Chapter 21
Mia
I should have been asleep.
After everything my body had been through—running for my life through the Montana wilderness, climbing rock faces until my hands bled, surviving a hunt designed to break me—I should have passed out the moment I got in the SUV.
But I hadn’t slept.
I’d watched the miles roll by instead, my mind locked on a single image: Coop and Oliver grappling on the edge of that tree line, growing smaller through the back window until the road curved and they disappeared.
The SUV hit a bump, and I blinked. We’d entered Garnet Bend. The town Coop had described in whispered words while I’d clung to hope in the darkness of the cabin.
Main Street was lined with shops that looked like they’d been there for generations. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks still dusted with snow. A coffee shop, cleverly named Deja Brew, with a cheerful striped awning. Draper’s Tavern with pickup trucks parked outside.
It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, where you could walk down the street and feel like you belonged. I wanted to appreciate it. I wanted to see what Coop loved about this place, to understand why he’d chosen to build his life here.
I couldn’t focus on anything except the hollow ache in my chest.
“Mia.”
Lark’s voice pulled me back. She was turned around in the passenger seat, her red hair catching the late afternoon light. Concern etched lines around her eyes.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”
“We should get you checked out. There’s a doctor in town, or we can take you to the hospital—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “I don’t need a doctor. I need to know Coop is safe.”
Beckett’s eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. The scar cutting through his eyebrow made him look dangerous, but his expression held something closer to understanding.
“Travis is monitoring communications in and out of the compound,” he said. “Digital traffic, searches on Coop’s cover identity. If something goes wrong, we’ll know.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let that certainty quiet the panic clawing at my throat. But if something went wrong, nobody would be able to get there to help Coop.
The rest of the drive passed in fragments. Lark and Beckett talked in the front seat—something about Travis, about federal agents, about someone named Hunter. I caught maybe every third word. My brain kept shorting out, skipping like a scratched record.
“Mia? Did you hear me?”
I jerked. Lark was watching me with that same gentle concern.
“We asked if Pawsitive Connections is okay. For you to stay there.”
Had they asked that before? The words felt familiar, like an echo I couldn’t place.
“Mia?”
“Yes. Sorry. Yes, that’s fine.”
Lark exchanged a glance with Beckett. She turned back to me, opened her mouth like she was going to ask again, then seemed to think better of it.
“We really should get you checked out,” Lark tried once more. “You’re bleeding through your shoes.”
I looked down. She was right. The canvas of my Converses had turned rust-brown where blisters had broken during the climb up the river gorge. I hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Lark reached back and squeezed my hand. “But we won’t force you. Just let me take a look when we get there. I’ve got a well-stocked first aid kit.”
I nodded, too tired to argue.
We turned onto a gravel road, and the world opened up. Rolling pastures stretched toward mountains that scraped the sky. White buildings with green trim. Split-rail fences drawing property lines across land that seemed to breathe.
Pawsitive Connections.
Under different circumstances, I would have grabbed my camera. The light was perfect—golden hour painting everything in warm amber. Horses grazing in a distant pasture, their coats gleaming. Dogs running in a fenced yard, tails high.
This was the place Coop had wanted me to see. I just hadn’t expected to see it alone.
We pulled up to a white farmhouse with green trim, and Beckett cut the engine. He was out first, opening my door before I could fumble for the handle.
“Easy,” he said as I climbed out, my legs unsteady beneath me.
Beckett lingered by the vehicle, something uncertain in his expression. “You good here? Audra’s expecting me, but I can stay if—”
“Go.” Lark waved him off. “I’ve got her. Tell Audra I said hi.”
He nodded, his gaze shifting to me. “The moment we hear anything about Coop, you’ll know.”
I managed a nod. He held my eyes for a moment longer, then headed toward a smaller cabin barely visible through the trees.
I showered, then changed into some clothes Lark provided.
She bandaged my feet with gentle hands and efficient movements, not asking questions about how I’d gotten so torn up.
She offered food—a sandwich, soup, anything I wanted—but the thought of eating made my stomach clench.
She showed me to a guest room with a comfortable bed and soft sheets.
I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Coop fighting Oliver. Saw myself driving away.
