Chapter 4
WYATT
Dawn came cold and sharp, the kind of morning that bit at exposed skin and turned breath to vapor.
I found the first coyote fifty yards past the fence line, exactly where I'd dropped it last night. Clean shot. Through and through, the exit wound larger than my fist. The others were scattered in a loose pattern—nature's way of organizing predators who'd gotten too bold and paid the price.
Seven total.
I dragged them one by one to the truck, their bodies stiffening with rigor mortis, fur matted with blood that had dried black in the night. They weren't heavy—coyotes never were, all wire and sinew—but their weight felt significant, anyway. Like I was carrying something more than just dead animals.
The sun was barely clearing the horizon when I threw the last one into the bed, metal rattling as it landed with a hollow thunk.
I stood there for a moment, wiping my hands on my jeans, looking back toward the ranch.
Smoke still rose from the chimney, gray against the pale morning sky.
The Cuthberts were awake. Starting their day the way my father had started his—before the sun demanded it, before the heat made work unbearable.
I turned away and climbed into the cab.
Valentine was already stirring by the time I rolled back through, the town waking slowly like an old dog stretching in the sun.
Early risers heading to the post office, farmers stopping at the feed store before the real heat set in, their trucks still dusty from yesterday's work.
I drove straight to the edge of town, pulling up outside a small workshed that looked like it had been built in the fifties and never updated—corrugated metal roof, weathered wood siding, windows clouded with decades of dust.
Roy Pacheco stood in the open doorway, coffee mug in hand, watching me approach like he'd known I was coming.
"Wyatt Dane," he said, voice gravelly from decades of cigarettes he'd quit ten years too late. "Heard you might be around."
"Roy."
He nodded toward the truck bed. "How many?"
"Seven."
His eyebrows lifted, deep lines creasing his forehead. "Busy night."
"They were testing boundaries."
Roy set his mug down on a workbench cluttered with tools and walked over, peering into the bed with the practiced eye of someone who'd been doing this longer than I'd been alive.
He was in his seventies now, bent slightly at the shoulders, hands gnarled from arthritis that made mornings difficult.
But his mind was sharp, and his craftsmanship with pelts was still the best in three counties.
"Good shots," he said, running a weathered hand along one of the carcasses. "Clean. No damage to the hide."
I didn't respond. There wasn't much to say.
Roy sold the pelts he made—beautiful work, tanned and treated until they were soft as butter, decorated with traditional patterns he'd learned from his grandmother.
The money went to the elementary school.
New playground equipment. Library books.
Art supplies. Whatever the kids needed that the budget couldn't cover.
He never kept a dime for himself.
"Appreciate it," he said, stepping back, brushing his hands on his worn jeans. "I'll get these processed."
"Thanks, Roy."
He studied me for a moment, something like concern flickering across his weathered face, deep-set eyes searching. "You doing all right, son?"
I felt my jaw tighten. "Fine."
"Your brothers?"
"They're good."
He nodded slowly, like he didn't believe me but knew better than to push. People in Valentine understood boundaries. Respected them. "Your mama would be proud. All of you. Good men. Serving your country."
The words landed heavier than he probably intended, settling in my chest like stones.
I managed a nod and climbed back into the truck before he could say anything else that sounded like absolution I didn't deserve.
Prada's Café was exactly as I remembered—vinyl booths with duct tape patches, checkered floors worn smooth in the high-traffic areas, the smell of bacon grease and strong coffee thick enough to taste.
A handful of locals sat scattered throughout, nursing mugs and reading newspapers that were three days old because that's how long it took for anything to reach Valentine.
The woman behind the counter looked up when I walked in, her face lighting with recognition. Lucinda Herrera. She'd worked here since before I was born, her dark hair now shot through with silver, smile lines deep around her eyes.
"Wyatt Dane," she said warmly. "Lord, it's been a while."
"Morning, Mrs. Herrera."
"Coffee?"
"Please. And a couple of biscuits to go."
She poured without asking how I took it—black, same as my father—and slid the heavy ceramic mug across the counter. The coffee was hot enough to scald, strong enough to strip paint. Perfect. "How long you in town?"
