in his leg. He stood there, breathing hard, shaking. Squinting, he tried to make out the type of vehicle, but the lights were too bright. What was this guy doing?
The driver’s side door swung open. He saw a silhouette as someone stepped out. “Hey, Loverboy!”
In that instant, Noah knew this was no random accident. He was keenly aware of how close the vehicle was. That he was vulnerable. Alone. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Never taking his eyes off the vehicle, Noah limped across the road to a safer distance, out of the glare of the lights. “I don’t want any trouble,” he called out.
Nothing but ominous silence came back at him.
There was a plowed field to his left, a fenced pasture to his right. Home was straight ahead. If he could get around the car on either side, he could make it. All he had to do was climb the fence or cut through the field.
Noah started toward the fence. He was midway there when the driver gunned the engine. Noah broke into a run, but he was hindered by his injured leg. The tires squealed against the asphalt. The vehicle jumped forward. Ignoring the pain, Noah poured on the speed, sprinting toward the fence a few yards away.
The vehicle roared toward him, closing in fast. It slid to a stop between him and the fence, missing him by inches, cutting him off. Noah pivoted, changed direction, and ran toward the open field, arms outstretched.
Behind him, the engine screamed. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the vehicle back up and skid sideways, mudslinging from the rear tires. Then it leapt forward.
Breathing hard, he sprinted toward the field, feet pounding the ground, boots sinking into mud up to his ankles. Loose cornstalks threatened to trip him. Headlights played crazily all around. The roar of the engine in his ears. No place to take cover. No fence or trees.
He tore through the field, feet barely touching the ground, pain zinging, arms pumping. Ten yards and he risked a look behind him. Headlights a scant few feet away, a giant beast about to devour him.
“Stop!” he shouted.
Noah cut hard to the left, tried to outmaneuver the vehicle. It tracked him, tires eating up the ground at an astounding speed, headlights bouncing over the rough terrain.
Noah swung right toward the trees a quarter mile away. The vehicle stayed with him, mud flying, closing the distance in seconds. Noah zigzagged right and left, slid and nearly fell, then turned back toward the road. Not too far. If he could reach the fence he’d be home free . . .
The bumper struck him from behind, a wrecking ball slamming into his backside. Noah’s feet left the ground. He somersaulted across the hood, elbows and knees knocking against steel, the windshield. For an instant he was airborne, tumbling end over end. He hit the ground hard. Pain screaming through his body. Wet earth against his face. The taste of blood in his mouth.
Choking back a groan of pain, he rolled, got to his hands and knees, and crawled toward the fence. Just fifty feet to go. Behind him, the engine bellowed. He glanced back, saw the oncoming headlights, dirt and debris flying. The silver glint of the bumper loomed.
He raised his hands. “No!”
Thoughts of Ashely flitted through his brain.
The world exploded, and the waiting darkness sucked him into the abyss.
* * *
At seventy-eight years of age, Orin Schlabach figured he was old enough to know not to venture too far from the house, especially when his wife had just pulled a double batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven. He’d reached for one—just a little something to tide him over while the coffee perked—but she’d smacked his hand with the wooden spoon she kept next to the stove and told him to feed the cows first. Not a man to argue with a woman in charge of breakfast, Orin grabbed his coat and headed out to the barn. He was on his way back inside when he heard his birddog, Jojo, barking somewhere out in the front field.
Drizzle drifted down from an overcast sky; the temperature hovered somewhere around forty degrees. It was Orin’s least favorite kind of weather. Unfortunately for him, Jojo loved it, the colder and wetter, the better.
Standing in the driveway between the house and barn, Orin looked out at the field. Sure enough, a quarter mile away, Jojo was barking at something on the ground. Some debris