Chapter One

Two years later . . .

 

September fourth.

Four weeks.

Savannah stared numbly at the date on the calendar. The protective shell she’d wrapped around herself was a blessing. It kept her from feeling too much. From feeling much of anything.

It had kept her from experiencing too much pain as she’d recovered from the cuts and bruises he’d inflicted on her.

It kept her from falling apart from the horror of the memories that threatened to drown her. It kept her sane.

Well, sort of. It was a weird kind of sanity. She lived in an almost dreamlike state. As though she were separated from her body. Like she was on really good drugs. The kind she’d been on for those first few days in the hospital when she’d woken up bandaged and broken.

Broken? Like she was fixed now? The wounds were healed. There were still some small scars, but the doctor told her they’d probably fade with time. Yep, time would take care of her outer wounds. But the scars on the inside . . . well, they’d stay there. Buried deep where no one would find them.

It was better this way. If she hid buried everything then eventually life would go back to normal. Right?

“Savannah!”

She let out a cry as the loud voice boomed through the house. She shook for a moment, her heart racing so hard she felt ill. Legs weak, she leaned against the kitchen island behind her.

Calm. Calm. Find that place where you’re not afraid.

“Savannah? Oh, there you are.” The relief on Logan’s face was clear. “Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”

They’d probably heard him calling in the next state; Logan wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Are you okay? Are you all right?” He shifted from foot to foot, looking a little uncomfortable. Poor Logan, he was a man of action, not words.

Logan just continued to stare at her. She opened her mouth to say something . . . anything . . . and the words dried up in her throat.

He sighed. “Savannah . . .” He paused, seeming to rethink what he was about to say. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Of course,” she said automatically. But she wouldn’t. Because talking meant examining her feelings, it meant letting go of this protective shell and she couldn’t do that because she had a horrible feeling that once she started opening up she was going to fall completely apart.

“Okay, baby.” He gazed around. “What are you doing in here? Can I get something for you?”

She looked around the kitchen. What was she doing in here? She couldn’t quite remember. That happened a lot now. She just blanked out. It was frightening.

“I came to cook you lunch.”

He blanched, and she couldn’t blame him. Savannah was a truly awful cook. In her defense, no one had ever taught her how. The first time she’d tried to cook for her men, well, they’d been lucky the house had two toilets and an outhouse. Poor Logan had pulled the short straw and had ended spending most of the night in the privy.

Oh, that hadn’t been a good night.

“You sit down. I’ll make us something,” he commanded. Everything with Logan came out sounding like an order.

“All right.” She moved over to the dining table. The kitchen and dining room were open plan with the living room across the hallway. She sat, looking out the window.

Four weeks. It had been four weeks since Richard Stanton had kidnapped her. Tortured her. Terrified her.

And she was scared she’d never be the same again.

 

Logan looked over at Savannah with worry. He hastily put together some cold cut sandwiches, hoping she might eat something. He didn’t care that it wasn’t even ten in the morning. He didn’t figure it was worth pointing that out and upsetting her.

He hated that he couldn’t make everything better. He could still remember the terror he’d felt when he’d realized she was missing. The horror of seeing her tied up, her body bloody and beaten, standing over her in the hospital bed and swearing nothing would ever harm her again.

She sat so quietly. So still. Used to be he couldn’t shut her up. Now he’d give anything to have his chatterbox wife back. His Savi was a spitfire. Full of life and laughter and fun. Sometimes a bit too much fun. He swore she was turning him prematurely gray.

He hadn’t expected her to immediately recover. She’d carry what happened with her forever. He knew it would haunt him for the rest of his days. No, he’d expected her to be different. Frightened, tearful, unsure, angry. But he hadn’t expected calm.

For a moment, when he’d walked into the kitchen, he thought he’d seen a flash of something on her face. But then it had slipped behind the mask she now wore. He hated that mask. The smile that never reached her eyes. The way she tried to reassure him everything was fine. That she was fine.

