Chapter Nineteen #2
I understood, with the shooter’s blood on my hands and the quiet of the ranch around me, that we had handled this exactly the way we should have. Not dramatic, just the simple fact of a problem that needed solving and people who had the tools for it.
I turned toward the barn, where Jasper still sat with Ethan in his arms and Jojo beside him, and started walking. After escorting Jasper, Jojo, and Ethan to the house, Burke and I headed to the equipment barn in silence, the crunch of gravel under our boots the only sound in the yard.
Morning was still an hour away, the sky just beginning to lighten along the eastern horizon, the air carrying the chill that came before dawn.
We’d done a quick assessment of the house after Calloway left—six broken windows, the front door shot to pieces, the living room floor covered in glass—and agreed without discussing it that temporary repairs couldn’t wait until sunrise.
The equipment barn smelled of diesel and cut wood and the mustiness that came from tools stored for winter.
Burke found the light switch without fumbling—he’d been on the property long enough to know exactly where everything was—and the single bulb overhead cast long shadows across the packed dirt floor.
The plywood was stacked against the east wall—rough-cut sheets in various sizes, most salvaged from other projects around the ranch.
Some were warped, the edges curved from exposure to summer heat and winter cold, but they’d serve the purpose.
Better to get the house secure now with imperfect materials than to wait for morning and the trip to Miller’s for new lumber.
“These three,” I said, pulling the largest pieces forward. “And the door-sized one from the back.”
Burke nodded, already reaching for the far end of the first sheet. “This one’s not square,” he said, running his hand along the edge. “Be a bitch to fit.”
“Better than a draft,” I said, keeping it practical.
We carried the plywood back to the house in two trips—the bigger sheets awkward between us, the corners catching on the gravel, the weight of the wood pressing into my palms through my work gloves.
Burke took the lead without discussion, walking backward so he could see obstacles before I hit them.
The front of the house looked worse in the thin gray light—the windows gaping holes rather than neat rectangles, the door hanging by a single hinge, glass scattered across the porch and living room floor.
Rawley had already swept the worst of it into a pile by the door, but every step crunched with the sound of fragments too small to catch.
We started with the largest window—the one in the living room that faced the pasture and, beyond it, the Black Butte mountain. Burke held the plywood in position while I marked the edges with a pencil, the line following the frame rather than trying to match it exactly.
The hammer rang out in the quiet morning—a solid, regular rhythm that carried across the yard to where Macon stood guard by the equipment barn.
He’d refused to leave his position even after the sheriff had secured the shooters, his body angled toward the road with the determination of a man who’d decided that trust came after verification.
The second window went faster—Burke cutting the plywood to size with the circular saw while I pre-drilled holes for the nails.
We’d worked together long enough that we didn’t need to discuss the division of labor—just fell into the smooth rhythm of people who knew exactly how a job should go and what their role in it was.
It was methodical work—not dramatic or exciting or anything that needed a name—but there was something about it that landed differently than it would have any other morning.
“Third one’s the kitchen,” Burke said, already moving toward the side of the house. “Smaller than the living room, but we’ll need to cut the piece down.”
I nodded, accepting what he’d offered, and followed with the saw and drill. The kitchen window was a neat rectangle with a sill wide enough to sit on—Jasper’s favorite spot in the early mornings, where he drank his tea and watched the mountain come into focus as the sun rose.
The glass had shattered inward, fragments scattered across the counter and floor. Jojo had already swept most of it into a dustpan, but the sparkle of tiny pieces still caught the light when we moved the plywood into position.
We worked in tandem—Burke holding, me marking, then switching for the cutting and nailing. My hands moved without requiring thought, my body relaxed in a way it hadn’t been since the first shot had come through the front window.
After a stretch of silence that might have been five minutes or might have been twenty, Burke said, “Danny wants to name the next one Sterling if it’s a boy.”
The statement landed between us with the weight of a physical thing.
I looked at him directly—Burke, who never discussed anything personal without deflection or humor, who kept his private life so separate from ranch business that most of the neighbors thought he and Danny were just roommates who happened to share a house.
