Chapter 16
Sadie
“Is coffee ready?” Clayton’s voice carries through the kitchen.
I stare at the pot, watching the dark brown liquid drip into the pool. “Almost.” I glance back at him, my heart in my throat.
Clayton’s already in uniform, the county’s midnight blue sucking the color out of his skin, so his hands and neck look pallid by comparison.
He’s got the vest on, holster already strapped to his hip, radio clipped just above the beltline.
He circles, scanning the counter, the stove, the tiny clock above the window.
When he runs a finger along the edge of the butcher block, I know what’s coming.
He holds the finger up, inspects it for dust he won’t find, then lowers it with a disappointed sigh.
He’s in a mood.
I grab for a mug, and quickly fill it with coffee for him.
“Did you grind this fresh?” he asks, picking up a rogue piece of mail.
I nod. “Well… Yesterday.”
“Not the same,” he says, and his lips quirk upward into some sort of smile I used to think was cute. “Try to do it morning-of next time.”
“Okay.” My face aches when I speak, but I don’t falter.
He grabs the mug, takes a sip, and winces. “Damn, it’s always so weak,” he says. “I don’t know how you can drink it like this. This is why I always end up down at the diner. Sarah makes a hell of a cup of coffee. Maybe you should take some lessons.”
“Maybe.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”
He walks to the sink and pours it down the drain, the black ribbon of it swirling against the porcelain like a little piece of himself going to waste. The empty mug lands on the counter with a clunk that causes me to wince.
It’s always like this in the mornings. Every interaction a test, a thing to be monitored, improved, corrected. Some days I wonder if he even tastes the coffee, or if it’s just another metric in the endless list of things that have to be his way.
I move between the stove and the sink, barefoot, and the monitor strapped above my left ankle flashes cold plastic with every step.
It’s an ugly thing, the color of dead skin, with a LED strip that blinks orange when the battery’s low.
The county fitted it too tight, and some days it cuts a pink ring into my leg just above the sock line.
Sometimes I catch myself in the reflection of the oven door—my feet, my pale legs, the plastic and the swollen flesh—and I feel more like livestock than ever.
“Something on your mind this morning?” Clayton’s voice comes out rough, and he makes a move toward me. He stops with his chest to my back, and his hand lands on my hip, the flat of it wide and warm and wholly impersonal. Like a man checking the quality of a saddle, not a wife.
I will my body not to go rigid. “I’m fine, just a lot of chores.”
“You got a list for today?” he says, his breath warm on my neck, as he brushes my hair away with his nose.
I nod, closing my eyes and jaw tightening as he presses harder into my lower back. “I need to check fences where the new cattle got dropped off.”
“You should.” He squeezes my hip so hard it hurts. “And stay out of the old barn. I’d hate for it to cave in on you.”
“Okay,” I grit out. “I’ll stay out.”
“You know I mean it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He drops his hand from my hip but doesn’t step back. Instead, he reaches around me, pinches the bridge of my nose between thumb and finger, and tugs gently. “You got a mark here,” he mutters. “I sure hope that goes away soon.”
I say nothing, pain radiating from the touch.
He turns me by the shoulder then, until we’re face to face.
He stares at me for a long time, his eyes hard and pale and a little too wide, the way they get when he’s running on less sleep than he lets on.
He traces my jaw with his thumb, stops where the bruise is yellowing to brown, and presses gently.
It waters my eyes anyway.
He leans in to kiss me dryly, then lets go. “Make sure the kitchen’s clean when I get back.”
“It will be,” I say, and start wiping the counter before he’s even left the room.
He takes one last lap around the kitchen, finger trailing the lip of every drawer and cabinet, before moving to the mudroom. He grabs his hat off the peg, settles it on his head, and stands framed in the doorway for a long moment.
He catches me looking and smirks. “Hate to see me leave, but love to watch me walk away, huh?”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Of course.”
He leaves. The door slams, and the house settles back into silence, like it’s been holding its breath since dawn.
I wait until the sound of his department truck fades out of the drive before I pour myself a mug. I let the heat burn the back of my throat, and scald away the taste of everything else.
Above the sink, the clock ticks.
How does he know I’ve been going to the barn so much? Am I disturbing the ground too much? Should I move him somewhere else?
I finish the coffee, clean the mug, and set it to dry on the rack. Quickly, I gather food and water, because well…
I have to feed Cade. Just like every other living thing on this place.
The ankle monitor throbs at my leg more than normal this morning, causing me to wince as I slide on my boots. I stare at it until the orange LED stops blinking, and then I head outside, the day’s work already stacked and waiting.
