Kidnapped Love

Chapter 18

Chapter 18:

The barn's air was thick with the musky scent of hay and livestock—a familiar aroma that mingled with the lingering sweat on my brow. The day had been long, the work grueling, but as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting an orange glow through the slats in the wood, a sense of accomplishment filled me.

"Looks like all that's left is for me to feed them," Ross said, gesturing to the animals with a nod. His hands were roughened from years of labor, his face etched with the lines of a man who knew the land and tended to it like a silent promise. He caught my gaze, his eyes reflecting an understanding that only those who've shared hard work can exchange. "You can go. I got this."

"Thanks, Ross." My voice was weary but grateful. I pulled out my phone, the screen light stark against the dimming interior of the barn, and thumbed a brief message to Derek: "Ready when you are."

Ross leaned against a pillar, arms folded, and we fell into an easy conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter and the soft shuffling of the animals around us. It was during a quiet lull in our chat that the sound of gravel crunching under tires reached my ears.

"Must be your ride," Ross observed, with a glance toward the open door.

"Must be." I pushed myself up from the hay bale that had been serving as my makeshift seat, muscles protesting slightly. I walked to the porch, the soles of my shoes knocking off bits of straw with each step. There, resting on the wooden bench, was my purse, which I scooped up with a weary but satisfied sigh.

"See you, Mitchell. Bye, Claire," I called into the house, where Mitchell offered a lazy wave and Claire, ever the multitasker, nodded while her fingers danced across her knitting.

I made my way to the driveway just as Derek's white pickup truck came to a stop, dust settling behind it like a fading memory. With a hand bracing on the door frame, I hoisted myself up into the passenger seat, feeling the cushion yield beneath me. I cast a glance back at Ross, who stood just outside the barn, his silhouette framed by the dying daylight. I gave him a quick wave, settling myself in the seat.

"Hey there," Derek greeted me, his smile an anchor in the sea of my exhaustion.

"Hi," I replied, fastening the seatbelt. Then, I watched as Ross lifted his hand in farewell, a gesture that carried the weight of shared labor and unspoken camaraderie. Derek's eyes caught his wave and returned the sentiment with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes—a smile that revealed more than just politeness. He waved back at Ross, the pickup's engine humming with readiness.

It was a simple movement, but it bridged the gap between the two men, acknowledging the presence of one another in this small, interconnected community.

As we rolled away from the barn, the gravel popping beneath the tires, I turned my head for one last look at the farmstead that had consumed the breadth of my day. The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long and thin, and in that moment, there was a peaceful finality to the day's end—the kind of closure that comes not with words, but with the simple turning of wheels on a familiar path home.

The road unfurled before us, a ribbon of asphalt that cut through fields of whispering wheat. Derek's grip on the steering wheel was relaxed, yet the lines of his jaw tightened as he broke our comfortable silence.

"I know we said we would hang out tonight, but I have to work instead," he announced suddenly. His words hung between us like a sudden chill. A wave of disappointment crashed over me, leaving me momentarily adrift in its wake.

"Oh," was all I could manage, my voice a feeble echo of my deflated spirits. The evening had promised a respite, a chance to unwind together after the day's exertions. But now, with those plans dashed, unease gnawed at me, and questions about Ross' cousin clawed for attention in my weary mind.

Derek glanced my way, his brow furrowed, concern etched in the furrows of his skin. "Hey, are you okay?" he probed faintly as the truck hummed along. He nudged my arm—a gentle gesture meant to anchor me back to the present.

"Is everything okay? You seem distracted," Derek continued, his tone probing yet tender. "Is this because I can't hang out tonight? Because I can try to find someone else to take the shift."

It was a generous offer, but shaking my head, I brushed it aside. "No. I'm fine. It's just something that Ross and I were talking about," I admitted, striving for nonchalance I didn't feel.

"Anything interesting?" he pressed, curiosity sharpening his features. His hand found a new perch on my thigh, warm and reassuring, even as it encouraged confession.

"Maybe," I conceded, inhaling deeply, bracing myself for the plunge into delicate territory.

"Tell me," he urged, his eyes never leaving the road but every ounce of his attention focused on me.

"Ross mentioned that one of your coworkers was hanging out with his cousin when she went missing," I blurted out, unable to craft a more delicate preface. My gaze locked onto Derek, seeking any flicker of recognition or alarm.

His face morphed into an unreadable mask, stoic and still, while his eyes remained fixated on the path ahead. There was no flinch, no twitch—nothing to betray his thoughts.

"I know it sounds terrible, but is there any way you think one of your friends could be involved in that?" My voice barely rose above a whisper, laden with the weight of accusation and fear.

Derek's response was a slow shake of the head, his tone flat. "I don't know what they do in their personal time," he said, withdrawing his hand from my leg to resume its place on the wheel. The muscles of his shoulders coiled tight, and he rolled his neck, releasing a sigh tinged with frustration.

Sensing the tension that now coiled within the cab like a spring, I let the subject drop. This wasn't the first time suspicions had been cast, and his reaction told me more than words ever could. As the truck carried us forward, the unsaid hung heavy in the air, a silent companion on the journey home.

The soft crunch of gravel beneath tires signaled our arrival as Derek's truck rolled to a stop behind Ron's, the familiar rumble of the engine quieting into a subdued idling. He shifted into park, and for a moment, neither of us moved—a stillness cloaked in the thick air of frustration that lingered between us.

"Thank you for bringing me home," I murmured, my voice barely rising above the hum of the truck's lifeblood. "I'm sorry you have to work tonight." My apology hung there, infused with an unspoken wish for things to be different.

Derek offered a terse nod, but his eyes—those windows to a soul troubled by the weight of suspicion—avoided mine. The silence stretched, dense and uncomfortable, as I gathered my purse and the overnight bag cradling my hastily packed clothes.

My fingers brushed against the cool metal of the door handle, hesitating as I wondered if he would utter a farewell. But instead of a word, it was the gentle but firm grasp of Derek's hand on my forearm that halted my motion. The door clicked open, yet I remained seated, turning to face him.

His eyes searched mine, clouded with a hurt that cut through any pretense. "You don't think I have anything to do with that, do you?" His voice broke the thickness of the cab's atmosphere, each word laced with vulnerability.

A pang of surprise at my own flicker of doubt stabbed inward, but my response came swift and certain. "Of course not. I trust you." It was the truth—despite the chaos of thoughts and theories, my trust in him stood unwavering.

Relief softened the hard lines of his face, though shadows of withheld thoughts played at the edges of his expression. Leaning forward, Derek's lips met mine in a kiss that promised more than just a simple goodbye. It was a reassurance, a silent vow.

"I will make arrangements to get your car back to you tomorrow," he said with a newfound steadiness, a glimpse of the Derek I knew surfacing once again. "I'll call you, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," I whispered back, a half-smile gracing my lips despite the turmoil within. Slowly, I slid from the sanctuary of the passenger seat, the sound of the closing door reverberating like the final note of a song left unresolved.

As the truck's headlights faded into the growing dusk, a secret seemed to cling to the twilight, whispering of words unsaid and truths concealed just beneath the surface.