A Bridge Between Us

by K. K. Allen

  I was fast. When my adrenaline fueled me, I ran even faster. But when a psychopath decided to chase me with a bow and arrow through the woods, fear stoked that adrenaline, and I flew.

  Trees zoomed past my peripheral as I zig-zagged around every obstacle that could block me from the madman chasing me. Even if I was faster than he was, I couldn’t outrun his arrow.

  My calves screamed, and my throat burned, but my confidence, my speed, and my determination were futile. Once that second arrow whizzed straight past my head and splintered into the tree right in front of me, I knew I’d already lost.

  A dark laugh boomed from deep in the woods, causing a sob to burst out of me. I couldn’t have helped it if I’d tried. The terror running through my veins was far too much for me to take. But I was so close to the bridge. I couldn’t give up.

  Whoosh.

  After another arrow came another menacing laugh.

  I dug my heels into the ground, beating the life out of the soil in my escape. Though I had just a partial view through the break in the trees, I wanted to cry tears of happiness at the sight of the bridge up ahead.

  The run was wearing on me, and my energy was spent. When I got a better view of the bridge, my happy tears turned to sad ones. Ridge still wasn’t there. Where is he? He never kept me waiting for long, especially not at nighttime.

  Fear twisted through me, and desperation emerged. The man in the mask was still behind me. I could hear his feet pounding against the earth. “Help!” Another sob burst from my lips. “Help!” I yelled louder while I darted toward the cornfield, on a desperate mission to find Ridge. At least there, I could hide among the corn stalks instead of running uphill through the vines.

  I pushed on, though my steps slowed. But before I could clear the woods to burst into the field of corn, another arrow whizzed by me, grazing my side at my waistline before sliding through debris. My skin ripped open, and I grimaced with pain. Heat flooded my eyes as I reached for my wound, still continuing to run.

  Distraction was a devil. My focus was no longer on my path ahead or weaving in creative patterns to avoid another arrow but on where Ridge could be. And that was a grave mistake.

  On my next step forward, my foot caught on a giant log that I saw too late, launching me forward toward the ground just in front of the cornfield. A scream burst from my throat and pierced my lungs, and I only stopped when my head slammed to the ground.

  The faint sound of a gunshot rang through the air.

  I sank, oozing and dissolving into the night. Then my world started to fade to black.

  39

  Camila

  A siren wailed in the distance, but somehow, I knew it was approaching.

  “She’s over here!”

  The panicked voice confused me. It didn’t belong to Ridge, and he was who I wanted to hear. At least, that was what I remembered through the fog clouding my head.

  But why does everything hurt? The pain in my side stung like no other. Every single muscle in my body ached, and my calves burned, like I’d run too fast for too long. I groaned as I homed in on my splintering headache, which made my head feel like it was going to explode.

  Don’t cry, Wild One.

  I could practically hear Ridge’s words like a whisper in the wind.

  Hands grabbed me and rolled me onto my back. I groaned, but in my mind, I was screaming bloody murder. I just wanted the pain to stop.

  “She’s breathing!” the person cried, then I felt his face get closer. “Camila, can you hear me?”

  Cries of relief and footsteps approached, then bodies started to crowd around me. My eyes fluttered open, and I tried to ignore the pain to see who was by my side. Dark hair and age lines came into view.

  “Gus.” My words were barely a whisper. “What’s going on?” Even with my mind shouting at my body to move, I couldn’t.

  Gus nodded. “You’re going to be fine. You’re safe now.” His friendly eyes searched mine. “What were you doing in Harold’s cornfields, Camila? After that awful fight with your father, you should have known better.”

  “Mija, what were you thinking?”

  I turned to see Mama’s knees falling into the dirt on the other side of me. She grabbed my hand and squeezed. My eyes panned to directly above me, where my papa stood with his hands on his hips and head bowed, like he was ready to cry. I couldn’t process their worry. Shaking my head, I tried to sit up again and felt my strength starting to return.

