by Becky McGraw
The truck dipped, the springs groaned and the steering wheel jerked violently. Her body shot forward, before something hit the bottom of the truck hard, which slammed her back into the seat. A loud crash, sickening crunch and the truck stopped suddenly. Her butt lifted from the seat and as if in slow motion, she felt herself floating toward the steering wheel. A loud pop, a strange burning smell, then the airbag hit her in the mouth making bells sound inside her skull. Thank God she’d remembered her seat belt, she thought as it jerked her backward, saving her from a harder impact with the bag.
Stunned, heartbeat pounding in her ears, sick to her stomach, Heather just rested her head on the seat back and breathed, while taking a mental inventory of possible injuries. Numbness started at her toes, worked up her calves to her thighs, skated over her waist to crawl up to her neck and face, before the shaking started. Someone tapped on her window, and Heather looked that way to see the top of an older man’s head.
“I can’t get the door open, it’s jammed, but I called the police,” he hollered. “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”
Heather’s brain wouldn’t process the man’s words, but two words stuck in her brain. Police. Ambulance. “No! I’m fine!” she shouted, through her chattering teeth.
The last thing she needed right now was another hospital and ambulance bill, or another run-in with the police. Heather wished now she’d have spent the money to buy more minutes for the disposable cell phone she never used, so she could call off the cavalry. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t afford the expensive minutes any more than she could afford another hospital bill. Hell, she hadn’t even received the first one yet, or the ambulance bill. She thought if she was lucky they’d forgotten about her like the police had, since the man who attacked her was dead and Zack wasn’t blamed.
But when she heard the sirens, Heather realized her luck had just run out. The truck, her apartment and everything else was in Leon’s name, because she didn’t exist. She had no driver’s license, because she didn’t have a birth certificate or insurance. Not only was she screwed and tattooed, in all likelihood, she was going to jail. If that happened, they’d find out they had Haley Morgan in custody and if Jack had filed charges back then, she would go to prison, because Lord knew she couldn’t afford an attorney, and not a one of them would believe he’d tried to rape her.
Heather Morrison had been running from destiny for twelve years now, but it looked like she’d just run right into it. Because of a damned deer. The sirens got nearer and she felt her eyes fill with hot tears, but sucked them up. Crying wasn’t going to help her or solve a damned thing, she thought, fighting them harder when she heard tires sliding on the soft shoulder.
Nothing could help her now.
But then Heather thought about what she’d done the night she was attacked at the rodeo. At least maybe she could delay things for a while. If she feigned being hurt they would take her to the hospital, dump her there and maybe forget about her. Since no other vehicle was involved in the accident, maybe they’d just haul the truck to the impound yard and call Leon to tell him his truck was there. Hopefully, Leon would keep his damned mouth shut about her.
Hope. Maybe. If. Those three weak words were her only chance of getting out of this. And prayer, Haley added. Something she hadn’t done in a damn long time, but just what Heather did as she closed her eyes, rested her head on the back of the seat and tried to regulate her breathing.
Chapter Eleven
“Zack, y’all come in for supper, already! Mama’s about to put your plates in the trash. This is the last time I’m coming out here,” Twyla yelled from the golf cart she’d driven out to the field to find them. Zack buried the blades of the posthole digger in the hard-packed ground again, and worked the wooden handles until the earth came loose. He stopped to shove his hat back on his head, then tried to lift his arm to run it over his sweaty forehead, but his arm was too weak. It dropped to his side limply, and he opened and closed his fist trying to work some circulation back into his numb fingers. At least since they were numb, he couldn’t feel the blisters he’d accumulated on them over the last week.
“I still have a few holes left to dig,” he yelled back, lifting the digger to embed it into the hole again.
“We should go in, it’s almost dark,” Ryan said, as he walked up to lean on the fence post he would put into the hole, as soon as Zack could get it deep enough. At least three more times into the hole should do it.
“We only have five more posts to do on this line,” Zack replied, wiggling the handles putting his foot on the blade to drive it deeper. “Let’s just get it done and we can go in.”
“Well, you can stay out here all night in the dark, but I’m going in now,” Ryan said, letting the post fall to the ground with a loud thud. “There’s no damned lights out here to keep going. And we didn’t stop for fucking lunch. I’m starving.”
“Stop whining—I’m hungry too,” Zack lied. He hadn’t been hungry in a week now. “We can both go eat just as soon as we finish.” With a grunt, he pulled out another slice of earth, and dropped it beside the hole, then rested the digger under his arm. “A week is gone, and we’re not even a quarter done with the fence.”
Once they finished burying the new posts, they still had to restring the top wire on all of it, miles of fencing, and they were running out of time. That didn’t include running the leads to the electrical box in the barn. He was renting a damned auger for that one, or hiring someone to do it, because the way he was feeling, he’d never be able to dig that much trenching by hand.
“And we won’t be half done in two more weeks,” Ryan said, with frustration. “You’re going to have to rethink things. Just fence temporarily, until you can afford to have someone do this for you. There’s only three of us, and there’s not enough hours in a day.”