Everything was not fine. And she shouldn’t be the one trying to look after him. It was his job to take care of her. His and Max’s.

It was his turn to work on the ranch today, but he couldn’t help but stop in to check on her before he tackled fixing the tractor. One of them had stuck close to her since they’d brought her home from the hospital. They were way behind in their work and they couldn’t afford to be a man down but there was no way they were they leaving Savannah on her own. He walked towards her.

He stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. “Savi?” He kept his voice quiet. She jumped slightly and he cursed himself. The last thing he wanted was for her to fear him.

“Made you a sandwich, darlin’.”

“Oh, thanks, but I’m not hungry.” She gave him that fake smile, and he died a little more inside. “But you go ahead and eat. I didn’t realize it was lunchtime already.”

And so, he sat and ate the sandwich he didn’t want, while his darling, beautiful, fragile wife sat beside him, staring out the window.

Enough was enough. They couldn’t continue like this. Something had to change.

***

Max pulled at the bedroom door handle, groaning as it fell off in his hand. Something else in this godforsaken house that needed fixing. He shoved the door open then threw the handle across the room. It hit the wall with a thunk, leaving a small dint.

Unfortunately, that small act of temper didn’t make him feel any less angry. Or less stressed.

This place was a wreak. The water heater needed replacing, the house needed rewiring and the ceiling leaked in so many places they didn’t have enough buckets to cope.

He ran his hand over his face, looking out the bedroom window at their land. It was all he’d ever wanted. His own spread. A home. A wife and family.

He had it all.

Yet it was all coming apart.

Max sat on the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, hanging his head. When had it all gone wrong? They were falling further and further in debt. They needed more help. They needed more money. More time.

What he really needed to focus on was Savannah. She needed him more than ever. Yet he had no idea how to help her.

His nightmares had started again. He guessed they’d been stirred up after what had happened to Savannah. During his time in the armed forces, he’d done and seen things he’d rather forget. Things that had a way of returning in his dreams.

He would have killed Stanton if Jake and Duncan, one of his deputy sheriffs, hadn’t stopped him. The rage that had come over him had been all-consuming. The only thing he’d seen was that asshole hurting the most important person in his world. He’d wanted to make him pay, to make certain he could never hurt her again. Duncan and Jake had pulled him off that bastard before he could go too far.

He should be grateful. But a part of him wondered if Savannah would feel better knowing Stanton was dead.

Would he?

He stood with a sigh.

She’d retreated into herself, and he felt like he had no idea how to get through to her. But if that’s what she needed to do to get by, then who was he to say she was wrong? They all had their own coping mechanisms.

Logan tinkered. Max worked. Savannah retreated.

He pushed the door open then strode down the stairs and out the front door. He should go check on Savannah but every time he saw her, a part of him died inside. Guilt ate away at him every time he looked at her, until looking at her become painful.

Jesus. What kind of a man was he? What sort of husband couldn’t even look at his own wife just because he felt guilty over not keeping her safe? Over not being able to provide for her?

“Where you going?” Logan looked over from where he stood by the tractor, dark fluid on the ground.

“What’s wrong with it?” Max barked.

Logan narrowed his eyes. “Hose blew. Need a new one.”

“Of course, it does. Like every other fucking thing here.”

“Hey, what’s going on? Isn’t it your day to stay with Savannah?” Logan asked, storming towards him as Max climbed into the cab of his truck. He grabbed the door as Max went to shut it.

“I’ve got things to do.”

“Max, we need to talk about—”

“There’s nothing to fucking talk about.”

“Yeah, there is, and denying it won’t make it go away.”

“You’re one to talk,” Max sneered. “You’re the king of not wanting to talk about shit.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “This is about Savannah. We need to figure out what to do.”

“I don’t know what to do! Maybe you should figure shit out for once without relying on me!” Max slammed the door shut and sped away. He glanced back to find Logan staring after him.

“Fuck!” He slammed his hand down against the steering wheel.