"Just passing through."
She nodded like she understood, though I doubted she did. Her eyes held that look people got when they talked to soldiers on leave—gratitude and sadness tangled together, not knowing which one to show first. "Your brothers doing well?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good boys," she said, turning to wrap the biscuits in wax paper, the same way she'd been doing it for forty years. "All of you. Your parents raised you right."
There it was again. That tone. Reverence mixed with something else—pride, maybe. Or pity. Like we were heroes instead of just men who'd learned how to run in different directions from the same place.
I didn't deserve either.
An older man at the counter—Bill Morrison, owned the feed store—raised his mug in a silent salute.
Another nodded from a booth, face familiar but name lost somewhere in the years.
They looked at me like I was something more than I was.
Like serving in the military made me a hero instead of just a man who was better at killing than living.
I paid, left a tip that was probably too much, thanked Mrs. Herrera, and left before anyone else could remind me of things I'd rather forget.
The drive to Marfa took an hour.
Empty highway stretching west through desert that looked like God had decided halfway through that earth tones were enough.
Creosote and dust and heat already shimmering off the asphalt even though it was barely nine in the morning.
The landscape was brutal in its simplicity—no trees to speak of, just scrub and sand and the occasional windmill standing sentinel against the sky.
I didn't have the radio on.
The silence felt easier than whatever noise might try to fill it. My thoughts were loud enough.
The care facility sat on the outskirts of town, a low sprawling complex built from adobe and stone that blended into the landscape instead of fighting it.
Expensive. The kind of place that didn't advertise because the people who could afford it already knew it existed.
Referrals only. Waiting lists. Connections that mattered.
We'd chosen it carefully. Best doctors. Best staff. Private rooms with views that stretched for miles. Gardens and therapy programs and a dignity they tried to preserve even when the disease stripped everything else away.
Money couldn't buy her memory back, but it could buy her comfort.
That's what we told ourselves when the guilt got too heavy.
I parked in the shade of a mesquite tree and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel, engine ticking as it cooled.
The building looked peaceful. Almost beautiful, if you didn't know what it was.
Gardens lined the walkways, native plants chosen because they thrived in the heat without needing much water.
Ocotillo and desert marigold and prickly pear blooming red against the dust, hummingbird feeders hanging from metal posts.
I imagined my mother walking through them barefoot, the way she used to walk through the grass at home, shoes kicked off the second she stepped outside, laughing when my father told her she'd step on something that would bite.
The thought made my chest ache.
I got out of the truck and walked inside, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft hiss.
The lobby was cool and quiet, designed to soothe rather than stimulate. Soft colors—sage green and warm beige. Natural light filtering through large windows. The faint sound of water trickling from a fountain somewhere I couldn't see, meant to calm agitated minds.
A nurse looked up from the front desk, her smile practiced but genuine. Young. Maybe thirty. The kind of person who chose this work because they believed it mattered. "Good morning. Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Elaine Dane."
Her expression shifted into something warmer, more personal. "Of course. We're just getting her ready for the day. Would you like some coffee while you wait?"
"Sure. Thank you."
She gestured toward a sitting area near the windows, comfortable chairs arranged around low tables with magazines no one read. "Make yourself comfortable. It shouldn't be long."
I took the coffee—decent, better than I expected, served in real mugs instead of paper cups—and sat where I could see the hallway.
The next ten minutes passed slowly.
Staff moved through the halls with quiet efficiency.
Nurses checking charts, speaking in low voices.
Orderlies pushing carts laden with breakfast trays and medications.
A doctor paused to speak with a family huddled near the corridor, their faces drawn with exhaustion and grief, shoulders bent under weight they'd been carrying too long.
I watched it all with a detachment I'd learned in the field. Observe. Process. Don't engage unless necessary. Stay objective. Emotions compromised operations.
An elderly man shuffled past, guided gently by a nurse who spoke to him like he was a child—encouraging, patient, kind. He smiled at nothing, eyes vacant, lost somewhere inside his own mind where none of us could reach him.
I looked away, throat tight.