Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I listen for a scream, a splash, anything, but it’d be impossible to hear any of that over the engine noise.
Suddenly, I’m not in the cab anymore. I’m in another memory. One with a similar scream and that same riverbank and cold water.
My vision goes dark for half a second—a flashback I haven’t watched in ages.
Then I snap out of it.
Door flies open before I even register reaching for it. Boots hit the dirt hard. I’m sprinting. Lungs on fire. Heart pounding. My hat flies off somewhere behind me.
By the time I get to the river, the kid’s grasping at a broken tree branch, struggling to pull himself out—sputtering, soaked, water rushing over his head every couple seconds. By the time he hooks his arms around it, it breaks off, leaving him flailing for something else to grab onto.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath before jumping into the chest-high icy water and yanking him the rest of the way up by the armpits. By the time we’re back on dry land, we’re both heaving, shivering, and gasping for air. “What the hell were you doing out here?”
His teeth chatter. “I—I slipped.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I snap. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”
He blinks up at me with wide, scared eyes. He’s not hurt. Just cold and muddy. But still. He could’ve . . .
No.
I refuse to finish that thought.
Behind me, a slamming screen door cuts through the static in my head.
“Atticus?! Oh my god—what happened?!” Wren races toward us.
I wait, hands on my hips, jaw tight, pulse still hammering, chest on fire.
She’s barefoot and wild-eyed, her long braid half unraveled.
“He fell in the damn river,” I say. “I warned you about that current. What the hell was he doing down here alone?”
Normally I wouldn’t talk like this to a woman or in front of a kid. But I’m going off no sleep. My mental bandwidth is low. I’m running on fumes. Editing my words requires more energy than I can spare right now.
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp and instantly defensive. “He was playing in the backyard. I went inside for two minutes.”
“Two minutes is all it takes. You live on the river. You don’t let a four-year-old run off unsupervised.”
“You think I meant for this to happen?” Her brows are furrowed and she’s got one hand clamped over her heart. There’s anger directed at me but a hint of disappointment in her eyes—almost like she let herself down too. “You think I don’t already feel sick to my stomach right now?”
Same . . .
“You should keep a better eye on your kid.” I tighten the distance between us, though not intentionally. Something about her draws me in every time.
She steps closer to me, matching my energy, I assume.
“I really don’t appreciate your tone right now.” She cocks an eyebrow, not backing down.
“My tone? I just saved your kid from drowning.”
If she only knew . . .
“Have you seen that current? And all that rain we’ve been getting has the river higher than usual.” I rub my dirt-stained hands along my brows. Is this conversation actually happening or am I imagining it? I’m so sleep deprived I could be hallucinating. “You sure you’re cut out for country life?”
“I went inside for two minutes,” she says again. “God forbid a single mother has to use the bathroom. Ugh, I knew I should’ve put that leash on him. What was I thinking?”
Now she’s being sarcastic—which both infuriates me and turns me on in a way I wasn’t expecting.
We’re standing inches apart, close enough I can smell the stress and hand soap on her skin. Her chest rises and falls fast, eyes flashing like the lightning rolling in behind us. So much for getting these last riverside acres done tonight.
“Do you have kids?” she asks.
“You’ve been in my house. Does it look like I have kids?” I match her attitude.
“I’m just saying, you try being a single parent and juggling it all. This is truly my worst nightmare and while I appreciate your help, there’s no need to make me feel worse than I already do.”
Okay. Maybe that’s fair.
“Look. I’m exhausted,” I say, still clipped. “I’ve been in a tractor for fourteen hours a day for the last four days. Haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. My nerves are shot. And seeing him fall in that water . . .”
Her expression softens, but her arms remain crossed and her posture is still rigid.
“You could’ve just said you were scared,” she says. “Would’ve gone a lot further than trying to make me feel like a horrible mother.”
I stare at her, jaw tightening as I’m unable to find the right words. She’s not wrong. But damn if it doesn’t piss me off to be told.
She gathers her soaking-wet kid in her arms and turns toward the house without another word. I hate that he saw that exchange. He’s probably too young to understand we were both just worried about him.