Page 108 of Promised to the Cowboy

Chance trusted you. I trusted you.

He steps back and drops his hands.

I run. The field is open and I’m twenty-three weeks pregnant and there is no version of this where I outrun trained men for long. I know that.

I run anyway. Because every yard I put between myself and that aircraft is another yard they have to drag me back. Every second is another second Gabriel has to wake. To understand what’s happened. Tosee my phone, which I promised to keep with me at all times. To speak to Maggie. To see Chance standing safe in her stall.

A hand catches the back of my cardigan, and the fabric jerks tight across my throat. I twist hard and throw myself forward. Buttons tear free. The cardigan stays in the man’s fist.

The ground is uneven. My sneakers slide in loose dirt. I keep going in my shirt, cold air cutting over my arms.

Another man comes at me from the side. I change direction at the last second, cutting across the soft edge of the graded strip instead of staying on the packed ground.

My sneakers sink into the churned dirt. I stumble, catch myself with both hands beneath my stomach, and keep moving.

“Do not hurt her!” Alexander calls behind me.

What he means isdo not damage the asset.

Still, the order helps because they can’t tackle me cleanly. Can’t fire. Can’t risk knocking me onto my stomach. For once, the life inside me is something my father cannot control without protecting it.

I use it.

I veer toward the rough pasture where the ground dips and rises. Harder for me. Harder for them too. My lungs burn. My muscles scream.

More footsteps close behind me, too close. I glance back to see three men in pursuit. Falcon is behind them, not running as fast as he could.

Then the ground rises ahead of me. A low ridge. If I can reach the top, I might see Stoneridge. Or somebody might see me.

I climb. My legs feel heavy. My balance is wrong. Every instinct tells me to protect my baby by slowing down.

The plane engine note rises behind me, urgent now. My father is done waiting.

A man catches my wrist. I spin instead of pulling, and his momentum carries him past me. I drive my knee into the outside of his thigh and wrench free.

It buys me two steps. Three.

Then another hand closes around my upper arm. This one holds. I turn and claw at his face. He swears, jerking back.

“Enough,” he snarls, reaching for me again.

Then another sound rolls over the pasture. Still running, I throw a glance over my shoulder. Dust rises beyond the ridge. Trucks. Stoneridge trucks.

The man hears them too. His head turns.

Gabriel. I know it. I know that the man I love is somewhere inside that cloud of dust, coming for me with every person who sat around the table last night.

The grip on my arm loosens.

I tear free.

A man to my left raises his weapon.

Alexander’s voice cracks across the field. “Do not shoot!”

The man hesitates.

That is all I need. I run toward the ridge.