Chapter Twenty-Two
Two Days Later
The morning sun had barely crested over the cottonwoods when Nora tied her hair back and stepped out into the yard, the sound of her boots a familiar crunching against dry earth.
The air was still, golden-edged and full of promise, the kind of day that made the land seem more alive, as if reviving after holding its breath.
She spotted Weston by the fence line, already mending a loose rail. He glanced up when she approached. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t much by most people’s measure but for him, it was something.
“Morning,” he said brightly.
“Morning,” she replied, lifting a coil of rope to her shoulder. “You beat me to it.”
He shrugged. “I woke up early, figured I’d get a head start before the sun turned way too mean.”
They worked side by side without needing to speak much. They’d worked silently together before, but today she sensed a new thread weaving between them. It felt lasting, tentative, like convenience.
Weston handed her a tool without her needing to ask. When she dropped a nail, he picked it up before she could bend. Their rhythm had become instinctive, like slow steps in a dance they didn’t know they knew.
It had all started after the fair. Something had changed that day, something Nora didn’t quite have the words for.
She could still see it when she closed her eyes: the runaway buggy tearing across the field, the horse wild with panic, and Weston sprinting toward it like he had nothing to lose.
And afterward, when others might have soaked in the praise, he’d stood off to the side, brushing sweat from his brow like he hadn’t just done something extraordinary.
That was the moment she learned who he really was, what kind of a man he was. Not because he’d been a hero, but because of how quietly he wore it, because he didn’t boast, didn’t puff his chest. He just…cared.
And now, as they worked together in silence, she caught him watching her now and then. It was never long enough to make her self-conscious, but was just enough to make her wonder what he saw.
Sometimes, he said things that surprised her. Like yesterday, when she’d come in with dust on her cheeks and straw in her hair, and he’d said, almost too casually, “You’ve got the kind of strength that’d put most men to shame.”
She’d laughed it off at the time, yet the words had stayed with her. It was the way he’d looked at her when he said it, like he meant it. Now, as they moved down the fence line, Weston made a low sound in his throat. She glanced over to see him eyeing a crooked post.
“Well, that one’s drunk,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Drunk?”
He nodded solemnly. “Can’t you see it leaning like it spent the night at the saloon?”
She laughed, and he grinned at her, showing a flash of white teeth and unexpected warmth. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed laughter, how much she missed this feeling of lightness, connection, and the slow kindling of living with someone.
As the morning wore on, she let herself watch him a little more openly: The way his shirt clung to his shoulders, damp with sweat.
The careful way he handled tools. The rough kindness in his voice when he offered her water.
It would’ve been easy to imagine a man like Weston had nothing left to give, but she saw it now.
He gave in quiet ways, loving ways. And for the first time since her father’s death, for the first time since everything changed, she let herself picture a future that wasn’t just survival.
A future where she and Weston worked this land together, not as strangers, but as husband and wife.
Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe there were still ghosts between them, old wounds and stories untold.
But even so… Suddenly, a high-pitched, threatening sound of someone screaming brought her back to reality.
Nora straightened, her heart jerking sideways.
Weston was already half-turned, with his hand tightening around the fence post.
Then came the words, frantic and breaking. “Miss Nora! Mr. Crane! Come quick! The horses. Something's wrong with the horses!”
It was Duke, tearing down the rise behind the barn. His face was pale, arms pumping, and dust clung to the cuffs of his shirt. His voice cracked from shouting, “They’re sick…just like that, they’re all sick!”
Nora dropped the hammer she’d been holding and ran, with Weston right beside her. Nobody said a word. The only sound was their boots pounding the earth and the rasp of Duke’s breathing as he wheeled around and led them toward the stables.
Nora threw open the door, and the moment they stepped inside, the smell of sick animals hit her—sour, chemical—and stopped her cold.
Then she saw several horses lying down in their stalls with legs awkwardly folded beneath them.
One let out a painful, guttural noise that turned her stomach.
Their eyes, usually bright and smart, were dull now, unfocused.
“No,” she whispered desperately. “No…No!”
She dropped to her knees beside Sunny, one of the gentlest mares on the ranch. The mare lay on her side as foam flecked her lips, and her ribs restlessly rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.
