Chapter 14
Twenty minutes later, Trace pushed through the mudroom door. He’d called Chance on the way back to the lodge. Then he’d called Javi and told him to gather all the hands, remove all the feed pellets from every pasture, and decontaminate the bins.
After that, he put in a call to the state veterinarian. “I’ve got a down cow showing symptoms already. I need the brucellosis snap test here within the hour. And I need the brand inspector on standby. If this is positive, we’re looking at depopulation.”
God, he could hardly get that last word out. He was the fucking ranch veterinarian. He checked the herd every day. How could he have missed something this big?
The vet’s silence on the other end of the line was answer enough. Trace wanted to puke.
When he stepped inside, the warmth hit him first, followed by the scent of sugar, vanilla, and pine. With all the aromas of home and holidays filling the air, he should have felt comforted. Instead, they sat wrong in his gut.
The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint swooshing of the dishwasher. The sight of cookies covering every flat surface in perfect, ridiculous rows almost pulled a smile to his face. Almost.
The girls had done a great job decorating. Some had snowflakes glittering with silver dragées. Others were shaped like trees and frosted in three shades of green. There were even tiny red-and-white cowboy hats Ruby must have ordered just to make Joy laugh.
Yep. The sight should have loosened the knot in his chest. But it didn’t.
Laughter, the rustle of tinsel, and the bright pop of ornaments clinking together greeted him before he saw the girls. The old stereo crooned about figgy pudding in voices that belonged to another century.
Trace paused in the doorway to the living room and let the sound wash over him, trying to hold onto something normal while his mind spun in circles. Holiday smells filled the air, but all he could smell was sour milk and sour molasses.
As soon as he scanned the room, something snatched his mind away from sick bison.
Kip balanced halfway up the ladder, on tiptoes with her arms stretched high. Her flannel shirt rode up just enough to expose a pale strip of skin above her jeans. The Christmas lights cast soft colors across her back.
For one heartbeat, everything else—the feed bin, the cow swaying in the snow, the word brucellosis hammering behind his eyes—went silent. He wanted to cross the room, press his mouth to that strip of skin, and pretend the world wasn’t tilting.
Instead, he marched across the room and, wrapping an arm around her legs, hoisted her off the ladder and over his shoulder. She squealed as he smacked her bottom while carrying her to the couch and set her down on the cushion. Crossing his arms over his chest, he scowled down at her.
Staring up at him and glaring right back, she said, “Daddy, that hurt! I was trying to hang the lights on the garland over the window.”
Of course she was. “Really? Because from my side of the room, it looked like you were trying to break your neck. And don’t think we won’t discuss that more thoroughly later.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t think you’d—Daddy! You’re bleeding.”
Her words barely registered. He looked at his right hand as if it belonged to someone else. The bandana, dark and stiff with half-frozen blood, now had fresh red seeping through in places. He must have reopened the cut while carrying Kip across the room. “It’s fine.”
Her voice sharpened. “It’s not fine, Daddy. You’re hurt!” Leaping to her feet, she grabbed his wrist before he could pull away, and marched across the room, boots thudding on the hardwood. “Come with me, Daddy. I will make your ouchie all better.”
He let her tow him to the kitchen sink. Ruby was there instantly, sliding the first-aid kit across the island without a word, her eyes flicking once to Trace’s face then away. She knew him well enough to read the storm beneath the surface.
Warm water hit the gash, and pain flared white-hot. Trace didn’t flinch. The last thing he wanted was to upset his foxy little nurse.
Besides, he was too busy replaying the image of that young cow in the north pasture.
She was obviously in the late stages of her illness.
The thing was, symptoms didn’t hit that fast. The contamination had to have been brewing for days.
Maybe weeks. That’s why he’d had Javi and the men gather all the feed and bins.
The tainted feed could have been going out long before he noticed the bin smelled wrong. This meant every bred cow on the place might be affected by now. This was such a fucking mess. And it was all on him.
Kip’s fingers were gentle and clinical as she cleaned the cut. Her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth the way it always did when she concentrated. He stared at that small detail like it was the only real thing left in the room.
