Page 118 of Dirty Cowboy

The forest closes in, dense and wild. Branches snag at my sleeves, undergrowth tangling at my feet, but I push forward. My mind flickers back to the crude chalk map on Huntz’s wall, the spot marked with an X.

The shack has to be close.

Then, through the trees, I see it.

A rickety wooden structure barely holding together, sagging under the weight of time and decay. My stomach clenches as I creep toward the door, every instinct screaming danger. I push it open, the hinges groaning in protest.

The air inside is thick with rot and something worse—something metallic. I move fast, searching, until my eyes catch on the outline of a trapdoor partially hidden by a filthy rug. My heart hammers as I grab the rusted handle and yank it open. The hinges squeak.

“Misty?” My voice is barely a whisper, but a faint rustling catches my ears.

I climb down into the darkness.

The air is suffocating, damp and stale, the walls pressing in. My pulse races as my eyes adjust to the gloom. Misty sits curled in the corner, her wrists bound, and her face streaked with tears.

“Emma?” she whispers, voice trembling. “Is it really you?”

I rush to her side, my fingers fumbling with the thick rope. “It’s me. I’m getting you out of here.”

The knot is too tight. My hands shake as I grab a shard of broken glass from the floor, sawing at the bindings. The glass bites into my skin, warm blood trailing down my fingers, but I don’t stop.

Misty’s breaths come fast and shallow. “He—he said…” Her voice cracks. “He said he’s my father.”

I freeze.

The ropes snap free. I grab her hands, squeezing tightly. “Misty, listen to me. Huntz may be your father biologically, but he’s not your family. He kidnapped you and forced you to live in the foster system. Your real mother is Joanne Waters, and you have a family who loves you.”

Her lip trembles. “What? No… That can’t be true. He said… He said I’m his. He said he’ll finally get their land.”

I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. “You’re not his. You never were. And don’t worry, he’s not taking anyone’s land.”

A sob wracks her body. “I… I think I remember. I thought it was just a dream for so many years, but I think it happened.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “That night. When he took Annabelle and Eric… I helped them escape. But he caught me.”

She blinks, her hands shaking in mine.

“He brought me back here.”

Recognition flickers in Misty’s eyes, a realization crashing down on her like a tidal wave.

I pull back slightly, my pulse hammering. “You were the one who saved Eric and Annabelle?”

Her face crumples under the weight of her memories. “We escaped, but he caught up. He—” Her voice catches, her breath hitching on the truth. “He set the fire at his own house. Framed Eric for it. But it was him. It was always him. He put me back in the system that night.” Her hands tremble as she clutches my arm. “I didn’t know about the money. The payments Eric was sending to keep Annabelle and the family, safe. Everybody knew Huntz hated the Waters. He couldn’t stand that Joanne built a life without him… after everything he did.”

Rage surges through me like a wildfire, burning through the last of my fear. I slice through the final rope binding her feet, the jagged shard of glass slick with my own blood. “We’re getting out of here, Misty. Now.”

We scramble up from the cellar, the stench of damp earth and decay clinging to our skin. The warped wooden floor groans beneath our steps as we race for the door, bursting into the dense forest beyond.

“Skyler!” Huntz’s voice cuts through the trees, raw and seething. “You can’t run from me!”

The sound sends ice through my veins. Misty stumbles, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps, but I grip her wrist and yank her forward.

“Go!” I whisper, shoving her ahead of me.

Branches whip at my face, tearing at my skin as we sprint through the tangled undergrowth. The crunch of leaves and snapping twigs tells me Huntz is closing in, his heavy footsteps pounding against the earth.

We break free from the trees and onto the train bridge, hurrying across. A whistle shrieks in the distance. The wooden planks groan beneath our weight as we skid to a stop.

Misty’s fingers dig into my arm. “Emma, what do we do?”

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