Page 2

The sedan follows.

I keep enough distance that neither of them notices the black pickup behind them. My truck is difficult to miss. It’s big, old, and loud, with mud-caked tires and a steel bumper strong enough to introduce itself to the sedan if necessary.

I’m hoping it won’t be necessary. But hope has never been much of a strategy.

The road dips into the valley. I know where Sophie’s going before she turns. Covered Bridge Market. It sits beside the old red bridge that crosses Miller Creek, surrounded by orchards and fields. In October, the place attracts everyone within fifty miles. Families come for pumpkins. Couples pose for pictures beneath the maple trees. People wait forty minutes for the market’s famous apple cider donuts.

Good. There are crowds here—witnesses. That means she’s safe if I move fast enough.

The sedan continues past the main entrance and turns down a side road running behind the orchard. They’re changing position.

My pulse slows. That used to happen before operations. The closer I came to violence, the calmer I became. The entire world narrowed until there was only the objective and the threats standing between me and it.

I pull into the crowded lot and park near the exit. Sophie is already out of her car. She slings her purse over her shoulder and heads toward the market.

I get out. Cold air cuts through my flannel shirt. Woodsmoke drifts from somewhere beyond the bridge, mingling with cinnamon, fried dough, and fallen leaves. Children in Halloween costumes race between hay bales while their parents call after them. A man plays fiddle music near the market doors.

It should feel cheerful. Instead, everything looks like terrain. Cars become cover. Crowds become obstacles. Every movement stands out.

The sedan isn’t visible, but I spot the driver approaching from the orchard. The baseball cap is gone. He walks with his shoulders stiff and his right hand close to his jacket. He’s armed. The second man appears near the cider stand, circling toward Sophie from the opposite direction. They’re going to box her in.

My hand moves toward the pistol concealed beneath my jacket before I stop myself.

Too many people. Too many children.

The men know it, too. That’s why they chose this place. They believe Sophie will be easier to control in public. A quiet threat in her ear. A gun pressed beneath her ribs. A command to smile and walk.

They won’t fire unless they’re forced to expose themselves. Neither will I.

I move through the crowd. Sophie pauses near a display of painted gourds. She picks up a tiny white one and turns it over in her hand.

The bald man is thirty feet away. The other is closer.

I don’t have time to warn her. If I call her name, they’ll move. If she panics, one of them may grab her first. So I do the only thing left: I kidnap her before they can.

“Sophie.”

She turns. Her eyes find mine, and for one suspended second, the noise of the market disappears. Her eyes are brown, but not a simple brown. They have gold in them, little sparks that catch beneath the autumn sun.

She blinks. “Samuel?”

Hearing my name in her voice tears through three years of restraint.

Surprise softens her features. Then confusion creases her brow. “What are you doing⁠—”

I grab her. One arm circles her waist. My other hand closes over her upper arm, and I lift her clear off the ground.

She screams. The sound is piercing enough to turn half the market toward us.

I pull her against my chest and start moving.

“What the hell?” She thrashes in my arms. “Put me down!”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Touching her destroys every thought in my head.

She’s warm and soft against me, alive beneath my hands in a way she has never been in all the nights I’ve watched her from a distance. Her hair brushes my jaw. Her body fits against mine with devastating perfection.

For three years, I’ve forbidden myself from so much as standing beside her.