Page 151 of Ride the Sky

Even if I stay, even if I tell him how I feel, there’s no guarantee this will work out.

No matter how much I want it to.

Using a water glass as a rolling pin, I roll the dough into something resembling a circle. I wince at the shoddy work. Dakota would have my head. One thing’s for damn sure, rodeos and cinnamon rolls aren’t for the fainthearted.

Ugh, this is what I’m reduced to. Cooking a man something edible and not poisonous?

And yet, my heart flutters.

“Shit,” I swear, glancing at the recipe. The oven should have been preheated thirty minutes ago.

Creak.

I freeze.

There it is again.

The slightest creak of a floorboard.

I turn around. Stare at the doorway that leads into the hallway.

Nothing. There’s nothing. There’s no one here.

But something about the emptiness makes me feel like I’m on display. Like I’m being watched.

Shaking off my nerves, I return to the recipe. I scan it once more. Shit. I need powdered sugar.

Gripping my cane in my hand, I limp down the hall to the basement door. I open it and stare into the dark. I swallow. I could call Dakota and wait for a delivery, but I can do this. Hell, I have to do it. Wyatt will be home in a few hours.

Done debating, I rest my cane against the wall. Using the banister as a grip, I lower myself onto the first step. It takes a few tries, my hip screams its protest, but I soon get a rhythm going.

“God, fuck this,” I huff as I bang my way down the stairs.

After what feels like hours, I finally make it into the basement.

It’s dim and dank. The only light comes from two sliding windows above the rumbling freezer. A light bulb with a long string hangs from the ceiling. Cobwebs in the corners. Shelves my father installed years ago line the back wall. Canned goods and batteries and a tower of horse feed.

I blow out a sigh and adjust my gait, reaching up to turn on the light.

My brain pushes back.

The light’s already on.

My heart floats up into my throat.

Someone’s been down here.

Don’t think of Aiden. Don’t overreact. Don’t fucking breathe.

I stay still, listening to the house, waiting. Not a sound.

But there is a smell.

Rotten eggs.

Pulse racing, I scan the basement.

A hissing sound comes from the furnace tucked away on the pale, shadowy wall.

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