“Two and a half,” Zack corrected. His daddy stepped in a damned hole the first day and twisted his ankle. Zack refused to let him come out with them again. He was overseeing the crew Zack had repairing the barn roofs, which was more his daddy’s speed these days. Until he stepped in that hole, Zack hadn’t admitted his father was getting old. He did then, and was doing everything he could now to keep him away from the hard work. “And I can’t afford to have it done for me. I’m spending twice what I thought I would to have the barn roofs repaired.”
“Your dad said he’d come out here and help us again when his ankle is better.”
“I don’t want him out here.” Zack replied gruffly, as he buried the posthole digger again. “He’s too old to be working fence, but don’t you dare tell him I said that.”
“I won’t tell him, but you shouldn’t be out here doing this either, your arm—” Ryan started, but Zack cut him off.
“Is fine!” Zack growled, as he circled the digger to loosen it.
“Is that why you can’t do much with it other than have it hanging at your side?” Ryan asked smugly, his eyes sliding to Zack’s’ bicep. “You’re supposed to still be doing therapy, not digging post holes!”
“This is better than therapy.” Zack tugged the wrong way on the digger and pain zipped from his elbow up a nerve in his arm to his neck. His grip loosened on the handles, and when he tried to make a fist around the handle again, he couldn’t bend his fingers. He tried one more time, but his bicep knotted in a spasm, so he gave up, and dropped the digger to rub it.
Maybe it was time to quit for the night. He’d take another pill and have a drink tonight, and again tomorrow morning. He needed every ounce of help he could get right now to get this job done. That reminded him he needed to call the doctor and get more pills. The full bottle he took with him when he left Heather’s was now nearly empty. So was the whiskey.
Heather…his stomach took a flip. Zack wondered how she was doing, but he refused to call, because he had a feeling she wouldn’t talk to him anyway. The fact that she’d left the apartment the morning he was leaving, without even saying goodbye told him how she felt about things. About
him. Yeah, he’d been an ass, a first class ass, and mean to her, but he could have explained it if she would have been an adult and talked to him before she left. Instead, she’d run away, which seemed to be her typical modus operandi. But he had other things to worry about right now, his own problems, which seemed to be mounting daily.
“Let’s go in,” Zack said, laying the digger aside to walk toward the golf cart. Ryan slid into the front beside Twyla, and Zack took the rumble seat in the back. He scooted to the left so he could hold onto the bar with his left hand, because Twyla drove that cart like a madwoman. If he didn’t hang on, Zack knew he’d end up on his ass, left behind in the field.
As expected, Twyla zoomed across the rutty pasture hitting every pothole, and Zack gritted his teeth as the arm he held at his waist bounced violently. Yeah, he definitely needed another pill, and a drink. It was ten agonizing minutes, which seemed like days, before Twyla stopped the golf cart behind the house. Zack immediately vaulted out of the seat, and cradled his aching arm to his chest, as he walked to the back door.
“Have you heard from Heather?” Twyla asked, walking up beside him.
Just hearing her name took Zack’s stomach on another ride. “No, and I don’t expect to. I told you we had an argument,” he growled, waiting for her to open the door for him, because he didn’t think he could manage it.
Twyla opened the door and breezed by him, but stopped to cut him a look. “I see you holding that arm, brother. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I have work to do, and it’s not going to do itself. Those bulls will be here in two weeks, and if I’m not done, they’re not going to wait.”
“You should give that arm a rest. I’m going to check on Heather tomorrow, if you want to go with me,” Twyla said, as she walked toward the kitchen. “You can make up with her. I’m worried about her, because she’s not at the Cowgirl, and her damned cell phone is out of minutes again evidently.”
“I don’t want to make up with her—she’s as damned bull-headed as you are. No wonder y’all are friends,” Zack grated, following behind her to the kitchen doorway. “I’m going to my room, because I’m not hungry.” Zack turned, but his mother’s words stopped him.
“No, you’re going to get your butt in here and eat supper with the family like a human being tonight, instead of drinking yourself into a stupor,” his mother said, spinning to give him ‘the look’ that told him she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Arm throbbing, sickness boiling in his gut from the pain, Zack stood there a minute searching for an excuse, but had nothing. He couldn’t well say my arm feels like it’s on fire and should fall off soon. That would just get him banned from working tomorrow.
He huffed a breath. “Yes, ma’am. Just let me go get cleaned up.”
And down what’s left of my whiskey so I can deal with family time, he thought, as he walked down the hall to his room to get clean clothes. He almost wished his family would just leave him alone to roast in his own personal hell. Let him figure things out himself. When they said they were all banding together to help him get the ranch set-up, he thought it was a godsend that would save him a lot of money. What that saved money bought him was a lot of harassing.
Other than Ryan’s help laying the fence, getting them involved had just made things worse. They were on his ass every minute about his drinking, about working too hard, and Twyla was on his case about Heather and their argument. He hadn’t even planned on telling Twyla they had an argument when she picked him up. On the phone, he’d just told her he was done with therapy and decided to retire from riding to run his rough stock herd. But when she got to the apartment, Twyla wanted to stick around to wait for Heather to come home, so she could see her. Zack refused, and Twyla beat him around the shoulders until he told her they weren’t speaking.