Flint patrols the back porch, paws loud on the wood, head swinging from the door to the far fence, then always back to the same spot—watching the damn barn where Cade is.
He’s a fool for routine, even more than I am, but he never chases a thing unless he’s sure it’s worth the run. Most days, he just paces, nose to the wind, waiting for something worth chasing to show up.
The sky is wide and flat, nothing moving except the wind. I close the door behind me, make sure the lock clicks, and walk a different path toward the barn, Flint a half-step behind, not crowding but never far.
I roll the barn door open, and peer inside, where Cade stands, rather than sits, looking more annoyed than ever. I hate the familiarity in his disapproval.
“You’re late.”
I glare at him, and then toss the sandwich at him. “I have shit to do today.”
He catches it, and then grins at me, a reaction I don’t know what to do with. “What do you have to do?”
“Check fences,” I say carefully, as he tears into the shitty protein bar I brought him. “There’s about seven miles of it.”
“I’ll come.”
I blink a few times. “What?”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’m going to ride my horse—”
“Cool,” he shrugs, “Let’s saddle up.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “If you try to steal one of my horses, I’ll find a way to call the cops.”
“Ooh,” he wriggles his brows at me, “I’m so scared.” He pushes off the wall, and walks toward me, reaching in my direction.
“But…” I shrink away, but he only takes the water bottle from my hand and chuckles. “I don’t want someone to see you…”
“No one is going to see me.”
I shake my head, as he just limps right out into the daylight. “Clayton comes back for lunch though.”
“He won’t be home for lunch.” Cade moves quicker than I’ve seen him thus far, and I have to jog to catch up.
He’s heading straight for the paddocks, already having scoped it out, I guess.
He eyes me, as he continues. “I heard him on the phone when he left today. He’s eating lunch with Sarah at the diner. ”
“She makes better coffee than me,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He laughs. “No, she doesn’t.”
I narrow my eyes up at him, the sun glinting off his mess of blondish-brown hair. “You don’t know that. You’ve never had my coffee. It could be awful.”
“Nah,” he opens the door to the small horse barn. “It’s not awful.”
I shake my head and make a face at him. “You seriously don’t know.”
He stops as soon as we’re inside, letting out an irritated sigh. “Yes, I do know. Nothing that comes from you could be shitty, even if it is shitty, because it’s from you.”
“What a cliché,” I snort, slipping past him and grabbing my saddle. “You’re smooth.”
“Yeah, sure.” Cade’s voice dips, but he looks away, scanning the rack of saddles. He pulls at the very bottom, and my heart skips. “Is this not okay?” he asks, suddenly studying me.
“It’s my dad’s.”
“Okay.” He gently pushes it back in place.
“No, actually you can use it.”
He sighs. “You’re complicated.”
“So are you.” I eye him, and then bring in my horse, Red, and Ransom, the buckskin I use for people I’m unsure about.
And I am very unsure about Cade right now.
But then he saddles Ransom like he’s done it a million times, making quick work with the brush, the pad, and then tacking him up.
Meanwhile, I stand there, staring at him with my brush suspended a few inches from the sorrel back of my gelding.
“You need help?” Cade pinches his brows together as he meets my eyes, grabbing a bridle off the hook.
I snap back to reality. “Yeah, sorry.” My cheeks flare with heat, and Cade’s light laugh only adds more humiliation to the moment.
Maybe I don’t know how to interact with other people anymore.
I quickly finish tacking up, and then lead the way out of the barn and to the gate, where the guys unloaded the cattle yesterday evening. Cade never says a word, just moving quietly behind me.
“I used to ride with my grandpa at his ranch,” Cade says from behind me, as I unhook the gate. “I did some bronc riding for a while but didn’t care enough about it.”
My mind quickly pictures Cade as some hot, young cowboy, and my mouth once again moves before I can stop it. “I bet the buckle bunnies loved you.”
Cade tilts his head at me, as I close the gate behind us. “I don’t think you know me like you think you do.”
“No, maybe not.” I sling the split leather reins over the saddle horn and swing my leg over. “But here I am, letting you ride in my dad’s old saddle and horse.”
He grins at me, following suit with an ease I note as experience. “Maybe you just like me more than you want to admit.”
“Maybe you’re a sociopath.”
“Maybe.” He digs the heels of his boots into Ransom’s side, cuing the gelding right into a lope.
My jaw drops, as my heart kicks up in my chest. Damnit, this is not how we check fences.
Red prances, snorting and throwing his head with impatience of starting the race late.
“Fine,” I mutter, and then give the horse his head, galloping after the rogue murderer that I think might be becoming my… friend.