of the countryside after the busyness of the big city left her feeling isolated.
She checked her phone. With only one bar on her cell, the map wouldn’t load. “That’s great.” Mariah tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat and blew out a sigh. So much for modern technology.
Now what?
She’d passed a farm several miles back, but she hated asking for help. She shifted the car in gear and drove forward. Just a few more miles, and if she didn’t find Angelfire Ranch, she’d turn around or ask someone for directions.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into a parking lot containing half a dozen trucks and a single gray sedan. She looped her arm through her purse straps and read the name of the establishment made from cement blocks painted an icky avocado-green: Tank Up—Gas and Bar. She shook her head. “Only in Oklahoma.”
A Coke and some chocolate would do a lot to improve her mood. She grabbed her map, pressed the remote to lock the car and headed into the store. Loud music, smoke and the odor of burned pizza greeted her.
A slim clerk dressed in denim, boots and a cowboy hat nodded. “Howdy, ma’am.” His gaze dropped to the map in her hand. “Can I he’p you find somethin’?”
She smiled. “Just let me grab a Coke first.”
Mariah surveyed her surroundings—something she did as a habit. Probably the reporter in her wanting to know everything that was happening. The right side of the building housed a small convenience store while the left opened up to tables, chairs and a bar on the far wall. Neon signs shone through the cloud of smoke that hovered above a table where four men played cards and drank beer. The country music blaring from an old jukebox in the far corner whined a song she didn’t recognize. The buzz of conversation stopped, and the men at the table, along with another guy talking to the bartender, turned to gawk at her.
Mariah spun around, snatched a candy bar off the rack and made a beeline for the soda fountain. Thanks to her father, men made her nervous, especially ones who were indulging in liquor. She never knew what to expect from them. Three years as an investigative reporter had boosted her courage and made her much more outgoing, but being the only woman with seven men—some of whom were drinking—increased her anxiety.
She filled a disposable cup then hurried to the counter and paid for her items. She eyed a slice of cheese pizza in a warmer behind the clerk but decided she didn’t need the carbs. Glancing back at the clerk, she fished her wallet from her purse. “Could you please tell me how to find Angelfire Ranch?”
The young cowboy smiled. “Sure thang, ma’am. Just head north four miles or so until you see a broken-down hay baler in a field then turn right. You’ll see the big Angelfire sign after a few minutes. Cain’t miss it.”
She wanted to ask what a hay baler looked like, but several of the men from the table had risen and were ambling her way. Mariah gathered her things and rushed out the door. She didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until she turned her Mustang onto the road again.
She made note of the mileage so she could tell when she’d traveled four miles. At least she was closer to Angelfire Ranch than she’d thought.
A motion in the rearview mirror snagged Mariah’s attention. A black truck—no two—spun out of the store’s parking lot and were approaching fast.
Mariah pressed down the gas pedal, keeping watch on the odometer, the road and the trucks. Did they just happen to leave at the same time? Or were they following her?
She glanced at the speedometer—seven miles per hour over the speed limit—and the nearest truck was still closing the space between them. Mariah grasped the wheel harder, and her pulse jumped into overdrive. Just when she thought the first truck would ram her, it whizzed into the other lane and passed her. She glanced in the passenger window of the second truck as it also zoomed by, but the tinting was too dark for her to see through.
She relaxed her grip on the wheel and blew out an irritated breath. “Show-offs!”
As the second black truck passed her, she looked for the tag number, but the lower half of the vehicle was covered in mud. Suddenly, the truck swerved back into her lane, and the taillights lit up. The gap between her car and the pickup narrowed. Mariah slammed on her brakes and swerved into the other lane, tires squealing. A quick glance revealed no oncoming traffic. Her left rear tire dropped off the tarred edge, and she struggled to get it back on the road. Gravel chunked against the underbelly of her car. She jerked the wheel to the right, bumped up onto the asphalt and slowed to a stop on the center line. The truck sped down the road and disappeared around the corner.
Mariah’s heart pounded.
What just happened?
Had that driver deliberately tried to run her off the road?
Blowing out a breath, Mariah checked for traffic then pulled onto the right side of the road again. She wasn’t easily scared, but the randomness of the attack left her trembling. Maybe the driver had drunk too much liquor—or maybe mistaken her for someone else. Or maybe he was hotdogging. That was the only thing that made sense.
She glanced at the odometer, glad to see she had only another mile until the turnoff to Jackson Durant’s ranch. She hoped he was ready for her, because she aimed to get the real story about why he quit football in the midst of an undefeated season, not the fluff Where Are They Now? piece her editor wanted.
In the field to her right, she spied a rusty heap of equipment, which must be the hay baler since it was the only farm apparatus around. The road to Angelfire stretched out past the end of the fence line. “Finally!”
A movement straight ahead caught her eye. A black truck crept over the next hill, which was several hundred yards past the turnoff. Mariah’s heart jolted. Was it the same truck that had nearly caused her to crash?
She wasn’t waiting around to find out. She pressed on the gas, but as the Mustang charged forward like a thoroughbred from a starting gate, so did the truck. Mariah eyed the distance to the turnoff, keeping a death grip on the steering wheel. Just a few more yards.
The truck veered into her lane, barreling toward her.
Mariah swung the wheel a bit early, hoping she didn’t land in the ditch. She had to make this turn. Her tires squealed as the rear end of her car swept around the corner then fishtailed. She righted it just as the truck reached the turn. Mariah stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The store clerk had said she’d see the sign to Angelfire Ranch in a few minutes, but she reached it in one. She slowed down to make the turn onto the ranch’s gravel road.
Would the truck follow her onto private property?
If it did, she’d be ready. This was one driver she’d take delight in using her Taser on.
* * *
Jackson Durant hugged his daughter, enjoying her laughter.
Hailey released her hold on his neck and pushed back to look him in the face. “Toss me up again, Daddy.”
“One more time. Then we need to get back to work.” He lowered her to the ground, and Hailey squatted down then jumped. Jackson lifted her and pitched her up a couple of feet into the air over his head. He wouldn’t be able to toss his six-year-old like this much longer. He lowered her back down, amid girlish giggles, and squeezed her shoulder. “Time to get busy.”
He retrieved the yearling he’d tied to the paddock fence and led her out into the yard. The black filly would make a good saddle horse one day, but she still needed some work.
“Can I lead her?”
Jackson peered down at his daughter’s pixie face, remembering again how close he had come to losing her the day she was born. A deep ache gutted his insides even worse than the pain he’d felt when he walked away from quarterbacking an undefeated team on its way to the Super Bowl. He couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine—what his life would be like without his daughter.
Every day her brown eyes and sweet smile looked