Chapter 11 #2
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice hard, resolute. I force myself to look away from the road and meet Knox’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “None of it matters. She’s still trying to kick us off the property. She’s still the enemy. Don’t ever forget that.”
The words are a splash of cold water. They’re meant for Knox, but they’re also meant for me.
Knox leans back against the seat, the fight draining out of him. He doesn’t argue. He just looks out the window again, his reflection somber in the dark.
The rest of the drive is silent. A heavy, charged silence filled with everything we said and everything we left unsaid.
When I finally turn off the highway and onto the dirt road that leads to the ranch, I feel like I’ve been gone for a week.
The headlights sweep across the cabins, illuminating the familiar shapes of our home.
I pull up to the main house and kill the engine. The ringing silence is heavier than the noise from the saloon.
“Let’s get to bed,” Rhett says. Then he opens his door and steps out into the cool night air.
Knox follows, a little less steady on his feet. He slams the back door harder than necessary. “Night,” he grunts, not looking back as he stumbles toward the path that leads to the cabins.
I watch them go, two dark figures disappearing into the shadows.
A moment later, a flurry of motion comes charging out of the darkness from the direction of the main house.
Blue skids to a halt in front of me, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles, and rests his head on my knee, whining softly.
I reach out and scratch behind his ears, a small, familiar comfort in a night that’s offered none.
“Hey, boy.” My gaze sweeps over the property, over the dark silhouettes of the cabins and the rolling plains beyond.
And that’s when I see it. A soft, warm glow spilling from the high windows of the main barn.
My body tenses. It’s late. Too late for anyone to be working. My first thought is trespassers, or maybe one of the hands forgot something. But a prickle of unease, something instinctual, tells me it’s not that simple.
I open the glove box, pushing past the registration and a greasy rag to wrap my hand around the heavy, cold steel of my Maglite.
We had a couple of rattlers sunning themselves by the corral last week, and a bull snake tried to make a home in the tack room just last month.
You don’t walk onto a ranch in the dark without a light and a healthy dose of caution.
Blue trots faithfully at my heels as I cut across the yard, the beam of my torch cutting a white path through the darkness.
The barn looms ahead, the light from inside turning the dusty air into a swirling galaxy.
I pull the heavy door open just enough to slip inside, the scent of hay, manure, and warm leather washing over me.
It’s the smell of home. Of hard work. Of peace.
But the scene inside shatters that peace.
There, on a bale of hay near Midnight’s stall, is Saramaria.
She’s fast asleep, her hair fanned out across the golden straw, one arm thrown over her head.
At her feet, that scruffy little mutt of hers is curled in a tight ball, its chest rising and falling with each soft breath.
And standing over them both, his head lowered and his ears pricked forward, is Midnight.
Not threatening, but watching. A silent, stoic guardian.
My breath catches in my throat. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t look so… goddamn peaceful. So vulnerable. All the professional armor she wears during the day is gone, replaced by this soft, sleeping form. And I hate that I find it so endearing. That I find her so adorable.
The sight yanks me back fifteen years. She was only fourteen then.
I’d found her in this exact spot, curled up in a ball after a screaming match with her grandfather over god knows what.
Her face was blotchy and stained with tears, and she was refusing to go back to the house.
She was sleeping then, too, her head resting against the neck of her old mare, Blossom.
I’d sat with her for hours that night, just watching her breathe, feeling a fierce, protective urge that scared the shit out of me.
Some things never fucking change.
I walk forward, my boots unnaturally loud in the quiet barn. Midnight nickers softly, a low warning. I hold up a hand to him. “Easy, boy.”
I stop a few feet from the bale of hay. I shouldn’t wake her. I should just turn around and leave. But I can’t. I need to know why she’s here.
“Saramaria,” I say.
Her eyes fly open. For a second, they’re wide with confusion, then they fill with terror. She gasps, a sound that’s halfway to a scream before I react. I close the distance in two strides, clamping a hand gently but firmly over her mouth.
“Shh,” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear. “Easy. It’s just me. You’ll spook the horses.”
