Again she texted.
What’s going on?
Again, no response.
If you really think he’s in trouble, you should call the police.
Biting her lip, she let her hand hover over the keypad of her phone, then, deciding not to freak out, to give it a few more minutes, she made her way downstairs. She’d make some coffee or hot chocolate or—
“Aaaayeeeeooow!”
Outside, a bone-chilling scream splintered the night.
What the hell was that?
Oh, God. Trent!
Startled, she flinched on the final three stairs and missed a step, her ankle twisting as she spun, pain so sharp she stumbled, throwing out her hands to catch herself. The gun and phone flew from her fingers. She scrabbled for the railing but everything happened so fast and she fell, her shoulder glancing off the newel post before she landed hard on the floor, cheek slamming against the hardwood.
Stunned, pain throbbing from several points on her body, she silently cursed her clumsiness. But the scream? Had it been Trent? Something else? An animal, possibly wounded?
Heart thundering, she gingerly pulled herself to her feet. She winced as she tried the ankle, but despite a jab of pain, it supported her. Her shoulder ached and her face smarted. She’d have a few bruises come morning, but she’d live. “Klutz,” she muttered, grateful she hadn’t shot herself. She listened and heard nothing over the rush of the wind, but that was it. She wasn’t going to sit in the house while God knew what was going on.
Snapping on a light, she found her phone near the den and snapped it up. The screen was shattered but it still seemed to work. The pistol had slid across the hardwood to the front door and she gathered it as well, then she turned off the light and headed to the back door. She’d text Trent and—
Blam!
The crack of a rifle.
Instinctively, she hit the floor, every muscle tense, fear shooting through her blood.
Was it Trent’s weapon?
Or someone else’s?
Didn’t matter.
This was no good. No good. Whether he was shooting or being shot at, he was in trouble. Big trouble.
Over the rush of the wind she heard the frightened neighing of the horses.
Fingers trembling, heart drumming, a thousand questions darting through her mind, she dialed 9-1-1 and slid to the back door where she sat with her back against the wall.
Horrid thoughts gripped her.
Was Trent shot?
Even now bleeding out in the barn somewhere?
Oh, God, please, let him be all right! Please, please, please—
“9-1-1,” a female operator said over the wireless connection. “What is the nature of your emergency—”
“Help! Send help!” Cassie nearly screamed. “I heard gunshots and screams and . . . and my husband is in the barn, I think.” She was starting to panic and had to force herself to be coherent. “We were in bed, the dog got all weird and started barking and Trent went out to investigate and then I heard the scream and oh, God, just send someone. My husband’s outside!”
“Ma’am, if you’ll slow down,” the operator said calmly. “Is anyone injured?”
“I—I don’t know. But I heard a scream. First some kind of animal, horrible scream and then . . . a little bit later, a minute maybe, a gunshot.” She was frantic, her pulse ticking wildly. “I texted him, but he’s not responding! For the love of Christ, just send help!”