Chapter 11 #2
I just stare at her. My boyfriend, who had arrived in the morning, apologizing, saying he’d messed up and that he shouldn’t have let me come here alone, left me again.
I grab my phone, open my contacts, find his name, and press block.
I should be angry. I should feel hurt. But all I feel is a vast, hollow emptiness. He’s gone. And the part of me that should care is just… tired.
Too tired to even process the betrayal.
It’s just one more reason to run. Or one more reason to stay, to figure out what’s real and what’s not.
I look around the clean room, at my best friend who is trying so hard to hold me together, and I don’t know anything at all.
Billy’s hands are on my skin, rough and sure, the scent of pine smoke and leather filling my lungs until I can’t breathe.
We’re not anywhere I recognize, just a place of heat and shadow. His mouth is on my neck, his teeth scraping my scent gland, and my body arches, a silent plea for more, for everything.
I can feel his knot swelling at my entrance, a promise of a bond I broke years ago. I try to say his name, but the word dissolves on my tongue.
Just as he’s about to claim me, just as I’m about to let him, his face blurs, the features smearing like wet paint until all I can see is the cold, hard hatred from yesterday at the ranch.
I wake with a gasp.
The room is bathed in the soft, gray light of pre-dawn. Clara is beside me, a warm, still lump under the quilt, her breathing soft and even.
My skin is clammy, the phantom heat of the dream clinging to me. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to erase the image of Billy’s face, the way his love had curdled into hate.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen glows, 5:58 a.m. No point in trying to go back to sleep. Not with ghosts in my head.
I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. I pull on a pair of jeans and a worn flannel, the movements automatic.
Downstairs, the kitchen is still and quiet, holding its breath with the rest of the town. I move through the space, my body remembering the layout even when my mind wants to forget.
I fill the coffee maker with water, the sound loud in the silence. As I reach for the canister of grounds, my fingers brush against a small cardboard box tucked in the back of the pantry. I pull it out.
It’s a collection of coffee sachets, probably one of my dad’s impulse buys. One of them is a fancy hazelnut blend.
The memory hits me so hard it feels like a physical blow. We’re in the grocery store in the next town over, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Billy’s got a cart, and I’m tossing things in, a domestic kind of bliss I’d never let myself admit I wanted. We’re in the coffee aisle when he holds up two sachets—one a plain black roast, the other a ridiculous, overpriced hazelnut blend.
“What do you think, Mrs. Carson-to-be?” he’d asked, his blue-gray eyes crinkling at the corners with that rare, genuine smile that was just for me. “Should we be sensible people who drink sensible coffee? Or should we be fancy people who eat tiny pastries and pay ten dollars for flavored beans?”
I’d laughed, grabbing the hazelnut one. “We’re definitely fancy people. We’re going to have a fancy coffee pot and fancy mugs, and we’re going to be insufferable about it.”
He’d tossed it into the cart with a grin, pulling me close and kissing my forehead. “Whatever you want, babe. As long as I have you, I don’t care if we drink dirt.”
The memory is so vivid, full of a love so potent it aches. I clutch the little sachet, my throat tight.
That was the life I threw away. The fancy coffee pot, the mugs, the man who looked at me like I was his entire world.
I let the sachet fall from my fingers, clattering back into the box. I can’t breathe in this kitchen. I can’t be in this house.
A loud knock on the front door makes me jump. My heart leaps into my throat. Who in God’s name is here at six in the morning?
I wipe my hands on my jeans, my pulse still thrumming from the dream and the memory. I peer through the peephole.
A man stands on the porch, his back to the morning light. He’s tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair cut short. I don’t recognize him.
I unlock the door, opening it just a crack, the chain still latched.
“Can I help you?”
The man turns, and his face is a map of hard lines and sun-weathered skin. He has dark gray eyes and a stubble beard.
Then I see the hands—rugged, with faint, white scars that look like rope burns. It clicks into place, a face from a lifetime ago.
“Clay? Clay Weston?” I ask, my voice full of disbelief.
He gives a curt nod. “Sedona Archer. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. You’re up, it seems.” It’s not a question.
