Page 116 of What Remains

Her pulse quickened. A cold dread—the kind that tightened skin and raised hairs—delivered a silent warning: You're not alone.

"Who's there?"

Her voice echoed and died without answer. She took one careful step backward toward the open barn door, then another, heart hammering. She almost reached the threshold when a hand shot from behind the tack room door, clamped her wrist, and yanked her sideways. She cried out as her shoulder slammed into the wall, pain flaring down her arm.

A man stepped from shadows—heavy beard, dark winter coat, hunting knife strapped to his hip. Recognition seized her, cold and sharp. The man from the trees. The one who watched them siphon gas, who had given the signal.

"You," she gasped.

He smiled, slow and satisfied. "Finally. I grew bored waiting."

He lunged. She met him, driving her heel into his nose with all her force. His head snapped back; blood poured down his beard.

"You little⁠—"

She didn't wait. Her knee drove into his thigh. She twisted free, sprinting for the open door. Three steps. His hand snagged her coat, the material choking her as he yanked her back. She spun, elbow smashing his jaw. He staggered. She grabbed the shovel and swung. The metal blade hit his shoulder with a sickening thud.

He roared, ripped the shovel from her hands, and shoved her backward into a stall door. Wood cracked against her spine. Pain stole her breath, but she fought—scratching, kicking, driving her boots into his shins. She held no illusions about winning. She only needed to escape.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her off the ground.

"I said, don't fight me!"

"Go to hell!"

She slammed the back of her head into his face and heard him curse. For one glorious second, she believed she'd broken free—then something struck her skull, sending the world spinning sideways. Before she could recover, he wrenched both wrists behind her back.

"I said..." His breathing came ragged through clenched teeth as he dragged her toward the door. "...hold... still."

Josie dug her heels into the packed dirt and grabbed the doorframe, catching it for an instant before he tore her loose.

"Liz!" Her scream ripped across the quiet morning. "Liz!"

"No." He clamped a hand over her mouth.

She bit down hard. He howled and jerked away, giving her one more breath.

"Liz!"

The name echoed across the ranch—then the farmhouse door flew open.

"Josie?" Liz called.

The attacker's head snapped toward the house. "Damn it," he muttered. "Move."

Abandoning stealth, he hooked an arm around her waist and half dragged, half carried her toward the tree line behind the barn. Josie fought every step, clawing at fence posts, grabbing fistfuls of snow, kicking backward. Branches whipped across her face as woods swallowed them. Behind her, she heard Liz shouting her name, Layla crying, horses screaming in their pasture.

Josie fought. Screamed until her throat burned raw.

As long as she made noise, someone might find her.

Beast bounced over the cattle guard and rolled through the front gate, tires crunching across the snow-covered driveway.

He returned. A slow smile touched his lips as he pictured Josie's face—the mock glare for turning around, followed by a surprised laugh she couldn't hide. It had been worth every mile.

He eased Beast into the front yard and killed the engine. Silence pressed in.

His smile faded.