Chapter 5
Cade
I tip the empty jug over, the thump of hollow plastic grating my nerves and irritating my throbbing head. My leg is pulsating with a deep, burning pain, as though my right calf has been set on fire. And worst of all…
I really gotta piss.
“But at least I’m not dead,” I mutter to myself as I ease forward, an ache shooting through my torso. The bullet wound is now the lesser of my problems.
I’m not sure the snakebite is the worst of them either.
It might be the strange woman who thinks I’m going to fill some sick need she has.
Company. The word echoes in my mind, dripping with utter absurdity.
She lives in a sprawling house on a desolate hill, seemingly isolated from the rest of the world, married to a man who wears a badge and leaves pale purple bruises on her throat.
And her coping mechanism is to come down to a rotting, rat-infested barn to find a friend in a fugitive.
She’s going to learn real quick that I’m no one’s fucking friend.
Not even my own.
Gritting my teeth, I plant my palms flat against the packed dirt on either side of my hips. The earth beneath my hands is cool and damp, and I know I’m probably embedding my fingers in rat shit.
Still, I push upward, forcing my upper body to lift. A low groan slips from my throat, vibrating in the quiet space, as I slide my hips across the uneven, crinkling surface of the feed sacks that have been keeping my leg elevated.
The movement is clumsy. My muscles are stiff, practically locked into place from the venom and the trauma.
My good leg takes the brunt of my weight.
I swing it over, planting the leather of my boot firmly into the dirt.
I brace myself, sucking in a sharp breath of the stale air, and heave my body upward.
Gotta get moving. No more pissing my pants.
As soon as I’m completely vertical, the world tilts. My swollen calf throbs, a rush of blood rushing downward with the pull of gravity. It feels like the discolored skin is going to split wide open from the sudden, overwhelming pressure.
A wave of intense nausea washes over me, cold and clammy, prickling the back of my neck.
I lurch forward, throwing my arms out blindly, and lean heavily against the rough, splintered wood of a vertical support beam.
My chest heaves against the ancient timber.
I press my forehead into the wood, the rough grain scratching against my damp skin, and I just stand there for a full minute, fighting the dark spots dancing at the edges of my vision.
Step by step. I peel myself away from the beam.
The barn is vast, a massive, cavernous structure that seems to swallow the light.
I drag myself deeper into the pitch-black shadows, avoiding the slivers of pale light leaking through the front cracks.
I need to get to the back, to the section where the roof caved in.
Fuck, how did I end up here? I take a moment to rub my brows. Maybe I was always destined to end up dying in a decaying barn. I don’t know. I push forward.
My gait is a grotesque, uneven hobble. I drag my right leg, unable to bend the knee or put even an ounce of weight on the heel.
The toe of my boot scrapes through the dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust that immediately coat the back of my throat.
I navigate entirely by touch and the faint, silvery illumination of the moon.
I brush past rusted, unrecognizable pieces of farm equipment, the cold metal biting into my hip. I maneuver around stacks of rotting wooden pallets, the smell of decay growing stronger with every agonizing footstep.
The air quality begins to change the further back I go. The oppressive, stagnant heat of the enclosed barn gives way to a faint, cool draft. The smell of wet earth, crushed sagebrush, and rotted wood cuts cleanly through the dust.
I reach the collapse. It’s a chaotic ruin of jagged beams, rusted tin roofing, and splintered siding that has completely surrendered to the elements.
Pale, icy moonlight spills freely through the massive, gaping hole in the ceiling, illuminating the debris in stark, eerie shadows.
Weeds and tall, dry grass have already begun to reclaim the floor here, pushing their way up through the packed dirt.
I find a sturdy, relatively intact post near the edge of the collapse. I lean my left shoulder heavily against it, taking the weight off my legs. My fingers are stiff and clumsy as I fumble with the metal zipper of my jeans.
Come on, dipshit, just get your dick out.
Finally, I relieve the agonizing pressure in my bladder, aiming into the dark tangle of weeds and rotted wood.
A long exhale leaves my lungs, a sound of real physical relief.
For a brief, fleeting second, the pain in my leg recedes into the background, overshadowed by the simple comfort of an empty bladder.
I zip my jeans, resting my head back against the post, listening to the absolute stillness of the Texas flatlands. Out here, the silence has a weight to it. It presses against your eardrums. There are no crickets right now, no rustling leaves—just the empty, vast expanse of nothingness.
Until a deep, booming bark shatters the quiet.
The sound is familiar, echoing across the draw like a gunshot. The hound. The big one, judging by the deep, chest-rattling bass of the bay. The sound originates from up the hill, near the main house, cutting through the night air with aggressive, territorial authority.
"Shut that damn dog up!" a man’s voice explodes.
I freeze instantly. My muscles lock. I press myself flush against the weathered siding, blending into the deep shadows of the collapse. Through the warped, uneven gaps in the barn’s exterior wood, I have a direct line of sight up the sloping hill.
I can just make out the faint yellow glow of a back porch light cutting through the darkness. The illumination casts long, distorted shadows across the dry grass. A large, imposing silhouette is pacing aggressively back and forth across the wooden deck.
Clayton. The sheriff. The husband.
He’s on the phone. His harsh, scratchy voice carries easily down the draw, riding on the dry, shifting night wind. There is no warmth in his tone, no trace of the quiet, domestic life I imagine the woman pretends to live.
“I don’t give a shit what the judge said,” Clayton snaps. The thud of his boots pacing the wooden deck echoes down the hill. “She’s staying exactly where she is. She’s lucky she’s not rotting in a state cell after the stunt she pulled.”
I frown. What did she do?
A long pause follows. The hound lets out another low, rumbling growl, quickly silenced by a sharp clatter—maybe a boot kicking a fence, or a hand hitting a railing or something.
“I’m the only reason she got house arrest in the first place, and we both know it,” Clayton sneers into the receiver, his tone dripping with a toxic mixture of arrogance and absolute disdain.
“You don’t do what she did, you don’t cause that kind of catastrophic mess, and just walk away from it.
She’s a liability. A goddamn weight I have to drag around if I want my ranch. And I’m the one stuck managing her.”
My brow furrows in the dark. The sheriff turns his back to the draw, walking toward the far side of the porch, and his voice fades into a low, unintelligible mutter.
House arrest. I stare up at the yellow light, my mind working furiously through the haze of pain.
She wasn’t lying about being trapped here.
She wasn’t exaggerating her lack of a phone or a car.
But what the hell did little Miss Domestic Ranch Wifey do to warrant an ankle monitor and the wrath of a judge?
You don’t cause that kind of catastrophic mess.
The image of her perfectly calm demeanor flashes in my mind.
The way she had looked at my wanted poster—a poster detailing capital murder charges—without so much as a wince.
She treated my bleeding, rotting leg with the detachment of someone who was completely unfazed by horror.
She didn’t seem like the type to pull a stunt bad enough to risk a state cell.
She seemed quiet. Broken. Submissive.
But then again…
The wind shifts, blowing the scent of my own blood and sweat back into my face. I look down at my own hands in the moonlight. They’re stained with dried blood, caked with the pale Texas dust.
I know better than anyone that the most dangerous people usually hide right out in the open. They wear their clothes pristine. They have perfect fucking haircuts. They rise through the ranks. They speak in soft, unhurried voices.
They act like Ben Knight. They act like my father.
All the people I ever fucking trusted.
This woman could be just like them, for all I know.