If Molly had left him, she’d have told him straight out. Was it possible he missed a note back at the ranch? He was too far out to get back quickly. He unlocked the display on his phone, ready to dial up Iris and ask her to go over to the ranch house and look for a note, when he noticed a notification for a voicemail.
From Molly.
His heart jumped into this throat, and his finger shook as he hit the icon that would play it.
His heart sank. It wasn't a message after all, just the sound of road noise.
Wait. That was her voice, muffled as if she were far away from the phone.
And a man's voice. Was that Toby? A combination of sickness and anger flushed through him.
The message ended and he hadn't caught any of the actual words.
He cranked up the volume and replayed the message.
"I told you before, I just don't feel that way about you." Her voice.
There was more that Cord couldn't make out. Then, his voice: "You'll see. Once we get back home, you'll see."
Home. Austin?
Cord's hands shook as he dialed the sheriff's office. He relayed the message he'd heard and spent too long figuring out how to forward them the voicemail from his phone. All the deputies on duty were already out, tending to people who'd gotten in car accidents thanks to the ice, including one with major injuries. There was no one who could scour the roads immediately, though the dispatcher promised to send help as soon as she could.
Cord hung up, feeling desperate. Soon wasn't going to be enough. Molly was already in Toby's clutches.
If they were headed toward Austin, they would've taken the southbound branch of the state highway. He turned his truck that direction.
The slow pace made him frantic. When he sped up too much, the truck's tires lost traction and he slid.
But Toby had at least three hours head start. He could be anywhere.
And Molly...
Was she hurt? Frightened? No doubt she was living her own personal nightmare.
He needed to find her.
He left the town limits behind, moving at a snail's pace on the two-lane state road. Another hour passed, and his hope was dying with each breath. The roads were deserted, the sky gray.
He was approaching a concrete-and-steel overpass when he caught sight of her truck off the side of the road, crumpled into the concrete barrier. The front of the truck was obliterated, smashed into the concrete.
No. No no no.
He parked farther back than he wanted to, afraid to slip on the ice and send his truck crashing into Molly’s.
His boots hit the ground, and he tried to run, but the shoulder was a sheet of ice and he couldn't get traction.
As he jogged in what felt like slow motion, he saw the entire passenger side of her truck was crumpled into nothing against the concrete barrier.
"Molly!" he shouted.
Nothing was moving, and the eerie stillness terrified him.
There was no other traffic, no one for him to flag down for help. He fumbled for his phone even as he was moving toward the crumpled truck. He dialed 911, yelled his location to the dispatcher in those few frantic moments, fearing they’d need an airlift, if she was still alive.
He went around the back of the truck, because there was no way he could've pried open the twisted metal that was the passenger door.
On the driver's side, the door had been flung open. The driver seat's was empty. He braced himself, forced himself to look inside the cab.
It wasn't Molly's body crushed in the mangled steel.
Relief made his legs week, and he sagged against the door.
The man who must be Toby was almost unrecognizable. And unresponsive. Cord didn't spare a single second to try and get a pulse.
Where was Molly?
He scanned the roadside, registering for the first time a trail of blood, as if she’d dragged herself away from the crash site.
A dark bundle was half-hidden behind the far side of a concrete barrier. Almost out of sight, which was why he hadn't seen her at first glance.
He ran toward her, almost losing his footing.
"Molly," he cried.
She didn't move.
Blood on the ground had frozen into the ice, covered in another layer that was preserving it in a kind of morbid clarity. She'd been out here too long, exposed. Was there even a chance she was still alive?
He fell to his knees beside her, reached for her. "Molly, honey."
She was facedown. Her left wrist was twisted, broken, and he tried to be as gentle as he could as he rolled her over. There was some small voice shouting in the back of his mind about doing damage to her spine, but blood matted her hair and stained the shoulders of her jacket, and he had to find out where it was coming from.
She was still breathing, the slight rise and fall of her chest brought such a sweep of relief that tears threatened.
She had a huge gash at her hairline, a bump bigger than a plastic Easter egg showing where she'd hit her head.
Blood covered her shirt, too, and he lifted the garment to see an ugly looking bullet wound in the flesh of her side. It was oozing blood. He lowered her shirt and pressed his hand against it to try to stop the flow.
How long had she been here, helpless and bleeding?
Sirens sounded in the distance. He couldn't bear to look away from the woman he loved.
"Please stay with me, honey."
Time blurred and flashed as a sheriff's deputy joined him, some kind of first-aid kit in-hand. He tried to patch injuries that needed stitches, not Band-Aids.
It might've been minutes or it might've been longer before a helicopter emblazoned with a red cross landed nearby. Dirt and ice chips sprayed into Cord's face beneath the rotor wash, but he wasn't leaving Molly's side.
They loaded her onto a stretcher, then into the helicopter.
He tried to climb in after her.
“Sorry,” the EMT said. “No room for you.
