but I pull back as Jake runs out of the office.
“Conor’s not at the clinic.” He rips his hat off and shoves his fingers through his hair. “I went through the video recordings. She stepped outside with a customer—a woman and her dog—and didn’t return.”
My hands clench so hard the joints pop beneath the pressure. “And Raina?”
“She left with Erin.” He paces toward me, his face a sheet of white and his eyes on the camera mounted in the kitchen. “Erin was at the table, monitoring the video feeds on her device. She would’ve seen Conor move out of view. I assume she left to check it out. Raina went with her willingly, but they never showed up at the clinic.”
We stare at each other through a fog of disbelief, denial, and looming dread. The heaviness of the music penetrates our crippling shock, every note resounding like a slow-firing cannon.
“This is Wovenhand.” Jake cuts his eyes to the stereo. “A twisted rendition of John’s favorite song.”
“I fucking know it’s John’s song, but how the fuck is it playing?”
“The cameras and sound system can be accessed by any device that has the password.”
“Like Erin’s.” My pulse beats beneath my skin.
“She’s either involved in this or he confiscated her electronics.”
“Change the password.”
“I already did.”
My muscles tighten as a surge of manic energy quakes through nerves and limbs.
The song is a message from John, his sick way of telling us he infiltrated our security, our guard, and our girls.
We don’t know where he is or how to find him, but we can’t just stand here. We have to go, search, hunt, and get them back.
Jake’s chest heaves as he comes to the same conclusion.
We move simultaneously.
Out the front door and through the lot, I head toward my truck. “I’ll drive.”
We jump in, and I punch the gas, palms slick and throat on fire.