  Gus added pressure, keeping me down. “Don’t try to move too fast,” he scolded me. “You hit your head pretty badly, and you’re bleeding at your waist. Help is on the way, but you need to take it easy until it arrives.”

  I fought through my swimming headache to try to regain some semblance of clarity. For me to feel the way I did, what had happened must have been bad. Slowly, bits and pieces began to come back to me—the fight with my parents, the bridge, and the missing necklace.

  One by one, I retraced my steps, which brought me down the wrong side of the mountain, where I’d seen the gated mine. My heartbeat started to quicken as a flash of camo and a matching skull mask visible through the weeds came to mind. And as I pictured the arrowhead flying through the air, I could almost believe it was happening all over again.

  Like a bullet, I shot up, ignoring Gus’s hold and the pain that lanced through my body. My breaths quickened as I panned the space around us. All I saw was a vision of a gray camouflage skull mask and a mad hunter on the prowl for my blood.

  “Where is he? Where’s the man in the mask?” Panic flooded through me until the fog that had drowned me before I’d passed out returned.

  I started to stand, but Gus held me down. “Take it easy, Camila. You’re going to be okay.”

  “What?” I shrieked, not understanding how he could be so calm. “There was a man who was chasing me through the woods with a bow and arrow.” My breaths came too fast, and my words had become muddled. “He shot at me. He was trying to kill me!” Tears flowed down my cheeks.

  Gus grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. “He’s dead, Camila.”

  I didn’t think I’d heard him right. I blinked hard, trying to steady his face in my gaze. “What?”

  “He’s dead. You’re going to be okay. And that… man…” Gus spit out the word like he’d just chewed up garbage. “Will never hurt you again.”

  I finally registered his words. “But how?” I panned the space again. “Where is he?”

  Gus lifted his flashlight and revealed a lifeless body lying on the ground about a hundred feet away. Then he panned up, revealing another man, one with a shotgun hanging by his side. Bruno was there, too, sharp teeth bared, and his growl was low and constant as he stared down at the masked man. My body started to shake again at the sight of Harold Cross, who had a sullen look on his face.

  “Y-You killed him?”

  Harold glared back at me. “Bruno here was growling like a lunatic before he took off toward the woods. Went after him, and that’s when I saw the son of a bitch with his weapon aimed at you. Didn’t even think. I just shot him. But I didn’t mean to kill him. Would have liked to see the bastard behind bars for trespassing.”

  The fact that the man who’d tried to run me over with a tractor had just saved my life gave me a shock. Shaking it off, I looked at Gus. “Please help me up.”

  “Camila—”

  “Gus, help me up. I need to see the face of the man who tried to kill me.” I stared firmly into his eyes. “Please.”

  He sighed and finally helped me to my feet. With his arms around me, we limped over to the body at Harold’s feet. His skull mask had already been removed, and it rested eerily on his chest. Trip aimed his flashlight at the man, and the moment I got a good look at him, I shuddered.

  “Do you recognize him, Camila?”

  I looked between Gus and Harold, confused. “No.” I looked down at the man again. “I’ve never seen him before. Should I recognize him?”

  Harold shrugged then cleared his throat.
“This here is Dave Lachey, a livestock farmer from Ouray.”

  Lachey, Lachey, Lachey. The familiar last name repeated in my mind as I tried to place it. Then it hit me, and my eyes shot back up to Harold’s. “Jason’s brother? From Camp Lachey?” If anything, I only felt more confused. “But why? Why would he want to hurt me? I’ve never even met him.”

  Harold’s permanent scowl deepened. “Jason’s a client of mine, so I knew of his brother. Crazy Dave, they call him. Disturbed fella. My guess is he was out here huntin’, and when he saw you, he must have thought you were a deer or somethin’.”

  I frowned, still trying to piece together the events of the day. Anxiety at the fact that anyone would think of what had just happened as an accident gripped me. I’d looked directly into that man’s eyes. He’d laughed as he was chasing me, like I was part of some sick game he was playing.

