Page 142 of Wild Sanctuary

Bales are stacked six deep along the back wall, loose hay scattered underfoot, and there are more than enough shadows to disappear in. I throw myself flat behind the nearest stack of bales and hold my breath right as Stan’s voice comes up from the barn floor.

“Daisy.”

The sing-song tone he uses is almost cajoling, and it sends a shiver down the length of my spine.

I fit myself into the gap between two bales and the outer wall, and I make myself as small as possible. I slide the paring knife out of my jeans and into my right hand, the wooden handle warm from my body. Three inches of blade is a joke against what he has.

But a joke at point-blank range in the dark is still a joke that cuts, and I may be down, but I’m not out.

My phone vibrates against my hip, low and muffled against the denim, and for one horrible second, I’m sure he’s heard it. But Stan is already speaking again, his boots shifting on the plank floor below me, and the sound of his own voice covers the sound I’ve made.

I reach my left hand around to the front of my jeans and ease the phone out of the pocket. The screen lights the hay next to my cheek a pale ghostly blue, and tears of relief prick the back of my eyelids when I see the name on it is the only name in the world I wanted to see.

Wyatt.

Hope floods my chest so hard it almost cracks me open, and I cup the phone against my sternum to smother the light before it gives me away.

I answer and thumb the volume all the way down in the same motion.

“Come on down outta that loft, darlin’.” Stan’s voice has gone coaxing. “No sense drawin’ this out.”

Say anything, Stan. Keep talking. Wyatt needs to hear you.

“I’m not lookin’ to hurt you, darlin’. Just come on down.”

A rung creaks.

I slam my eyes closed as I desperately try to get a handle on my breathing, because he’s on the ladder now. He’s on his way up, and there’s nowhere for me to turn. All I can do is press myself smaller between the bales and the outer wall, phone hugged against my chest, paring knife in my right hand.

“Just gotta get this done. Then it’ll all be over. For both of us.”

He’s coming up slowly, using one hand, meaning the gun is still in the other. My mouth is bone dry, my head is fuzzy, and it suddenly feels like there’s not enough air in my lungs.

“Come now, Daisy.”

He’s even closer.

Wyatt, please.

“I know you’re up here, darlin’. It’s just us now.”

33

WYATT

The couple of hundred yards between me and the yard feel like the longest distance I’ve ever crossed.

Rhett’s boots hit the ground behind me on my left, while Colt is a step back on my right, though I don’t turn to check.

The shots came from the yard. The scream came from the yard. There’s no way I’m following Rhett’s instructions now while she could be bleeding out in the dirt.

I cut around the right side of the house, rifle up, the barn doors lining up in my sights as I clear the corner.

And I slam to a stop when I find Marcus is standing there in his shirtsleeves with his hat in both hands.

He sees me and his face crumples.

“Wyatt, son⁠—”