Chapter 2

My body screamed to run, to hide.

But the image of Sophia, lifeless, burned in my mind.

No. Not again.

This time would be different.

I forced my legs to stop shaking.

As Thunder reached me, instead of cowering, I knelt.

I held out a hand, palm up.

"Hey there, boy," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "You're a handsome one."

Thunder skidded to a halt, head cocked, ears perked. He sniffed my outstretched hand.

Old John watched, his eyes narrowed. "Thought you hated dogs, Isabella."

"People change, John," I said, keeping my gaze on Thunder. "He's a beautiful animal."

Thunder nudged my hand, then, to my astonishment, he flopped onto his side, exposing his belly.

A sign of submission. Trust.

I reached out slowly and stroked his chest. His fur was coarse, but warm.

Old John's face darkened. He took a step forward and aimed a kick at Thunder's exposed flank.

"Get up, you damn mutt!" he snarled. "Acting like a sissy."

Thunder yelped, scrambling to his feet, looking at Old John with bewildered eyes.

I stood up, placing myself slightly between Old John and the dog.

"He was just being friendly," I said, my voice calm.

Old John grunted. "Friendly don't mean nothing. He needs to know who's boss."

I knew Old John wasn't here to give me a companion.

He was here to assert control.

My ex-husband, Mark, was a police officer in our small California town, but he was weak, always under his father's thumb. After Mark's mother died, he'd insisted Old John move in with us, supposedly to help with Sophia.

Help.

Old John had opinions on everything. How I dressed, how I cooked, how Mark and I lived our lives.

And he doted on Sophia with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Not love, but possession.

He was a farmer, a man used to breaking animals and people to his will.

He especially disliked it when I stood up to him.

The last straw, before Thunder appeared in my previous life, was when I'd found out he'd left Sophia, barely six months old, alone in her crib while he went to the local bar to watch a football game.

She'd woken up, cried, and somehow pulled her blanket over her face.

If I hadn't checked the baby monitor feed from work during my lunch break, she would have suffocated.

I'd raced home and confronted him, right there on the street, in front of the neighbors.

The next day, he'd brought Thunder.

A weapon.

"Well," Old John said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "See you around, Isabella. Don't let him get too soft."

He dropped the chain on the porch and walked away, whistling.

I watched him go, then turned to Thunder. The dog looked at me, then at the dropped chain, then back at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

I picked up the chain.

"Come on, boy," I said softly. "Let's go inside."

I needed to see Sophia.

She was napping in her crib in the nursery.

I tiptoed in. Her tiny chest rose and fell rhythmically. Her rosebud mouth, her perfect, unmarred face.

I leaned over and inhaled the sweet, milky scent of her.

I gently placed my finger in her palm. Her tiny fingers curled around it, a strong, determined grip.

A wave of emotion, so fierce it almost buckled my knees, washed over me.

I would not fail her again.