Mr Taken. Danica Winters
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the word sank in, the thoughts of his biological father moved to the front of his mind. He had only one memory of the man. Colter was two years old, and his father was leaving him and his brother Waylon on the fire department’s doorstep. He had just woken up and his eyes were still grainy from the residue of sleep. Yet he could still see his father’s eyes, the color of rye whiskey and their edges reddened with years of what he knew now was hard living. More than his eyes, he could remember the raspy smoke-riddled words he’d last said to them: “Boys,” he’d whispered, making sure he didn’t give himself away to the firemen just behind the doors. “You all don’t go into the flames. When life burns at ya...run.”
Opening himself up for a relationship was just running into the flames.
“I see Sarah’s at it again,” his adoptive father, Merle, said as he wrapped a bit of baling twine around his arm.
Colter grabbed a handful of pellets and let the mare at the end of the stalls nibble it out of his hand.
“She’s still...Sarah...” He said her name like a verb, and it was met with his father’s chuckle.
“Well, at least you can’t say that she’s a quitter. One of these days she’ll get ya tied down. Come hell or high water.”
“If she does, I’ll be in hell all right.” He rubbed the old girl’s neck, running his fingers down her silken coat. “What can I help you with?”
“If you’re really that afraid of going back out and facing your ex, I could use some help getting down the decorations for the party,” his father said, motioning toward the hayloft. “We need the lights and the rest of the wreaths. Your mother is making a fuss about everything being just perfect.”
Colter didn’t need his father to tell him why or how much was riding on their success.
“Did we sell any more tickets?” he asked as he made his way over to the ladder that led up to the hayloft and stepped up on the bottom rung.
“We’re up to about fifty. Some donations are coming in, but as of right now we are thinking that we’re only going to just about break even on the thing. We’re going to need to sell at least a hundred more tickets.”
“Who knows what will happen?” Colter said, making his way up the ladder so his father wouldn’t see the concern that undoubtedly filled his features. “Last year we had a lot of people show up at the door, right?”
“That’s what we’re banking on.”
Colter could hear the concern in his father’s voice.
“I’d hate to have to start letting people go, but if things don’t turn around...”
Whitney hadn’t been on the ranch that long. If his parents decided to start laying off staff, he had no doubt that they would do it as fairly and equitably as possible—which meant it would be based on time at the ranch, and Whitney would be among the first to be let go. He couldn’t let that happen.
Colter stepped off the ladder as he reached the top and made his way over to the corner where his parents kept the Christmas supplies for the barn. There were green and red tubs, each carefully marked with WREATHS, LIGHTS and TREE DECORATIONS. He loved how meticulous they kept everything. It made life so much easier—when there were labels to everything and instructions on how to keep things from going out of control.
The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust and scattered bits of broken hay. It was warm from the bodies of the horses below and it carried the sweet scent of grass. He remembered coming up here as a kid, hiding in the boxes and making forts with the horses’ blankets. He and Rainier, being the two youngest brothers, had spent most of their time up here, close to the horses and the things they loved the most.
He sucked in a long breath as he thought of the careening path to disaster that Rainier’s life had taken. If only his parents had made a label, or a set of instructions, for his brother, maybe his life would have gone down a different path.
Colter pulled the top bucket off the stack and moved toward the ladder. “I’ll hand this down and grab another.”
The floor creaked loudly, and as he took another step, the board beneath his foot shifted. The box in his hands blocked his view, and as he twisted to check his footing, there was a loud crack. The board gave out, and before he could move away, he was falling.
The jagged edges of the wood tore at his legs as he fell through the floor. The pain was raw and surreal, almost as though it was happening to someone else.
He’d always had this fear, but in his mind’s eye, he’d always thought that something like this would happen only at his job, when a floor was burning out from underneath him—not in the safety and security of his parents’ barn. His world, the one he’d created in his mind where everything was controlled and safe, was betraying him. It was almost the same feeling he’d had as a child... And he couldn’t believe he was back here again—feeling powerless as his world collapsed around him.
He threw the bucket and a strange, strangled sound escaped him—the guttural noise as instinct took over. The box clattered onto the floor, the lid flying open and a garland spilling out. Holding out his hands, he scratched at the floor around him. He had to stop. He had to catch himself before he hit the ground below.
His father made a thick sound, somewhere between a gasp and a call to help, just as his fingers connected with the needlelike points of the broken floor. The wood pierced his hands, but he gripped tight. Holding on in an effort to slow his fall.
Though he was strong, his elbows strained with his weight as he jerked to a stop. His feet dangled in the air, just above the bucket of pellets.
There was the grind of metal of the door and the sound of Whitney gasping behind him.
“Colter!” she called, a sharp edge of fear in her voice.
There was the warmth of blood as it slipped down his leg and spilled into the top of his boot. He let go of the wood and fell into the galvanized bucket. It tipped with his weight as it broke his fall, spilling the horses’ treats onto the dirt floor.
He threw his arms out, catching himself as he fell, but all it did was slow his descent into the dirt, muck and bits of the broken flooring. For a moment he lay there, taking mental stock of his body. He’d jarred his ankle and he was cut up, but he was going to be fine.
“Colter, are you all right?” Whitney asked, rushing to his side. She touched his shoulder gently, almost as though she would hurt him even more if she pressed too hard.
“Yeah, yeah... I’m fine,” he said, trying just as much to convince himself as her. He pushed himself up to sitting. His jeans were torn and there was a deep gash on the side of his leg. The blood was flowing from it, dotted with bits of sawdust and dirt from the ground.
“What in the hell happened?” his father asked.
Colter looked up at the floor. Where he had fallen through, the plywood was jagged on one end, but suspiciously straight on three other sides. He picked up a bit of the flooring that had landed on the ground beside him.
There, on the bit of wood, were the distinctive marks of a saw blade. He lifted the piece for his father and Whitney to see. “Everyone at the ranch knew we would be going up there for the decorations for Yule Night.”
His father took the piece of broken lumber and turned it around in his hands, inspecting the marks. “No, Colter... It had to be just some kind of accident. Maybe one of the volunteers just cut through the floor on accident. These things happen.”
Colter could hear the lie in his father’s voice.
No one would cut almost a perfect rectangle in the floor by accident. Anyone in their right mind would know the likelihood of someone getting hurt if they stepped on the spot—a spot he’d had to step on in order to get to the boxes. Someone had intended to set a trap—albeit a poor one, one that would hurt anyone who went up there and not someone specific.
He