Farm Girl Meets Bad Boy (#1)

Chapter Twenty-Four

I close my eyes, and put my arms in front of my face to brace myself. I listen to the thunder crashing across the sky, and the rain hitting the ground, as I wait to feel the teeth of the mountain lion. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was about to die. If someone found me in time, I would probably survive a few bites and scratches, but then again, I’ve never been attacked before.

An ear-piercing bang forces me to jump back, startled. My ears feel like their blocked from the load noise deafening them, so I carefully lower my arms to look. The mountain lion lies on its side, unmoving. There’s a blood-covered hole right where the organs would be inside the torso. To my right, stands my dad, holding the family shotgun. He shot it dead. Just like last time.

“River,” I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m hearing and seeing right. Emery rushes towards me, and kneels at my side. He brushes my hair out of my eyes and looks at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

Dad follows in suit and looks at me cradling my arm. “I think it’s broken,” I whisper, stuck in shock. “And my ankle feels twisted. I don’t think I can walk.” My dad nods to Emery who slides his arms underneath me. Despite both of us being soaked, his arms are warm as he picks me up. As I lean into him, we start to walk towards the house. “How did you find me? Where’s Silver, and King?” I ask, suddenly worried.

“Silver ran to me while I was already on the road,” Emery explains, avoiding my father’s glare. “I knew something had to be wrong, so I rode her back to-“

“Whoa, wait,” I interrupt, looking up to meet his eyes. “You rode Silver bareback?” He shrugs as my mouth hangs open.

“I went and yelled into the house,” he continues, as King runs up to us excitedly. “King was already waiting there.” King barks at the mention of his name, and my dad laughs.

“He never really learns, does he…?” His words aren’t formed in a question as he quietly trails off. I know he’s thinking about the other times the dog has done this. Especially the time when Ocean died. The memory resurfaces, but for the first time since it happened, I don’t shake. Maybe it’s because I’m snuggled into Emery’s chest as his hands cradle me against him. Or, maybe I just conquered my fear.

Two Weeks Later:

I head towards the kitchen table, carrying four plates in my good arm-the right one- and juggle between holding glass cups and forks in the other. It’s in a bright pink cast that no one has signed. Partly because I don’t really know anyone, except Mary, who really wanted to sign it, and Emery. But I refused to have it marked with only one, possibly two names.

“River,” Emery scares me, and I forget to keep my bad arm tilted upright. In a matter of seconds, everything is on the floor shattered into a million pieces. Sighing, I bend down and scramble to pick up the pieces. “You aren’t supposed to be doing anything,” Emery says, helping me grab the large chunks of glass and forks.

I roll my eyes, and stand up. “I’m not going to sit around and be a deadweight,” I mutter, throwing the glass in the garbage. Emery walks over and copies me, throwing the shattered pieces into the trash.

“How’s your foot?”

“Fine.” It had been fine after a few days of staying off of it, although Emery insisted on asking me every single day since.

“What about your arm?” I grab the dustpan and start to sweep up the remaining shards.

“Also fine.” It didn’t hurt anymore, but that’s because it’s in a cast. Emery and I meet eyes. His are full of concern. No one had mentioned anything about his dad the past two weeks, and I think indulging in my well-being is the only thing Emery can do to not freak out.