Page 97 of Promised to the Cowboy

“Then who opened it?”

His hands tighten on the wheel as the truck hits a rut hard enough to throw me against the door.

“Slow down.”

He doesn’t.

The old barn disappears behind us. The house follows. We pass the turn toward the lower paddock.

“Falcon.”

He keeps driving east.

“Chance isn’t this way.”

Nothing.

I reach for the door handle.

It doesn’t move. Locked. Fear hits me, sharp and real.

“Donovan Kirk, stop this truck.”

“I can’t.”

His voice is low. Not threatening, but something worse. Regretful.

I turn toward him. Falcon’s face is set, his eyes fixed ahead. A pistol now rests against his thigh, held in his right hand, angled toward me.

For one second, my mind refuses to understand.

Then it does. Chance isn’t hurt. Gabriel is asleep. And the quiet man who stood beside my mare while she learned to enter a stall has a gun pointed in my direction.

I automatically reach for my phone before I remember I left it on the bedside table. Panic rises fast.

“Pull over.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can.”

“No.”

“Falcon.” I keep my voice steady, the same voice I use with Chance. “Who are you taking me to?”

His jaw tightens. “I only have to deliver you.”

The word goes through me cold.

Deliver.

My father’s language: the language of transfers, arrangements, and problems moved from one place to another.

“Alexander,” I whisper.

Falcon flinches.

My stomach drops. “Whatever he offered you, whatever he threatened?—”