Chapter 1

Jessica Peterson, my classmate, my rival for the scholarship, smiled that bright, fake smile of hers, she said, "Sarah, you look stressed, finals are coming, how about a weekend trip? My aunt' s got a place in the country, super chill."

I was top of my class, that scholarship was my ticket out of this small town, my way to a real university, but she was right, I was wound tight.

A break sounded too good.

She picked me up Saturday morning, her dad' s new shiny SUV still smelling of leather.

Miles out, at a gas station caked in red dust, she bought us sodas.

"To a relaxing weekend," Jessica toasted, her eyes glinting.

I took a long drink, the soda was too sweet.

My head started to swim almost immediately, the edges of the dusty store blurring, Jessica' s voice echoing strangely.

Then, nothing, just black.

I woke up on a mattress, thin and stained, the springs digging into my back.

The air was a disgusting mix of mold, stale food, and something sharp, like unwashed animals.

My head throbbed, my mouth tasted like old pennies.

A woman stood over me, her face hard, her eyes like gray stones.

She was big, her arms thick.

"Awake, are ya?" she grunted, her voice rough.

This wasn't Jessica's aunt's guest room, this was a nightmare.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed up my throat.

This place, this dilapidated farmhouse, it felt... familiar, but wrong, like a half-forgotten bad dream.

It was deep in the sticks, the kind of place you heard stories about, the kind of place my Grandpa John used to patrol when he was Sheriff of Willow Creek County.

This looked like Willow Creek County, or somewhere just as remote, just as poor.

Hope, a tiny, stupid flicker, died as soon as it sparked, because if this was his old county, what was I doing here, like this?

A sharp kick to my ribs jolted me fully awake, pain exploding in my side.

"Get up, girl," the woman snarled, yanking my arm so hard my shoulder screamed.

I scrambled back, hitting a damp, crumbling wall.

Two rough-looking young men, her sons I guessed, lounged in the doorway, grinning, their eyes hungry.

"Where am I?" I gasped, my voice hoarse, "What do you want? Jessica... where' s Jessica?"

The woman, Brenda Miller her name was, as I' d learn, laughed, a harsh, grating sound.

She grabbed my hair, yanking my head back.

"Jessica ain't here, sweet thing," Brenda spat, her breath sour.

"She traded you, fair and square."

Her grip tightened, tears pricked my eyes.

"Traded me? For what?"

"That old pickup out back, barely runs, but it runs," Brenda said, a cruel satisfaction in her voice, "And a promise from her rich daddy, a job for one of my boys."

She shoved me, and I stumbled, my legs weak.

"Jessica said you were a runaway, no family to miss you, easy pickings."

The words hit me harder than the kick, Jessica, who I' d known since kindergarten, who' d copied my homework, who' d cried on my shoulder about boys.

Betrayal, cold and absolute, settled in my gut.

I was to be a wife, she said, to one of those leering sons of hers.

My mind screamed, no.

I was Sarah, top student, going to university, pre-law maybe, like Grandpa John always said I should consider.

I wasn' t going to be some backwoods broodmare.

"No," I whispered, then louder, "No! You can't do this!"

I had to get out, I had to get away from these people, from this filthy, hopeless place.

My scholarship, my future, my life, it was all slipping away.

I saw a chance when Brenda turned to yell at one of her sons.

The back door was ajar, showing a sliver of gray, rainy sky.

I bolted.

My legs felt like lead, my head still fuzzy from whatever Jessica gave me.

I burst out into a muddy yard, the cold rain hitting my face.

Freedom, just a few steps away.

Then my legs buckled, the ground rushed up, and I collapsed in the mud, gasping for air, my body too weak, too betrayed by the drugs.

Brenda was on me in a second, hauling me up by my arm again, her fingers like iron bands.

"Thought you could run, did ya?" she sneered, dragging me back towards the house.

She threw me onto the rotten porch.

"You ain't going nowhere, girl, you're ours now."

She stood over me, her bulk blocking out the meager light.

"You belong to my boy, whichever one he picks."

Her words were like stones, crushing me.

I lay there, mud seeping into my clothes, rain plastering my hair to my face, every muscle aching.

"Please," I begged, tears I couldn't stop now mixing with the rain, "Please, let me go, my parents will pay you, they have money, not rich like the Petersons, but they can get it, more than a broken-down truck."

I was babbling, desperate, offering anything.

Brenda and her sons just laughed.

It was a horrible sound, full of scorn.

"Money?" Brenda scoffed, "Your friend Jessica said you got nothing, nobody, just a troublemaker."

They looked at me like I was a stray dog, something to be kicked or used.

I felt so small, so utterly alone.

My own town, my own county, felt a million miles away.

Then, through the fog of pain and fear, something clicked.

The way Brenda talked, that twang, the specific curse words she used.

The look of the trees, the red clay soil under the mud, the very smell of the damp earth.

It was all so familiar.

This was Willow Creek County.

Grandpa John' s county.

The place he' d protected for forty years.

The place where his name was legend.

A jolt, not of hope, but of stark, unbelievable irony, shot through me.

My Grandpa John, the retired Sheriff.

Everyone in Willow Creek, and even the surrounding counties, knew John.

He was quiet, but his presence filled a room, his integrity was absolute.

Grandma Betty, his wife, my grandmother, was just as formidable, fiercely protective, sharp-witted, with a network of friends that spanned generations.

They lived just an hour's drive from my town, but because my dad had moved for work years ago, I hadn't spent long summers here since I was little.

I visited, of course, holidays, some weekends, but I wasn't a constant, visible presence in their county during my teenage years.

They were my hidden strength, my secret weapon.

These people, these Millers, they lived in his shadow, whether they knew it or not.

A new strength, born of desperation and dawning realization, surged through me.

I pushed myself up, wincing as my bruised ribs protested.

I faced Brenda Miller, my chin high, despite the mud and tears.

"You made a mistake," I said, my voice shaking but clear.

"A very big mistake."

I looked her straight in her cold, gray eyes.

"My grandfather is John. Retired Sheriff John of this county."

I said his name like a weapon, like a shield.

"And my grandmother is Betty. You mess with me, you mess with them, and you have no idea what you' ve just done."

For a second, just a second, I saw it.

Fear.

Brenda' s eyes widened, her jaw went slack.

The two sons behind her stopped their snickering, their faces suddenly pale.

The name 'Sheriff John' still carried weight here, a lot of weight.

It was like a physical blow to them.

One of the sons muttered, "Sheriff John? Ma, she ain't serious, is she?"

Brenda' s face, which had gone ashen, slowly regained some of its harsh color.

She looked me up and down, taking in my torn clothes, my disheveled state.

"Sheriff John's granddaughter?" she said, a sneer returning to her lips, "Dressed like that? Looking like something the cat dragged in?"

She paused, a flicker of doubt still there, but then her eyes narrowed.

"If you were his kin, why would Jessica Peterson hand you over to us for a beat-up truck? Rich folks stick together, they don't sell their own."

Her logic, twisted as it was, seemed to reassure her.