  “No,” I said finally with an adamant shake of my head. “He was toying with me. Letting me gain distance so that he could hunt me.” I shivered. “At one point, I ran right by him, and he didn’t even try to take a shot.”

  Harold cringed. “I don’t know, Camila. Like I said, the man was disturbed. Been in and out of jail for poachin’ crimes. But I don’t think he would ever hurt a human.”

  Unable to look at the dead man anymore, I took a wobbly step back. With my energy depleted, my entire body started to give out, but I didn’t want to leave. Even though Harold had saved my life, and Gus had been there when I awoke, something felt wrong. The pit of my stomach hardened when I realized exactly where that feeling was coming from. The loss in my heart was too strong to ignore.

  “Harold, where’s Ridge?” For a second, I panicked that someone would get angry with me, but then I realized I didn’t care. I needed to see him. I needed to know that he was okay.

  Gus and my parents averted their eyes, and Harold cleared his throat again. “He’s gone, darlin’. Left town. Said for you not to look for him neither.”

  My lips parted, but my heart didn’t believe a single word. “No.” I shook my head. “He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t just leave.”

  He promised. Ridge promised he wouldn’t leave me again. But even as I tried to deny the inevitable, deep down, I knew the truth. Ridge hadn’t been at the bridge when he should have been, and Harold had still been out in the field late at night, when he usually wasn’t. “He sent you to the bridge to talk to me?”

  Harold nodded. “Yes, darlin’, he did.”

  Fresh tears stung the backs of my eyes, and my heart squeezed with every last shred of hope I’d had left for him.

  “Camila,” my mama said gently. “Let’s get you back to the house, where you can rest. I’m sure the authorities will be here soon, and they’re going to have a lot of questions.”

  After another moment of silence and a nod to Harold Cross, I squeezed Gus tight and let him walk me toward the vineyard. And with one final backward glance, I said goodbye to my past.

  I had always known he wasn’t mine to keep, but that didn’t change the way I loved him—quietly, gently, and from afar.

  As the seasons changed, the corn stalks grew strong, and the grapevines flourished with hope. But none of it mattered, not when the soil at our feet bound us in a century-old rivalry. We’d never even had a chance.

  They said life flashed before your eyes on the way to death, but on that night, after my final scream burst from my throat and my world started to fade to black, I only thought of him and his sweet chocolate eyes, his desperately cautious stare, and his silence that carried more weight than gold.

  I should have died that night. Instead, I crossed the moonlit bridge and never returned. I let rivalry win. If only that had been enough to keep us all safe. If only we didn’t have a bridge between us.

  Chapter 40

  Camila

  Nothing could have prepared my heart for the nostalgia that swept over me the moment I stepped back onto the vineyard grounds earlier today.

  It seems like a lifetime has passed since the days when my world felt as endless and wild as the fields I used to run through, when life was nothing but one big adventure, bountiful and there for the taking. But things have changed, and life has changed us all.

  A cold breeze blows in as I push open the French doors to the balcony of my old bedroom. After locking them in place, I quickly zip my puffy white jacket up as far as it will go.

  I often used to stare out at the vineyard from this very spot. Beyond the gentle slope of land are trees with a craggy creek and a wooden bridge. But the purpose of the bridge is useless. The symbolism is futile. It doesn’t connect us. Instead, it separates the two things I once loved most in the world, rendering me helpless.

  Panning slowly, I take in the familiar view, which provides a much different perspective from when I was younger. When I was a child, the winter months were never my favorite. I couldn’t see the beauty in the white gold that powdered the earth or appreciate the crisp freshness in the air. When everything lay calm and quiet, the chaos in me brewed like a deadly storm threatening to strike. Winter always felt like my personal prison.