“You’re scaring me,” she said softly, not looking up from the gauze she was wrapping. “I know something’s going on. Can you tell me about it, Daddy? I mean, we’re here for each other, right?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
The words felt too heavy, too dangerous.
If he said brucellosis aloud in this kitchen full of Christmas cheer and laughter, it would turn the trouble into reality.
He wasn’t going to say a word that might upset her, especially with everything she had going on in her own life.
That was his plan, right up until he heard himself say, “Somehow a feed bin was contaminated, Foxy. Maybe more than one. Something biological. I’ve got the state vet coming to help us figure out what happened and how to fix it.”
Kip’s head snapped up. She might not have been raised on a ranch, but this was cattle country. Her eyes locked on his, steady yet anxious. She understood exactly what this could mean.
Finishing with the bandage, she pressed her lips to his knuckles as if she could kiss the danger away. “There. All better. Promise not to injure yourself again.”
He wanted to tell her he couldn’t promise anything. Not today. “Thank you, Foxy. I promise. You were a big help,” he said.
From the living room, Joy launched into “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs.
Tildi and Kenzie skipped into the kitchen, singing loud, proud, and off-key.
The twirling garland circling around their heads like ribbon dancers was a nice touch.
Kip laughed and let them drag her back into the living room.
Trace stood rooted by the sink—watching colored lights flicker across his little fox’s face, listening to the song echo off the rafters—and felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He slipped out to the porch when no one was looking, dialed the state vet again, asking for updates in a low voice.
When he came back inside, the room was finished.
The Christmas tree stood full and perfect, glowing as if nothing in the world was wrong.
Kip found him in the hallway outside the downstairs office, cheeks flushed, pine needles in her hair.
“I need clothes,” she said, softer now, reading his face. “Real ones. I can’t keep stealing other people’s clothes forever.”
“Sure you can.” He wanted to tell her she could have every shirt he owned if it meant she stayed right here where he could watch over her and make sure nothing could touch her.
Smiling, she rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t reach them. Instead, her gaze was filled with worry. For him. He was supposed to worry about her, not the other way around.
With a gentle hand on his arm, she said, “I know there’s a lot going on, but I need to run to my apartment. If you can’t take me, I can ask the girls if they can.”
His stomach lurched. No. Every instinct he had screamed no.
Not with bad feed in his pasture and a stranger stalking her.
But she was looking at him with eyes that for once didn’t sparkle.
It wasn’t as if he could keep her prisoner here, no matter how much he wanted to surround her in bulletproof glass.
With no other acceptable option, he said, “I’ll drive. ”
The snow had started again while he was outside. Thick, silent flakes that swallowed sound. The twenty-minute drive into town felt like two hours. He kept the radio off, one hand on the wheel, the other throbbing under fresh gauze, every mile adding weight to the dread sitting on his chest.
Her apartment building looked smaller than it had a few days ago.
He hadn’t liked it before, but now it looked cheap and tired under the one flickering streetlight that buzzed like it was on its last breath.
The hallway reeked of old carpet, fryer grease, and the sour sweat of too many people living too close.
Their bootsteps boomed in the narrow space, bouncing off the peeling paint.
Trace’s jaw flexed. First quiet week we get, he told himself. I’m loading every damn thing she owns into my truck and burning the lease. She’s never spending another night in this dump.
The package leaned against 2B, waiting for them.
There was nothing remarkable about it. Small, wrapped in plain brown shipping paper, the box had no postage mark. Just KIP scrawled in thick black marker. It couldn’t have been there long because the ink was still wet enough to smear under his thumb.
Kip stopped breathing.
Without thinking, Trace moved to position himself between her and the door. His shoulder completely blocked her from getting closer. When she tried to reach around him, he said, “Don’t touch it.”
“Trace—”
“I said don’t.”
He lifted the box carefully. It was light. Too light. Sliding his finger underneath the tape, he preserved the paper as best he could. He had a bad feeling it was going to need to be dusted for fingerprints.