It’s been two weeks, and I’m finally starting to get the hang of this rancher stuff. Even though I’m not required to, according to Montana, I still like to help out with some of the manual labor. It saves me from going to the gym and Brandi told me as long as I don’t exert myself, it’ll be good for me. My grip has increased since starting my physical therapy, and lifting bales of hay is harder than any of those exercises she has me do.

We’d just finished a late lunch and I’m about to engage in conversation with Mike when a scream comes from the house. Not an “I dropped a bottle” scream, but a “fear for my life” scream.

Spinning, I sprint through the barn and down the stone path. I throw open the back door and look for Montana. “Abby, where are you?”

“In here,” she shrieks from the opposite end of the house. Sounds like she’s in Avery’s room. I make it across the house in seconds, and find Montana holding a crying Avery. “Careful,” she says, pointing to the floor. There’s broken pieces of pottery and glass everywhere.

“What happened?”

“I was doing laundry and I heard a noise in Avery’s room. She’s notorious for pretending to nap, so I went to check on her,” she sobs, trying to wipe away the tears with one arm. “There was a man standing over her bed. At first, I thought it was you, but he had a ski mask on.”

I don’t need to hear any more.

“Where did he go?”

“When I screamed, he spun around, so I hit him with a lamp. He cursed and ran down the hall. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Stay here,” I command. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.” If there was a time I wish I had my sidearm, today is it. I’m a perfect shot with my right hand—using my left will at least get me an injured intruder.

I search room after room, but come up empty. Just as I’m about to go check on Montana, I hear a noise from the living room window. Looking outside, I see a figure running down the long driveway toward a vehicle. I throw open the front door in an attempt to chase him down. The intruder gets into the front passenger side of a four-door black sedan, and the car skids away from the house.

I stop and memorize the license plate.

Now, I need to check on the girls.

Jogging back to the house, I head straight for Avery’s room. The toddler is sitting up looking at a picture book on her bed as Montana squats to pick up the broken pieces of lamp. “You all right?” I ask, bending down to help her.

“Yes…I mean…I don’t know.” Falling to her knees, she begins to cry.

I glance over at Avery, who’s immersed in her story. Looking back to Montana, I kneel next to her and pull her into me. She throws her arms around my neck and sobs into my chest.

“I’ll find whoever did this. I promise,” I whisper into her hair as I rock her back and forth.

With a little patience, I finally get her to relax and stop crying. She lifts her head, looking up at me with tear-stained cheeks.

Large, liquid hazel eyes that hold such an intelligence and serenity, it’s impossible for me not to be held prisoner by them.

Even when she’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t apologize.” I stand, then help her to her feet. “I got a plate. You have a friend in the police department, right?”

“I do,” she answers, surprised I knew that little fact.

“Call him. I think it’s time we meet.”