An Excerpt from Haven Hill
Here’s where the story left off last time.
Logan staggered through the trees, breath hissing between clenched teeth.
His world narrowed to pain. It was white-hot, pulsing, radiating down his leg with every limping step.
Stupid. Careless.
He hadn’t expected the deputy to still be alive, let alone to have the strength to drive a blade into the tender area of Logan’s inner thigh.
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That kind of cut bled like a bastard.
Logan pressed both hands over the wound, fingers slipping in the warmth, and snarled low in his throat. His vision shimmered at the edges, a red haze he forced himself to blink through.
Pain was manageable. Pain was temporary. Pain was a thing weak men feared.
He wasn’t weak.
Not anymore.
He moved deeper into the woods, away from the cabin, away from Kate’s silhouette in the window. He could still feel her eyes on him. Could almost imagine her breath catching when she saw him hurt. She cared. He knew she did. That’s why she hadn’t shot him. That’s why she’d screamed. That’s why she looked at him with all that trembling emotion she tried to pretend was hatred.
She wasn’t ready yet.
He found a fallen log and collapsed onto it, forcing his hands to steady. The knife wound wasn’t the worst he’d ever had. Prison had offered plenty of opportunities to learn what the body could tolerate.
But the deputy had gotten him really high up on his leg—too high. Right near the groin. The muscle contracted every time he breathed. Thankfully, it had missed his femoral artery.
He was lucky.
No.
Not luck.
Destiny.
He knew the way he’d dodged death was a sign that reuniting with his family was meant to be. If it wasn’t, he’d be bleeding out in Kate’s front yard right now.
Logan sucked air through his teeth and reached into his pocket for his small kit. Prison habit. Always carry something. A scrap of cloth. A strip of tape. A length of ripped bedsheet.
He tore the fabric with his teeth and wrapped it tight around his thigh, knotting it until the bleeding slowed. The pain flared so hard he nearly threw up.
The forest swayed a little. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t stop it. He leaned over the back of the log and emptied his stomach, leaving his mouth feeling soiled and sour. He spat, tasting bile and copper.
Good.
An empty stomach meant fewer distractions.
Kate would try to help that deputy. She’d waste minutes—maybe more—patching him up. She’d check his breathing, his heart rate, his wounds. She’d try to save him.
Logan smiled. His woman was so kind.
Good.
The more time she spent on the dying man, the more time Logan had to prepare.
To circle back.
To correct the mistake.
He thought of Ariel—her scream, the way she hid behind the refrigerator like a frightened rabbit.
Their daughter.
He hated that she had become afraid of him. But she would come around.
Children always came around in the end
He leaned back on the log, breathing shallowly. The fog drifted through the pines, cool against his burning skin.
He didn’t mind the wound.
Pain sharpened the world.
Made him focused.
And now that he’d felt Kate’s fear again—seen it in her eyes—he’d never stop. Not until she came home.
Not until they were all together, the way it was supposed to be.
He forgave her for sending him to prison. It had been a terrible misunderstanding. He had thought of her every single day of his sentence and had pictures of Kate and Ariel taped to his wall.
“My family,” he’d say to the other inmates when they noticed the pictures. “I don’t want my daughter to see me like this,” he’d rationalize when they asked him why they never visited.
Logan pushed himself upright, ignoring the agony screaming through his leg. The bandage was already warm and wet again. He didn’t have much time.
He wiped his bloody hands on the dead leaves, tightened the makeshift bandage one more notch, and grabbed a water bottle from the backpack he’d stocked with supplies stolen from Kate’s cabin over the past week. He was losing blood, and he knew he needed to replenish his fluids.
When the time was right, he’d start limping back toward the cabin.
He wasn’t done.
Not even close.
First, he was going to lie down and think of Kate’s face—set, trembling, trying so hard to be firm while she played hard to get.
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About Daisy
She is the best-selling author of 5 traditionally published books, 12 self-published books, and runs a small digital publishing company with PDF guides, printables, and courses at SelfRelianceand Survival.com You can find her on Facebook, Pinterest, and X.
