Chapter 13
Two days later, the morning air cut across Trace’s face the moment he shoved the barn door open.
The wind blew sharp enough to make his eyes water.
Inside, the lingering warmth of horse bodies and piled hay wrapped around him, thick with the smells of sweat, sweet feed, and years of manure baked into the wooden floor.
Kip’s boots scuffed the boards behind him, slower, still getting used to the rhythm of a place that could kill you if you forgot to pay attention.
She had insisted on coming out with him.
She wanted to see what a real ranch morning looked like, at least that’s what she’d said.
He hadn’t argued. Having her close felt right in a way that settled something restless inside his chest, even if she still flinched whenever a horse swung its head too fast.
Trace hauled the grain cart down the aisle, metal wheels rattling, while Kip wrestled the heavy water buckets, her breath fogging in the cold, cheeks already flushed. The mares nickered the second they heard the cart.
Sugar, the pushy bay, crowded Kip so much she stumbled backwards. Most city girls would run, but not his little fox. Nope. Kip laughed, and the sound punched through his ribs straight to his heart.
He showed her how to run her hands down the cannon bones from knee to hoof, how to cup a hoof and feel for heat.
She copied him, fingers tentative at first, then steadier, trusting the animal under her palms. By the time the sun bled orange over the eastern ridge, the horses were crunching grain, and the barn was quiet again.
They walked the smaller bison pasture next, since it was closest to the barn. The herd grazed in loose clusters near the far fence, dark hulks against the snow. The bison’s breath puffed through their nostrils like small billowing clouds.
Trace scanned the herd for limps or anything unusual.
Kip stayed half a step behind, quiet, taking in the low grunts, the frost bearding their chins, the sheer size of them.
A calf bawled. Its mother stared them down with flat black eyes, then dismissed them.
Bullwinkle, their largest bull, stood sentinel, guarding the herd as he munched on frozen hay.
Nothing looked wrong. Nothing felt wrong.
He whistled the dogs out and worked them hard in the round pen. Kip clapped when the youngest Anatolian Shepherd slammed into a perfect down-stay. Trace felt his mouth curve into a smile without permission. She fit here. She just didn’t know it yet.
Soon enough, they finished the morning chores. By mid-morning, they were ready to head back to the lodge. The house hit them with a wall of heat, sugar, and Nat King Cole crooning about chestnuts while sleigh bells jingled in the background. Flour hung in the air like smoke.
Kenzie spotted Kip first and pounced. “Perfect timing, red! We’ve all been drafted by Ruby to decorate Christmas cookies.
You’re on snowflake detail.” She slapped a piping bag into Kip’s hand hard enough to squirt royal icing onto her wrist. With a sly grin, she added, “No mercy. Ruby’s judging symmetry. ”
Ruby didn’t even look up from the tray she was flooding red. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s not like they’ll go in the reject pile for the ranch hands if they’re a bit crooked. If I said that, I’d have cowboys bumping into you girls all day long.”
Joy twirled past with a candy cane between her teeth like a cigarette. “We’ve already eaten half the rejects just to be safe. But I’ll have to admit, so far, our bar for being too crooked has been pretty low.”
Kenzie grinned. “That just means more cookies for us!”
Tildi leaned over Kip’s shoulder, eyes bright. “Do the fancy lattice ones. Trace likes the fancy ones.”
“I do not—” Trace began.
“Liar!” four voices shouted together.
Kip shot him a laughing look, white icing already smeared across one cheek. “You’re not staying to help?”
He lifted both hands in surrender, backing toward the door. “Those fences won’t fix themselves, darlin’. You’ve got this.”
“Coward!” Kenzie called out as Ruby finally cracked a grin.
“Traitor!” Kip added, flinging a red cinnamon dot at his head. It bounced off his shoulder and landed in the dog’s waiting mouth.
Female laughter chased him down the hall while Bing Crosby promised a white Christmas over the speakers, whether they wanted one or not.
Bastion was already at the barn gate when Trace stepped out of the house.
The big blue-roan Percheron stood steady in the snow, a wall of muscle in his winter coat.
Goldie thumped her tail once from her cedar-bed dog box but didn’t bother getting up.
It was too cold to play, even for a puppy built for the snow.
She wasn’t old enough or experienced enough to venture out to the outer pastures yet anyway.
Trace scratched Bastion’s thick neck, feeling the heat radiating off eighteen hands of honest horse. “All right, big guy. Let’s go pretend I’m not running from Christmas cookies.”
Bastion snorted a cloud of steam and lowered his head so Trace could slip the bridle on. No saddle today. Trace just vaulted up from the mounting block, settled onto the broad back, and nudged him toward the north pasture at a long trot that ate up ground without hurrying.
The wind cut straight through Trace’s coat, but Bastion moved steady, hooves punching clean holes in the crust. Snow squeaked under each stride. Trace kept one hand buried in the thick mane for warmth, eyes scanning the fence line, talking half to himself, half to his horse.