An hour later, I sat on her front porch, wrapped in a blanket she’d pressed into my hands, staring at nothing. Horses in the nearest pasture. A llama regarding me with magnificent disdain from his enclosure. Dogs wandering freely, some napping in patches of sunlight, others playing in the grass.
The property was beautiful. Peaceful in a way that felt almost aggressive, like the land itself was demanding I calm down.
I couldn’t appreciate any of it.
“Mia.”
Lark’s voice came from behind me, soft and careful. I hadn’t heard the door open.
“You should get some sleep.”
I shook my head without turning. “I can’t.”
“I know it feels impossible right now. But your body needs rest. Everything will feel more manageable after you’ve slept.”
“Will it?”
The words came out bitter. I immediately wished I could take them back—Lark was being kind, and I was snapping at her like a wounded animal.
But she didn’t react to my tone. She just stood there, her presence calm and solid, looking out at the same view I couldn’t appreciate.
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But exhaustion makes everything harder. Including waiting.”
Waiting. That’s what this was. Waiting to hear if he was alive or dead.
“Come help me with the barn chores.”
I turned, surprised by the shift.
“I’m not going to force you to sleep.” She shrugged. “But if you’re going to be awake anyway, you might as well be useful. Keeping your hands busy sometimes helps quiet the brain.”
No platitudes about how everything would be fine. No empty promises. Just an invitation to do something other than drown.
“Okay.”
The barn smelled like hay and horse and something earthy that should have been unpleasant but somehow wasn’t.
I was still in a haze. The world felt muffled, distant, like I was watching everything through frosted glass. Lark’s voice reached me, but the words took too long to process, arriving seconds after she’d spoken them.
“This is Maverick’s grain.” She held up a scoop, gesturing to a laminated card on the stall door. “He gets two scoops in the morning, one in the evening. The evening feed is lighter because he tends to develop colic if—”
I nodded. The information slid right through me, unable to find purchase.
Lark noticed. Of course she did.
“You know what? Let me just show you.” Her voice shifted, gentler now—the way you’d talk to a child or someone who’d just received devastating news. “Watch what I do, and don’t worry about remembering anything.”
She walked me through the evening feeding step by step. Here’s where the grain is stored. Here’s how much each horse gets. This one has special supplements. That one needs his hay soaked.
I couldn’t have repeated it back if my life depended on it.
I followed her movements, mimicking what she did, letting muscle memory take over where conscious thought failed. Scoop the grain. Pour it in the bucket. Carry it to the stall. Repeat.
The horses were patient with my slow, clumsy efforts.
A big chestnut mare—Duchess, Lark called her—nuzzled my hand when I fumbled with her feed bucket, her soft nose warm against my palm.
The trust in her dark eyes made my throat constrict.
A gray gelding stood quietly while I struggled to hang his hay net, not protesting when I had to adjust it three times.
“You’re doing great,” Lark said, and I almost laughed at the absurdity. I was barely functional. But she said it like she meant it, and I didn’t have the energy to argue.
We finished the horses and moved outside. The light had shifted from gold to pink, the sun sinking toward the mountains. The air was cool against my face, sharp with the promise of a cold night.
And there, in a paddock off to the left, stood the alpaca.
He was exactly as Coop had described—all attitude and fluffy superiority, watching me with dark eyes that judged everything about my current state. His wool was cream-colored, almost white in the fading light, and he held his head at an angle that conveyed both curiosity and contempt.
“Al Pacacino,” I whispered.
The name caught in my throat. Coop’s voice echoed in my memory, warm with amusement as he’d told me about this ridiculous animal. This alpaca struts around like he owns the place. Beckett says he’s got more attitude than any guard dog they’ve trained.
I’d laughed at the stupid pun. Coop had looked at me like my laughter was a gift, and for just a moment, the nightmare had felt survivable.
“Coop told me about him,” I said, the words rough. “And about Chaos. Beckett’s kitten.”
Lark came to stand beside me, both of us watching Al Pacacino preen. “Sounds like Coop talked about us quite a bit.”
“He wanted me to meet everyone.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the blanket. “He talked about Garnet Bend like it was…”
I couldn’t finish. Like it was home. Like it was the place he’d finally found peace. Like it was somewhere he wanted to share with me.