He looks older, harsher than the man I remember from my teens, a quiet hand who always seemed to be in the background at Iron Horse Ranch.
“I am,” I say, undoing the chain and opening the door wider. “What’s going on?”
“I heard a rumor this morning at the feed store,” he says, his voice a low gravel. “Something about a sickness hitting the cattle over at Copper Creek. That you managed to get it under control.”
I nod, my guard up. “It was bad. I think we saved most of them.”
He studies me for a long moment. “I’m managing things at Iron Horse for Samuel Brightwood.
We can’t afford an outbreak. Not with the Spring Drive coming up.
I need you to come out, take a look at our herd.
Before panic starts to spread and we have every rancher in the valley burning their pastures to the ground. ”
The request is direct, devoid of pleasantries. It’s not a favor—it’s a command. This is the reality of being the town vet. You don’t just work for one family; you work for all of them. You belong to them.
“Yeah,” I say, the word coming out more tired than I intended. “Of course. I can come out after I… after I get some things in order.”
“Appreciate it,” he says, already turning to leave. “I’ll tell the hands you’re on your way.”
He doesn’t say goodbye, just gives a short, sharp nod and walks toward his dusty truck. The engine turns over, and he drives away, leaving me standing on the porch, the morning air suddenly feeling colder.
I close the door and head back to the kitchen. The coffee maker has finished its cycle, and the rich smell of it fills the room. I pour a mug, my hands still not quite steady.
“Who was that?” Clara’s voice asks from the doorway. She’s wrapped in a robe, her hair a mess.
“Clay Weston,” I say, turning to face her. “He works for Iron Horse Ranch. Remember Abby?”
“Who?”
“Abby Brightwood. She was like a year or two behind us, but everyone thought she was going to be prom queen. Green eyes. One of the smartest girls in school.”
Clara’s eyes widen. “Wow. Blast from the past. How is she?”
I feel that familiar ache whenever I realize just how disconnected I am from what happened in this town. I’m not even sure if half of the people I went to school with are still here. “I’m not sure. I didn’t even ask.”
“What did Clay want?”
“The same thing Tex wanted,” I say, leaning against the counter. “The cattle sickness. He’s worried it’s going to spread. Panic is probably already starting to ripple through the valley.” I take a sip of coffee. “We’re probably going to be very busy for a while.”
Clara comes to stand beside me, pouring her own mug. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? To the Carsons’ herd?”
I sigh, running a hand through my tangled hair.
“It’s hard to say for sure without more tests, but my gut is telling me it’s something in the water or a specific type of forage they got into.
Maybe a weed that’s toxic in high concentrations, something like prussic acid.
It acts fast, causes bloat, respiratory distress.
It explains why it hit so hard, so quick.
If it’s in a water source that feeds multiple properties, we could have a real problem on our hands. ”
Clara stares at me, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You’re a genius, you know that? You get all that from just looking at a few sick cows?”
“It’s my job,” I say, but a small part of me preens under her praise. It feels good to be competent at something, to feel like I have a purpose here beyond just being the ghost of Dr. Archer’s daughter.
“Well, you’re a genius at your job,” she says firmly. “And I’m ready to help. Just tell me what you need. I can be your incredibly unqualified but enthusiastic assistant.”
I manage a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment before she asks, the question gentle, “Have you talked to Cole yet?”
I shake my head, staring into my coffee mug. “Not really. He left me a voicemail, but I haven’t listened to it yet. I still can’t believe he’d just leave like that.”
Clara’s expression softens with sympathy. She puts a hand on my arm. “I know, Sedona. I’m sorry. That’s… that’s not okay.”
“I don’t know what to think about it,” I admit, my voice quiet. “Right now, I don’t have the space to think about it. There’s too much else.”
“I get it,” she says, pulling me into a hug. It’s a warm, solid embrace, the kind of hug that reminds you you’re not alone, even when you feel like you are. “One crisis at a time.”
I let myself sink into the comfort of her arms for just a second before pulling away. “Come on,” I say, my voice a little stronger. “Let’s have some breakfast. We have our work cut out for us.”