Her body is rigid beneath my touch, her breath hot and fast against my palm. I can feel the frantic beat of her pulse against my thumb. Then, slowly, recognition dawns in her eyes. The tension in her shoulders eases, just a fraction. I wait another beat before I pull my hand away.
She scrambles into a sitting position, pushing her hair out of her face.
That’s when I get a proper look at her. She’s wearing a matching set of purple leggings and a thin, strapless bralette.
The soft fabric clings to her curves, and my gaze catches on the smooth expanse of her shoulders before I force myself to look away, a hot, unwelcome spike of arousal lancing through me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice is rougher than I intended.
“I—I was just reading,” she stammers, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “I must have dozed off.”
She stands up quickly, a little too quickly, and the book she was using as a pillow tumbles to the hay-strewn floor. We both crouch down at the same time to get it, our foreheads bumping with a soft, solid thud.
“Ow,” she mutters, rubbing her head.
“Sorry,” I grunt, my eyes landing on the book.
It’s face up. I don’t catch the title, but I see the cover perfectly well.
A muscular, kilted Highlander with a wild look in his eyes, his arms wrapped around a woman whose flowing white hair is doing a poor job of covering her very naked, very ample assets.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Interesting reading choices, lawyer.”
Her head snaps up, and the blush on her cheeks deepens, spreading to the tips of her ears. I like it. I like it way too much. She snatches the book off the floor and clutches it to her chest like a shield.
“I’m heading inside,” she says, her voice prim and clipped, the momentary vulnerability gone, replaced by that icy demeanor.
“Okay,” I say, watching her. She turns to leave, but hesitates at the edge of the circle of light. Her back is to me, her shoulders stiff.
“Boone?” Her voice is quiet now, almost hesitant. “What happened to Blossom? My horse?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. I’ve been dreading this since the moment she drove back into town. It feels like the final, cruel nail in the coffin of the life she left behind. I straighten up, my own posture stiffening.
I take a slow breath, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “She got old. Her joints just… gave out last winter. It was time. She wasn’t in any pain.”
I made sure of that. I stayed with her until the very end.
I watch her shoulders hitch, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. She doesn’t turn around. She just stands there for a long moment, absorbing the news. When she finally speaks, her voice is a little shaky.
“Goodnight, Boone.”
And then she walks away, a small, solitary figure disappearing into the vast, dark night, leaving me alone in the barn with the ghosts of her past and the goddamn inconvenient ache in my chest.
Midnight watches me, his dark eyes tracking my movement as I back away from the stall.
I give him a final pat on the neck, his coat warm and velvet-like under my palm.
The barn feels different now. Hollow. The echoes of her presence have faded, leaving behind only the scent of hay, manure, and the ghost of her perfume hanging in the rafters.
I force myself to move through the rest of the nightly routine. It’s a script I know by heart, one that usually brings a sense of order to my day. I check the water troughs in the rear paddock, the automatic filler humming softly in the darkness. The level is high. Good.
I move to the tack room, scanning the shelves.
Everything is in its place. The bridles are hung on their hooks, the saddles on their racks, the leather treated and gleaming dully in the moonlight that spills through the high window.
I grab the heavy ring of keys from my belt loop and step out into the night.
The air is crisp, carrying the bite of the coming winter.
It nips at my exposed skin, but I welcome the shock of it.
It clears my head, or it tries to. I walk the perimeter of the corral, checking the latches on the gates.
The metal is cold against my fingers, the bolts stiff.
I rattle each one, ensuring they’re secure.
The last thing I need is a spooked horse wandering onto the highway in the middle of the night.
Satisfied, I head to the main barn doors. They’re heavy, wood reinforced with iron bands. I slide the bolt home, the metal grinding against metal, a harsh sound in the silence. I pull the chain through the hasp and padlock it. The snap of the lock is final. The ranch is secure.
I turn and walk toward the cluster of cabins in the distance.
Rhett’s place is dark, his curtains drawn.
Knox’s cabin is silent, though I can see the faint glow of a cigarette ember on his porch.
He’s probably brooding about the meeting, about Dalton, about the mess his career is in.
I don’t call out to him. I don’t have the energy.