Page 7 of After We Fall

I study the young woman in front of me. Her light brown skin, tawny eyes, and long legs could put her on a runway somewhere. Tanya typically hides her beauty under hats and baggy clothes, but today’s simple A-line dress to the knees accentuates her natural beauty.

“Miss Penelope? You doing okay?”

“I’m well, thank you,” I say. A giant hunk of green bean casserole clings to the serving spoon, and I shake it onto the plate.

“That’s just it. You seem almost too well. Almost relaxed.”

Refusing to give her the annoyed response her playful jab was meant to produce, I continue to forage through the leftovers. “Well, why wouldn’t I be? The wedding was lovely. The meal was wonderful. And cleanup is now in your capable hands. Of course I’m relaxed.”

Other than a headache I’ve been working on all day, I’m relaxed and relieved. There were no signs of any threat during the ceremony. I smile to myself. A certain security consultant could soon be discharged of his duties. And I will be discharged of the attraction. I shake my head. Distraction. I will be discharged of the distraction.

Tanya places the tall stack of containers on the counter. “There’s enough food on your plate to feed a pack of wolves.”

“Only one wolf,” I say under my breath. More of a panther, actually. One towering, dark, svelte panther named Luke.

The top two pieces of Tanya’s storage containers teeter, and sticking out a hand, I stop the portending avalanche.

Tanya shoves a serving dish aside and divides her pile into two shorter stacks. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re eating. I was worried you caught the arbitrary and got a stomachache.”

I don’t correct her assumption that the food is for me. There’s no need to alert the girls to Luke’s presence if he’s leaving.

I reach over the counter to nab the last piece of cornbread, thinking through Tanya’s word choice. She performed well on the GED, but her lack of vocabulary is hurting her SAT practice scores. Ever since she purchased a word-of-the-day calendar, we’ve had some confusing, if not interesting, conversations. “I think you mean dysentery,” I say.

“Right. Right. That’s what I meant.” Tanya’s responses to her word mix-ups always include a distant stare and a head nod. As if she’s trying to calculate a complex math problem, only to realize the answer she needs requires letters, not numbers.

After wishing good night to the girls, Hank, and the Holcombes, I pull my hair into a bun, wrap myself in my trench coat, and slide on my gloves. The trek from the main house on the Holcombe property to neighboring Twelve Bluebells isn’t too far, but the chilly gusts coming off the Rocky Mountains usually shoot straight through to my bones. Armed with the plate of leftovers, I head out the door.

The sheer force of the howling wind almost knocks me over. I tighten my grip around the edge of the plate, pinning the flopping foil in place. But as I walk across the fields, the chills running down my arms have less to do with the decrease in temperature and more to do with instinct.

Am I being watched?

I scan my surroundings. Well-lit houses pepper the ranch grounds, but darkness seeps between each building, the overcast moon refusing to help my visibility. The guesthouse wind chimes frantically clink as I pass.

The nearby bushes shake.

I freeze and glance in the direction of the noise. Many small- to medium-sized critters live on this land. That has to be a raccoon. Heart pounding, breath labored, I quicken my strides toward my destination.

Passing the chapel on my left, out of the corner of my eye I catch a shadow on the move.

A hulking, dark figure fast approaches. He yells, but the wind carries his words away. Whatever message he meant for me is indecipherable.

I cry out and throw the plate of food at my attacker.

Closer to Twelve Bluebells than the Holcombe ranch, I take off running toward the boardinghouse. The fence separating the properties will slow me down, but heading in that direction is my best shot at finding safety.

The barren, hardened field of late autumn challenges my high heels, and I struggle for balance with each step. On my next stride, my ankle turns. I hit the ground, nothing but my palm breaking the fall. A cry escapes as pain sears from my wrist to my elbow. Trying to gain leverage, I dig the pointed toe of my right shoe into the grass. But my foot slips and I go down on my knee.

A massive shadow bears down on me.

Solid arms hook around my waist, pull me to stand, then yank my back to his front. A gloved hand covers my mouth, muffling my effort to scream. “Penelope,” he growls in my ear. The grip at my middle squeezes, and air is forced from my lungs. He half drags, half carries my kicking body to the seclusion of the shadows on the side of the chapel. “Shh. It’s—”

With everything in me, I raise my knee and thrust the spike of my heel back into his shin. It’s not a direct hit, and my foot shanks off the fabric of his pants. A hiss sounds from behind me, but the lock across my belly doesn’t loosen. My arms flail uselessly.

Jagged breaths can’t provide me with enough oxygen, and I start to shake. I’m losing my ability to fight back. Stars dot my vision, and my weakened body sinks lower.

My attacker releases my mouth from his hold.

I know I should scream, but if I can’t get more air into my lungs, I’m going to faint.