“Supposed to be a quiet winter, Bastion. Only a few calves to handle. The bison are fattening up on schedule. Now we have Kip with us, so we need to teach her to ride. I’m thinkin’ Daisy would be a good first horse. What do you think?”
Bastion flicked an ear back and nickered. Trace nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The fence looked great for the first couple of miles, but when he reached the bend of Stillwater Creek, he spotted the first break.
Three strands had snapped, half-buried in the snow with ice glittering on the barbs.
Trace cursed, swung down, and sank calf-deep in the snow.
Looping Bastion’s reins over a post, he went to work with the fencing pliers.
The first two lines went fairly easy, but the wire on the last line fought him.
When he finally had the line repaired, he gave a final hard twist and damn near dropped his pliers when a barb pierced his glove and sliced clean across the edge of his palm.
Blood welled hot and instant, dripping in perfect red beads onto the snow.
“Son of a—” Trace hissed, shaking his hand once, before wrapping the cut in his bandana. With only one functioning hand, he had to knot the cloth in place one-handed with his teeth. Bastion stood twenty yards off, watching and probably wondering why he was making such a fuss.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered. “Stupid human tricks.”
With the fence secured again, Trace gathered Bastion’s reins and nudged the large Percheron toward the feed bins to top off the winter pellets. The wind hissed across the snow crust, carrying the steady grunting and snorting of the herd.
That was when Dodger suddenly showed up out of nowhere.
One second, the snow was empty. Then a huge black shape appeared between Trace and the bins, his head level with Bastion’s chest. It took Trace a moment to realize the beast was Dodger.
He’d never seen the wolfdog like this—ears flat, hackles half-raised, amber eyes fixed on the metal lids.
Dodger hadn’t been anywhere near the barn when Trace had saddled up.
He reined Bastion to a stop. “Dodger? What in the hell are you doing out here, boy?”
Dodger didn’t even flick an ear in greeting. He planted himself squarely in Trace’s path, lips peeled just enough to show ivory fang, a low rumble rolling in his chest like distant thunder.
Trace’s brows shot up. What the hell was going on? “Since when do you play sentry, mutt?”
Dodger responded by taking a deliberate step forward and shoving his broad head into Trace’s shin, nearly knocking him sideways.
Irritation flared, then died the instant the smell hit him. A sour stench that was just… wrong, sliding under the sweet-molasses scent of the feed pellets the bison ate all winter. Trace’s stomach dropped straight through his boots.
He raised both hands, palms out. “All right, big man. Message received. Let me get off my damn horse and check things out.”
Swinging down from Bastion, he took a slow step forward. Dodger matched it, blocking again, pressing his full weight against Trace’s legs until Trace had to brace a hand on the wolfdog’s thick ruff to keep his balance.
“I get you,” Trace muttered.
When he knelt, Dodger stayed glued to his side, nose wrinkled and teeth still bared at the bin. Trace pried open the lid. The pellets looked normal—dark brown and uniform—but the stench crawled up his throat. No one could mistake that smell, a mixture of spoiled milk and sour molasses.
Dodger nosed his shoulder hard, almost knocking him on his ass.
Trace’s pulse hammered in his ears. “Good boy,” he whispered, voice suddenly raw. “Fuck, Dodger. Good boy.”
Slamming the lid shut, Trace dragged a spare tarp over the entire bin, weighting the corners with frozen chunks of dirty snow. Then, blood still dripping from his bandaged hand, he stood and stared at the flapping canvas while Dodger leaned against his leg like a living shield.
Bastion had wandered closer, ears pricked, watching the wolfdog with the same wary respect he gave grizzlies. Trace scratched Dodger’s thick black ruff with his good hand.
“How is it you always show up when we need you?” he asked quietly. “Guess you’ve decided the whole damn ranch is yours to protect now.”
Dodger huffed once, his hot breath fogging in the frigid air, and pressed harder against Trace’s side.
Using his good hand, Trace vaulted back onto Bastion’s broad back.
Dodger fell in at their side, a black shadow, silent through the snow as they wheeled and headed straight back across the north pasture at a hard lope.
Snow exploded from Bastion’s hooves in rhythmic bursts. Dodger’s paws left only ghost prints.
Two hundred yards. They had only gone two hundred yards when Bastion crested a low rise within the same pasture, and Trace saw her. One of the younger bison, barely three years old, had wandered away from the herd.
She stood splay-legged near another bin, head hanging low, hindquarters swaying like she was drunk. Her sides heaved in ragged bursts, showing all the signs of brucellosis.
Trace’s heart stopped cold. Entire ranches had gone under when brucellosis hit their herds.
He hauled back on the reins so hard Bastion sat down on his haunches, sliding a full body length in the snow. Dodger slammed to a stop beside them, hackles spiked from neck to tail, a low, continuous growl vibrating in his chest.
“Damn it,” Trace rasped.
Kicking Bastion into a flat gallop, he headed straight for the gate leading to the ranch. He had to get to the vet barn. Dodger streaking alongside, ears pinned, running flat-out as if he already understood the herd was under attack.
The ride home tasted like copper and dread.