He did not explain why. That would’ve probably earned him a kick in the balls from his sister, and then they wouldn’t be speaking. Zack just lied and told her it was over his drinking. And that had been stupid, because now, they were all watching him like a hawk, and bitching at him every time he took a drink.
Well they could all kiss his ass, because they didn’t have their arm sliced open trying to play hero when he should’ve been riding. He was never playing hero again. From here on out, Zack Taylor was the anti-hero. He was going to mind his own business and turn a blind eye to everything else. Getting this ranch in order to hold his herd was his business. Nothing else mattered. But he needed to figure out how to get his family out of the way so he could do that.
Those guys are rough stock cowboys, so I’ll have no use for them once your herd is moved. Maybe they’ll want to work for you.
Zack was going to call and ask Cord to talk to those men tomorrow. He needed professional help here, men he could ride until they got the job done for him without pulling punches. Ryan was good to help him, but Zack couldn’t push him without losing a friend His brother-in-law and best friend also had his own ranch to run and needed to get back there. But he wasn’t going to leave until he knew Zack would be okay. That’s just how he was.
Hopefully, hiring those men would convince his family that he had things under control here, so they would leave and he could finally breathe, because Twyla would leave with them. Maybe his second problem would be solved then too. Zack would be able to forget about a midnight-haired witch who haunted his nights so he could get some sleep.
***
A tray appeared through the slot in the bars, and Heather’s stomach rolled as she turned toward the wall to curl up into a ball as tight as the small cot would allow. Thank God her cellmate had checked out that morning. At least she didn’t have to listen to the crackhead’s incessant chatter anymore, or hear her howling from her withdrawals.
“Last chance, Morgan. I don’t want to hear you hollering you’re hungry in the middle of the night.” That wasn’t her, that had been her cellmate. Heather hadn’t eaten since she was handcuffed at the hospital the day after the wreck. No insurance and driving without a license had quickly turned into we can’t find any information on you, so we know you’re lying about your name. After they’d done everything but flog her in at least five interviews in that small, hot room, she finally gave the bad-breathed detective her real name. They weren’t going to release her, or even set bail until they knew who she was, so she had no choice. When they couldn’t pull anything up on Haley Morgan either, they ran that name with her fingerprints and connected her to Tulsa through her juvenile records.
Then the party really started.
Attempted murder, felony assault, you name it, they’d charged her with it. And they’d notified Jack that she’d turned up. The Tulsa prosecutor’s office was sending officers down to pick her up. Her life was done. There was no way she’d raise the fifty thousand dollar bond to get out and run. She had about six thousand in her safe in the bedroom closet, but that wouldn’t even cover fixing her truck, or buying a car to flee. The landlord would probably end up with it when he evicted her at the first of the month.
Leon had laughed at her when she called him. No less than she expected him to do. Her one allowed call and she’d wasted it on him. But he was the only one she could call. Heather was alone in the world, not a soul gave a shit that her life was over. Not even her at this point.
The tray scraped as the guard pulled it back. “Fine, suit yourself,” he said, with a huffed breath. “I’m not going to force feed you.”
Heather sighed, closed her eyes and swallowed down the bile that was a constant companion to her vocal chords these days. It didn’t matter, because she’d never sing again, had no desire to. That chapter of her life was over now, before it even started. From here on out, she was going to be known by a number, not Haley Morgan or Heather Morrison, and the only singing she’d be doing would be Jailhouse Blues. Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them to stop the hot tears that leaked out anyway.
Heather had fought a good fight to survive all these years, but she had n
ot an ounce of fight left in her now. She didn’t want to save herself this time, she just wanted it over. If that made her a pussy quitter like she’d called Zack Taylor, then so be it. The hard front she’d nurtured for twelve years had deserted her when she needed it most. She had no idea how she’d survive the next few months—the years she’d spend in prison.
Could a person die from heartache and grief? If it could happen, the way she felt right now she should be dead. And honestly, it would be a relief. Tears burned her nose and cheeks as she drifted off to sleep, the only place she found any peace from her thoughts these days. If she could sleep forever, she would.
But she was only allowed a few hours, as keys jangled to jerk her awake. Scrubbing her eyes, she leaned up to look toward the door. It swung open and a guard filled the doorway.
“Someone is here to see you,” he announced gruffly.
Here to see her? Heather quickly rolled to sit on the edge of the cot. She stood, but her knees wouldn’t lock, so she grabbed the cot to steady herself. What if it’s the officers from Tulsa here to take her back? Fear shot through her, and Heather gagged, slapped her hand over her mouth and sank back onto the cot. “I don’t want to see anyone,” she said, her voice trembling as she scooted back toward the wall.
“This ain’t the Grand Hotel, missy, and you don’t have a choice. You’ll get your ass off that cot and come with me, or I’ll drag you out of here,” the guard growled, a determined look on his coarse face as he took a step inside the cell.
Heather scrambled back to her feet, and stumbled toward him, tried to brush past him, but he grabbed her arm anyway.