  Maybe the simple fact that I’m older now is why I find peace in what used to be my chaos. I can look at the iced-over vines and see life in what I used to believe lay dormant for six months out of the year. Now, I know better. While the buds won’t blossom and the leaves won’t spring to life, a much different story lies beneath the surface, where the roots still grow, soaking up nutrients while preparing for spring.

  The root system of a grapevine is a phenomenon I’ve come to understand in a way that feels parallel to my life for the past ten years. Perhaps, in a way, I’ve been lying dormant too. While I’ve spent time away from the family vines, I never stopped growing, learning, and readying myself for the future I’ve always dreamed of. I just wasn’t sure that dream was what I wanted anymore—after I lost him that night.

  I suck in a deep breath then release it in a slow, steady stream. Ready or not, I’m home.

  Home is such a strange word for a place that has felt like my worst nightmare for more than a decade. But the long-lasting effects of that night did more than break my heart. My family never recovered, torn apart by the rivalry that started it all. I left for college, and my mama moved into the guest villa. Three months ago, Papa died from a stroke while snipping grapes from the vines he loved so much. As promised, he left the Bell Family Vineyard and all its business operations to me—if I chose to accept.

  As a college graduate with various degrees from

  UC Davis, all in the fields of viticulture and enology, and with numerous international studies under my belt, I can say I’ve put in the work. Now it’s time to pay my dues where they matter most.

  With a quick turn, I enter my old room and toss my jacket onto the vintage four-post bed before making my way into the bathroom to get ready for dinner. As I switch on the sink faucet, I can already smell the rich aroma of a home-cooked paella. It’s just a scent from my favorite rice-and-seafood dish, but it envelops me just the same as my memories do every time I visit home. Only this time, its powerful fragrance has a different effect on me, one that churns in my gut and fires off every nerve ending in my body.

  After Papa’s death, Mama moved back into her old bedroom to grieve for him. Though their marriage had been broken for years, she never gave up hope that he would come back around. Neither of them gave me any intimate details, but I always assumed the fact that they never separated completely was a silent promise to each other that they would never find another love like they shared.

  I cup my hands under the warm running water and lean down to wash my chilled face. I’ll have to get used to the frigid winter again. Living in northern California, not having to be in icy conditions or worry about the tips of my hair freezing together, spoiled me.

  After turning off the faucet, I grab a rolled-up hand towel from the small basket on the sink to dry off and look at myself in the mirror.

  My dark-brown hair i
s gently tousled from traveling, though it’s nothing a quick finger-comb can’t fix. My face, on the other hand, is going to need something more. I have dark circles under my eyes from the lack of sleep last night, and the permanent ache in my side intensifies by the moment.

  Anxious feelings have always had the habit of keeping me awake, but the thought of returning home permanently has been twisting me up inside for weeks. Now that I’m actually here, I’m in knots.

  My eyes flutter closed as I pull in a deep breath and focus on steadying my heart rate. Combatting the memories of my past was much easier when I stopped by for weekends a few times a year before flying back to California. I holed myself up in the house, visited with family and friends who swung by, then went on my way. As tempting as it was to trace the roots of my past and run through the vines to the bridge and beyond, going back there, either physically or mentally, was too painful to bear.

  Nightmares from that night haunt me often. They feel so real sometimes that I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming at the top of my lungs. When I finally snap out of it and realize it’s all a dream, I think of Ridge. His face is the only memory that regulates my breathing. Despite how it all ended, thoughts of him still manage to bring me peace, even when he isn’t with me.

  Well, except for now, when seeing him again is more of a reality than ever. I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll react or what I’ll say, and I can’t imagine the reunion will be anything but uncomfortable. While I have so many questions, I’m too hardened from the pain to ask them and too broken to care about the answers.

  Unfortunately, growing up in the small town of Telluride, I learned that there is no such thing as “avoiding your problems.” Everybody knows your business, and those who want you to fail will be the first to announce the news the moment you do. Good folks exist, too, but weeds grow in even the greenest grass, and snakes find a way to slither through it all.