Chapter 29
“Get down!” Micah shouted.
He dove sideways, dropping behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, his hand already on his weapon.
Caleb hit the ground, rolling behind a fallen log. Wyatt dropped into a crouch behind a cluster of saplings, his arm reaching out to grab Thunder’s collar and pull the dog close.
Hamilton was already pressed flat against the ground beside Caleb, ears pinned back.
Another shot rang out.
This one hit a tree fifteen feet to Micah’s right, bark exploding with a sharp crack.
Micah’s pulse hammered in his ears, but his hands stayed steady. He pressed his back against the oak and scanned the woods ahead, trying to pinpoint the direction of the shots.
North. Maybe northwest. Somewhere deeper in the trees.
“Everyone okay?” he called out, his voice low and controlled.
Caleb and Wyatt confirmed they were fine.
The woods went silent again.
No movement. No sound. Just the faint rustle of wind through branches and the distant call of a crow.
Micah’s mind raced.
Two shots. Both close. One had come within feet of hitting him.
This wasn't a hunter who'd wandered too close. This wasn’t a stray bullet from someone target shooting on their own property.
This was deliberate. Someone had been waiting.
And they’d known exactly where Micah and the others would be.
His hand moved toward his radio, then stilled. Calling out meant noise, and noise meant giving away their position to whoever was still in those trees.
He needed thirty seconds of silence first.
Naomi opened her mouth to respond to Millie’s question—to say something, anything, that would make sense of what she was feeling about Micah—but the words tangled in her throat.
She wasn’t sure she had an answer.
“I don’t know,” Naomi finally said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Millie nodded, her expression softening further. “I get it.”
Before she could say anything else, a sharp crack split the air outside.
A gunshot.
The sound was distant but unmistakable.
Good Boy’s head snapped up from where he’d been lying by the window. He scrambled to his feet and barked, the sound sharp and urgent.
Naomi’s breath caught.
Millie sat up straight, her face draining of color. “Was that—?”
Another crack. Closer this time. Or maybe just louder in the silence that had fallen over the house.
Naomi’s arms tightened around Grace. The baby stirred against her chest, startled by the sudden tension and loud bark.
Naomi’s mom darted into the room, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that? What’s going on?”
“Gunshots,” Millie rushed. “From the back of the property.”
Her mom’s hand went to her throat. “Where are the boys?”
“Out there.” Naomi’s words came out thin and strained. “They went to check something. Micah, Caleb, and Wyatt.”
No one moved. No one spoke.
Silence stretched, taut and suffocating, broken only by Good Boy’s low growl as he paced near the door.
Naomi’s mind raced, spinning through possibilities she didn’t want to consider.
What if someone had been waiting out there? What if her brothers and Micah had walked into something? What if—?
Her chest constricted. She couldn’t finish that thought.
Please, God. Please let them be okay.
She thought of Caleb—the steady, solid brother who’d stepped up when Sarah died. The one who’d held them all together when everything fell apart.
She thought of Wyatt—her younger brother, the one who blamed himself when he shouldn’t.
And Micah . . . Micah, who’d been showing up every day. Who’d driven her to appointments and walked fence lines and promised to dig into Richard’s family because she’d needed someone to. Who’d touched her elbow and grounded her when Dale’s presence had made the world feel unsteady.
What if he was hurt?
What if any one of them was hurt?
Her arms tightened around Grace, and she pulled the baby closer, as if holding her could somehow keep the rest of the world from falling apart.
Grace made a small sound and turned her face into Naomi’s chest.
Naomi’s mom moved to the window, her hand gripping the curtain as she stared at the back of the property. “I can’t see anything.”
Millie stood and crossed to her, pressing close. “Should we call someone?”
“Micah is the sheriff,” Naomi said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s already out there.”
The silence pressed in again.
Good Boy barked once more, sharp and insistent. His ears stayed forward, his body rigid, every muscle tense as he stared at the door.
Naomi had never felt more helpless in her life.
Please, God. Bring them back. All of them. Please.