Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

Elle glanced at the dash clock again. She wouldn’t get home until after eleven, and Tom would be worried sick. She probably should call.

In her rearview she noticed the car behind her was catching up to her, the harsh glare of its headlights reflecting right into her eyes. “Bastard,” she grumbled, then turned on her Bluetooth, but, of course, it was dead.

Perfect.

She’d forgotten to charge the damned thing. That was the problem. There were just too many devices to keep alive, along with juggling the demands of a family, keeping the house, volunteering at the school and, of course, shaking this damned flu, or whatever it was.

Slipping her phone out of the console, she pressed the two key, her shortcut to home. After the third ring, Tom answered.

“Hey,” he said, obviously recognizing her number. She heard the muted sound of the television in the background. “Where are you?”

“God, I wish I knew. On the right road, though. I think.” The sign had said Grizzly Falls this way, hadn’t it? The vehicle behind her was coming closer, right on her tail. “Shit, there’s a guy behind me with his lights on bright. About to burn my eyes out.”

“Slow down. Let him go by.”

No way. Let the jerk ride her ass. She was tired and anxious to get home, didn’t need the aggravation of the bastard’s brights. Into the phone, she said, “Look, I’m probably still about twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes away. I couldn’t resist the sales. So, how are the kids?”

“Unhappy that I made them go to bed at ten. They weren’t quite in the back-to-school mode. I had to become the”—he lowered his voice—“dreaded Sleep Enforcer.”

“Which they hate.”

“Copy that.”

She laughed as she took a sharp curve one-handed. The car behind her didn’t slow for a second. In fact, he seemed even closer, right on her damned bumper! Her tires slid a bit, then caught, and her laughter gave way to another coughing fit. Lord, she was sick of being sick! “Oh. . Tom. .,” she managed, distracted by the car on her tail and her inability to catch her breath. “I. . I have… to. .”

“Shit!. . Tom!” She was coughing, her eyes were watering, and the car was slipping toward the narrow shoulder.

Bam!

Metal crunched and her car leapt forward. Her seat belt snapped tight.

“What the hell—?” She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the huge truck behind her. He’d hit her? What kind of an idiot was he? She didn’t have time to worry about it. The damned van was skidding. “You son of a bitch!” She dropped the phone and grabbed the wheel with both hands.

Too late!

The van was out of control! Sliding ever closer to the shoulder and the rushing, frigid river beyond.

“Damn it!”

She drove into the skid, then slowly turned the wheel as the front tire hit the shoulder. She was adding pressure to the brakes, trying to stay calm, though her pulse was jumping, her heart pounding, sweat instantly upon her hands.

“Elle?” She heard Tom’s voice faintly from the phone, which was now on the floor.

“The bastard rear-ended me!” she screamed.

“What?”

“I said… oh, no!”

In the mirror, she saw the behemoth of a truck bearing down on her, bright lights glowing with evil fire. What was the matter with him? Oh, Lord, he was going to hit her again!

She slid from one side of the road into oncoming traffic, then, overcorrecting, skidded over the icy asphalt and onto the shoulder again.

And still the truck was behind her.

“Tom!” she screamed. “Call nine-one-one!!!! This guy’s trying to. . oh, Jesus. .” The corner was only a hundred feet away, a sharp curve right before the bridge.

The truck’s engine was deafening; its high beams were blinding in her side mirror. The idiot was going to pass her!

Good. Let him go by! Remember to get his damned license plate number. .

Oh, God, the grille of the truck was so close to her left rear panel! Too close! With a sick sensation she realized the driver had no intention of going around her. He was going to hit her again!

She had no choice. Though her Dodge was still sliding, she stepped on the accelerator to outmaneuver him.

Too late!

Bam!

Another shot to her bumper. Off center this time and hard enough to snap her neck.

Her van careened to the right. She stood on the brakes, but the tires kept moving, ever closer to the edge of the road and the river below.

The bridge… if she could just reach the bridge.

Bam! With the groan of twisting metal, she felt her vehicle take flight.

Over the edge of the road, above a strip of snowy bank, then the Caravan dived nose first into the swift, ice-cold river.

Since Friday night with Kacey, it seemed to take forever to get through the rest of the long weekend. Between his chores, taking Eli to see Sarge, the recovering dog, both Saturday and Sunday, who so far was doing okay, Trace had spent the rest of his time trying not to think about his son’s new doctor. He’d told himself after Jocelyn that he was through with women for a while, at least until Eli was older, but now, here he was, in the damned barn, thinking about Dr. Acacia Lambert and wondering how he could see her again.

“Don’t be stupid,” he told himself as he finished feeding the cattle, who were housed during the coldest days of winter in the long barn.

He pushed aside all thoughts of her easy smile and the glint of humor he caught in her gaze. Starting something up with her would only spark trouble, and he’d seen more than his share.

He had even considered calling her again but had thought better of it. Besides, they hadn’t really gone on a date so much as eaten together out of convenience, for the sake of Eli. He wondered about her interest in his son. It seemed more than professional, but then, he was probably reading more into the situation than there really was.

She was also attracted to Trace; he’d been with enough women to recognize the signs. But she’d been guarded as well. So it was best to just let it lie.

Besides, he had enough on his plate. Eli’s arm seemed to be healing, but his persistent cough was deep and rattling and just wouldn’t go away. His temperature was closing in on a hundred, or had been last night; he’d check again once the boy was awake for the day, but Trace was starting to worry.

For now, though, he had work to do. The smell of cattle, dung, and urine mingled with that of the dry hay in this hundred-year-old wooden structure that stored feed as well as provided shelter for the animals. The oldest part of the building, the middle section, where the cattle were now milling, was the original barn and was constructed of long-weathered cedar. It rose three stories high, and in the loft overhead, bales of hay were stacked to the ancient rafters. On either side of this central piece, additions had been built over the decades: a pole barn on one side, an enclosed shed that ran the length of the building on the other.

This morning the cattle, restless at being cooped up during the latest series of storms, bawled and pushed toward the trough he used for feeding in the winter. Their russet and black coats were thick and shaggy; their noses wet as they buried them into the hay he’d spread.

“Hold on. There’s enough for everyone,” he told one particularly pushy whiteface.

Then, satisfied that the cattle were cared for, he hung his pitchfork on a nail near the door and automatically whistled for the dog.

“Okay, that wasn’t smart,” he muttered. Sarge was still at the veterinary clinic and would remain there until Jordan Eagle said he was well enough to leave.