Page 61 of Taken Away

FOURTEEN

Blackwood Ridge Road

Mabel’s House

The ride back down the mountain was wrapped in a heavy silence. The Range Rover’s headlights sliced through the thick hemlock branches lining the narrow switchbacks, the dashboard casting a soft blue glow over the dark leather interior. Low from the speakers, the blues-soaked rasp of Chris Stapleton’s guitar vibrated through the floorboards—a slow, gravelly track about old ghosts and cold whiskey that filled the cabin without requiring either of them to break the quiet. Outside, the mountain fog had rolled back in, thick and spectral, swallowing the valley below.

Aubrey leaned her head against the headrest. The polished composure she'd worn through dinner had completely faded, leaving her hollowed out by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The music played softly, making it easier not to say anything at all.

Bennett kept his eyes on the dark road, one hand loose on the top of the wheel. He’d unbuttoned his charcoal jacket, his broad frame relaxed into the driver’s seat, but the tension hadn’t left him. He hadn’t spoken since they left the valet.

The Range Rover slowed as they cleared the final vineyard turn, the white hydrangeas of the Victorian appearing in the high beams. Bennett pulled the vehicle under the porte-cochere and shifted into park, but he didn’t turn the engine off. The music drifted down to a quiet murmur.

“Eli swapped the locks, and Moose is inside,” Bennett said, his rough baritone steady against the low idle of the engine. “You’re secure, Langford. I’m heading back up to the ridge.”

Aubrey's hand hovered over the door handle. A sudden, ridiculous cold hit her at the words. She didn't want him to leave—didn't want to step over that threshold alone into a massive, dark house haunted by Mabel's memory and the prowler she'd seen outside its windows.

She swallowed the pride that had been keeping her upright all night and turned to look at him.

“At least come in and check the house,” she said, her voice sounding small. “Just the downstairs. Then you can leave.”

Bennett’s eyes flicked to her, his gold-flecked gaze narrowing in the dashboard light. He tracked the tight line of her shoulders beneath the emerald silk, recognizing the first crack in her carefully maintained composure. He didn’t drop a smug remark. He didn’t needle her.

“Yeah,” he muttered, reaching for the ignition. “All right.”

He cut the engine. The sudden silence of the mountain night rushed into the car, cutting Stapleton’s voice off mid-verse.

They walked up the porch steps together, the humid June air settling over them like a damp blanket. Aubrey’s keys chimed softly in the quiet. When she threw the door back, the amber foyer light caught Moose already waiting, his heavy tail giving a single, lazy thud against the floorboards before he stepped up to nudge Aubrey’s hand.

Bennett stepped past her into the dark living room, his tall frame throwing a long shadow across the pine floors. He didn’t rush. He moved through the downstairs with a quiet, practiced deliberateness, checking the window seals Eli had worked on, testing the heavy deadbolt on the back sunroom door, and checking the pantry locks. His boots were silent against the rugs, his jacket already slung over the back of a kitchen stool.

Aubrey waited by the island, heels kicked off, standing barefoot on the cool soapstone as she watched him finish the sweep.

Bennett walked back into the kitchen, plowing a hand through his dark hair. “Everything’s tight, Aubrey. Windows are pinned. The dog’s settled.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders finally dropping. “Thank you.”

Bennett picked up his suit jacket, but he didn’t put it back on. He hooked it over one finger, his large frame taking up entirely too much space in the quiet kitchen. He looked at her for a long moment, tracking the light in her hair against the emerald dress. The arrogant, teasing viticulturist from the patio was gone. In his place stood the man who’d made a life out of the dirt.

“You belong at the head of that table,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that carried an absolute, protective weight. “Don’t let Vanessa or anyone else make you think you don’t belong here.”

Aubrey’s throat went dry, and she couldn’t summon her polished reply fast enough.

Bennett’s mouth twitched into the briefest ghost of a smile, his eyes lingering on her mouth for one final, critical beat. He glanced toward the staircase, then back at her bare feet on the cool stone.

“Downstairs is tight,” Bennett muttered, his voice a low rumble in the quiet house as he swung his jacket back over his shoulder and started toward the foyer. “Let’s check the wings.”

Blackwood Estate

Upstairs

Aubrey followed a step behind him up the staircase, acutely aware of the broad set of his shoulders beneath his crisp white shirt and the way the amber hallway sconces caught the hard angles of his jaw. Her heart was already beating a fraction too fast—the lingering adrenaline of the prowler mixing with the sheer, suffocating proximity of the man in front of her.

They checked the master bedroom first—both of them avoiding looking too closely at the massive four-poster bed—before Bennett turned toward the eastern wing.

He pushed open the door to the guest room.

The amber nightlight from the hall spilled across the crisp white linen duvet, catching on a small pile of black silk and sheer lace she’d left at the foot of the mattress before dressing for dinner.