“That’s a terrible idea,” I said, keeping it simple.
Burke laughed—the sound of a man who’d been handed exactly the response he was looking for. “That’s what I told him,” he said. “Said if we’re going to name a kid after one of you assholes, it should be you. At least Decker’s a real name.”
I hammered another nail into the plywood, the impact traveling up my arm to my shoulder. “Still a terrible idea,” I said. “Name your own kids.”
“Apparently we are,” Burke said, picking up his hammer from the porch rail. “That’s the whole point.”
We finished the kitchen window in companionable silence—not the careful quiet of the early days, but something with more room to breathe.
The front door was last—the largest piece, the one that would matter most when temperatures dropped after sunset.
We measured it twice, cut it once, and then positioned it against the frame.
“You good with that edge?” Burke asked, pointing to the right corner where the plywood didn’t quite meet the frame.
I nodded, already reaching for the hammer. “It’ll hold until we can get a proper replacement,” I said. “Might even keep the cold out.”
We secured it with twelve nails—three on each side, six across the top—the hammer striking a final cadence that echoed across the yard. When we stepped back to look at our work, the house had a different quality—not broken exactly, but visibly patched.
“Not pretty,” Burke said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “But it’ll do until morning.”
I nodded, accepting what he’d offered. “It’ll do.”
Burke gathered the tools without being asked—hammer, drill, saw, the collection of a job that was finished for now. “I’m heading back to check on Danny,” he said, voice carrying the matter-of-fact warmth of a man who didn’t need to perform his priorities. “You good here?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and then managed, “Yeah. I’m going to find Jasper. Just have to drop this stuff off in the equipment barn.”
Burke understood exactly what I meant. He gave me a single, tight nod and then turned toward the path that led to the Callahan place, tools in one hand, phone already in the other.
I watched him go for exactly one second—one long, careful beat where I memorized the wide set of his shoulders, and then turned toward the equipment barn.
The mountain was visible through the tree line—dark and solid against the lightening sky, exactly where it had been when the first shot had come through the front window. It hadn’t moved—wouldn’t move—would go on sitting exactly where it was regardless of what happened in its shadow.
I understood, with the quiet of the ranch around me and the boarded windows at my back, that what came next would be exactly what I made of it. Not dramatic, just the simple fact of a life that was happening whether I was ready for it or not.
I started walking toward the barn, my footsteps the only sound in the yard. After dropping the tools off, I found Jasper on the east porch, wrapped in the quilt Jojo used for cool mornings, his feet bare against the wooden planks.
He’d changed clothes—the jeans and t-shirt replaced with sweatpants and one of my flannels, the sleeves rolled to accommodate the difference in our arm lengths.
He didn’t look up when I came up the steps, just shifted slightly to make room on the bench beside him, his eyes fixed on the thin line of light along the eastern horizon.
I sat down with careful movements, not wanting to disturb whatever peace he’d found in the quiet morning.
The bench creaked under my weight—the sound of old wood settling—and then Jasper was moving, pressing into my side with the directness of a man who’d decided what he wanted and wasn’t making a request.
I put my arm around him without deciding to do it—palm flat against his ribs, fingers pressing into the muscle there, the warmth of him solid against my chest. He relaxed into the contact immediately, his weight gradually shifting until he was leaning against me rather than sitting beside me.
We sat like that as the light changed—Jasper with his head on my shoulder, me with my arm around him, both of us looking out at the pasture and the tree line and the early morning.
The sky shifted from black to deep blue to the particular pale shade that happened just before sunrise, the stars gradually fading as the light strengthened.
It was the first completely quiet moment we’d had since the shots had started—no emergency, no tactical assessment, no calculation of what came next. Just the feeling of two people who’d decided they belonged to each other.
After a stretch of silence that might have been five minutes or might have been twenty, Jasper said, “When we get a house, I want safe rooms on each floor. The one upstairs needs to be between the bedroom and nursery.”