“Come on, girl,” Nora murmured, pressing her hands to the mare’s warm neck. “Come on, get up…”
She tugged gently at the halter and tried coaxing her upright, but Sunny didn’t move, didn’t even flick her tail. She just stared past her, as if she couldn’t recognize the only human who’d ever taken care of her for her entire life.
Behind Nora, Weston moved with intention. She could hear him checking stalls, scanning the scene. But when their eyes met, he stopped.
“Nora.” As he spoke, he crouched near a bucket by the far stall, one hand over it. He sniffed once and immediately grimaced. “This water…” He looked at her again, frowning. “It’s been tampered with. Smells like paraffin.”
Nora’s hands froze on Sunny’s coat. “Poisoned?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
Weston gave a grim nod. “Yeah.”
Nora’s heart sank, as if a stone had just dropped down a well. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it, but no explanation came, at least not one she could bear to say out loud. My horses. My family...Someone has done this to them.
“Who would—” Her voice cracked. “Why would someone…”
But she didn’t need Weston to answer her question. Because the longer she knelt there, staring at the still, suffering shape of a horse she’d raised from a foal…the clearer the answer became. He meant for this to happen. And that means he wants to hurt me.
But no matter how much it hurt, there was no time for grief.
Nora and Weston worked side by side, soaked in sweat and desperation. They flushed the remaining water troughs, hauled fresh buckets from the pump, and dosed the worst-off with charcoal and vinegar. They were doing anything to draw out the poison.
“Hold her head up,” Weston instructed, his voice laced with anger.
Nora scrambled to obey, lifting Sunny’s trembling chin as Weston poured the mixture between her teeth. It splashed down her neck, but some of it went in. “That’s it. Good girl. Keep her still.”
“I’m trying,” Nora gasped, even though her hands were slick and shaking. Each weak groan of the mare made her stomach twist. “Come on, sweetheart. You’ve got to fight.”
Across the barn, another horse kicked once, then slumped hard against the stall wall. Weston’s head jerked toward the sound, but Nora gritted her teeth and kept her eyes forward.
“We’ll come back to him,” she said tightly. “He’s still breathing.”
Weston didn’t argue. He just moved to the next stall with the same grim focus. His arms were streaked with grime and sweat and blood, most of it not theirs.
“Give me the charcoal,” he said urgently.
She passed it without a word. Her breath hitched as she caught sight of Sunny again. She was still lying down, still not moving.
“Weston,” she said tightly. “Sunny’s not getting up.”
He didn’t look at her, as if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. It was worse than anything else, the way he answered, flat and final.
“I know.”
Nora moved to Sunny’s side, dropped to her knees again, and tried to get her up. “Come on, girl,” she whispered, pressing her hand to the mare’s neck. “You’re strong. You’re stronger than this…” She tugged gently at the halter. “Come on. Please.”
Weston came to stand beside her. His face was drawn and too pale. “She’s not breathing right.”
“She just needs more time,” Nora said desperately. “We need to get more charcoal in her, that’s all—”
“Nora.” His voice was too strong, too strict for her to handle at that moment. “She’s going.”
And just like that, Sunny let out a long, broken exhale, and stilled. Nora’s throat closed. She pressed both hands to the mare’s side, as if she could shove the life back into her with sheer will.
“No, no, no…” she protested. “Please, not her…”
Weston stepped back, and gave her the space to say goodbye. The silence that followed was worse than any sound. It was the kind that rang in the bones.
Nora bowed her head. Her fingers tangled in Sunny’s golden mane. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but her words sounded somehow cracked and useless. “I should’ve protected you.”
A beat of more silence followed, thick with the stench of sickness. Then Weston’s voice cut through it. “Duke,” he called . “Go. Ride into town. Bring back Cade and Doc Harlan. Tell them it’s urgent, that we’ve got poisoned water and horses down.”
The boy, completely numb and unable to move, had been hovering near the entrance, wide-eyed and pale. “Go!” Weston repeated.
“Yes, sir!” Duke bolted, and moments later dust flew as he vanished over the rise.