Chapter 25 #2
“I’m watching my brother self-destruct.” He steps closer.
“You can’t keep doing this. The push and pull.
It’s killing you. And it’s confusing as hell for the rest of us.
Either you love her, or you don’t. Either you forgive her or you don’t.
But pick a lane, Billy. Because this middle ground is a minefield. ”
I look away. The sun is hitting the top of the ridge, turning the grass gold.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“It is. You’re just scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You are. You’re terrified that if you let her in again, she’ll leave again. And I get it, I do. But she’s here. Right now. She’s sick, Billy. She got sick helping us. And you’re out in the woods punching trees instead of being with her.”
My hands clench into fists. “I can’t be with her.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t,” I snap. “I can’t be the guy who just forgives everything. I can’t be the guy who rolls over the second she bats her eyelashes. I have pride. I have respect. If I just take her back, what does that make me?”
“It makes you happy,” Tex says. “That’s what it makes you.”
He turns and walks back toward the house. I watch him go. His words stick in my chest like thorns.
Happy. As if that’s an option.
I turn back to the fence line. I walk the perimeter, checking the posts. Two are down near the creek, so I fix them.
I use the hammer, driving the nails into the wood. The vibration travels up my arm, jarring my teeth. I welcome the pain. It distracts me.
By the time I get back to the house, the meeting has started. The command tent is a large white canopy set up near the barn. I see the hazmat suits, the clipboards, the grim faces.
I walk inside. Dr. Thorne is standing at a folding table, a map spread out before him. Seth, Tex, and Jasper are lined up on one side. Sheriff Riley is there too, looking exhausted.
And Sedona is there.
She’s sitting in a chair in the corner, wrapped in a blanket. Clara is beside her, holding her hand.
She looks fragile. Her skin is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She looks sick, nothing like the woman I had in my arms just a couple of hours ago.
Something is definitely wrong.
My heart skips a beat. Then my pulse picks up.
I keep my face blank. I stand next to Seth.
“We have results,” Dr. Thorne says. He doesn’t look up. “The parasite is definitely present in the cattle. It’s a new strain. We’re calling it Variant B.”
“And in the humans?” Seth asks.
“We’ve confirmed exposure in everyone who was in the main barn during the initial incident. That includes Dr. Archer, Ms. Finch, Jasper, and the three of you.”
“What does that mean?” Tex asks. “Are we sick?”
“Not yet,” Dr. Petrova says. “The incubation period varies. Dr. Archer is the only one showing active symptoms. The fever, the fainting… it suggests her Omega biology is reacting differently.”
Of course she is. She’s the canary in the coal mine.
“So we wait?” I ask. My voice is flat.
“We monitor,” Dr. Thorne corrects. “Daily blood tests. Temperature checks. And strict quarantine. No one leaves the ranch.”
“And the cattle?” I ask.
“Continued separation. We need to see if the calves develop immunity or if they’re carriers.”
“We’re losing weight on them,” I say. “They’re stressed.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Dr. Thorne says. “But necessary.”
I bite my tongue. I taste blood.
“Can I go?” Sedona’s voice is quiet. It cuts through the room.
Everyone turns to look at her. She’s standing up, the blanket clutched around her shoulders. She sways slightly.
“You should rest,” Dr. Petrova says.
“I’m tired,” Sedona says. “I need to lie down.”
“Back to the bunkhouse,” Dr. Thorne says. “An escort will accompany you.”
“I’ll take her.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The room freezes. Seth looks at me. Tex looks at me. Clara looks at me with wide eyes.
Sedona turns. Her eyes meet mine. There’s fear there. And exhaustion. And something else, something that looks like a plea.
“Billy,” she whispers.
I stride toward her. I ignore the doctors. I ignore the sheriff. I ignore the tension radiating off my brothers.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
She nods, and I hold out my arm. She hesitates. Then she takes it. Her fingers are cold through my flannel.
We walk out of the tent. The sun is fully up now, burning off the mist. The ranch is busy with people in white suits, but it feels empty. Hollow.
We walk toward the bunkhouse. We don’t speak. Her steps are unsteady, and I match her pace. I can feel the heat radiating off her. The fever is back.
“Why did you do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Volunteer. To take me.”
“Someone had to.”
“Tex could have done it. Or Seth.”
“I’m the foreman,” I say. “My responsibility.”
She stops walking. She pulls her hand away from my arm.
“Stop,” she says.
I stop. I turn to face her. “Stop what?”
“Stop pretending you don’t care. Stop being the stone wall.” She takes a breath, her chest heaving. “You kissed me, Billy. You touched me. You can’t just act like that didn’t happen.”
“I can,” I say. “I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re sick. Because you’re vulnerable. Because I’m taking advantage.”
Her eyes flash. A spark of the fire I remember. “I’m not a child. I wanted it too.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t you dare say that. It wasn’t a mistake. It was real. It was us.”
“There is no us, Sedona. There hasn’t been for five years.”
“Then why are you here?” she demands. “Why are you walking me back? Why did you look at me in that kitchen like I was the only thing keeping you alive?”
She steps closer. Too close. Her scent hits me, thick and sweet, cutting through the fresh air. It makes my head spin.
“Because I hate that I still love you,” I say.
The words hang in the air. I didn’t mean to say them. I wanted to keep them locked inside. But they’re out now, raw and bleeding.
She stares at me. Her lips part. Her eyes fill with water.
“You love me?” she whispers.
“I never stopped,” I say. “That’s the problem. I never stopped loving you, and I never stopped hating you for leaving. They’re both true. And it’s tearing me apart.”
She reaches for me. Her hand touches my chest, right over my heart.
“Billy…”
“Don’t.” I grab her wrist. Not to push her away. To hold her there. “I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t be the guy who just forgives. I need time. I need space.”
“You have time,” she says. “We have quarantine. We have nothing but time.”
“Dr. Thorne wants to move the cattle again,” I say, changing the subject. I can’t do this. Not here. Not in the middle of the dirt road with the CDC watching us from a hundred yards away.
“Let them,” she says. “I don’t care about the cattle right now. I care about you.”
“You’re sick,” I say again. “You need to rest.”
“I need you,” she says.
The words are a punch to the gut. I close my eyes. I breathe in. I smell the rain, the mud, the hay. And her. Always her.
“Get inside,” I say, releasing her wrist. “Go to bed.”
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching my face. Then she nods slowly.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
She turns and walks up the steps to the bunkhouse porch. She opens the door and disappears inside.
I stand there. My hands are shaking. My whole body is vibrating with the effort of staying put.
I want to follow her. I want to kick the door down and carry her to bed and never let her go.
I turn and walk away.
I head for the barn. I need work. I need sweat. I need to bury this feeling under piles of manure and hay.
I find Jasper inside. He’s mucking the stalls, his movements jerky and nervous.
“Hey, Billy,” he says. He looks scared.
“Hey, kid.” I grab a pitchfork and start on the next stall.
We work in silence. The only sounds are the scraping of metal and the breathing of the horses.
“Is she going to be okay?” Jasper asks.
I stop. I lean on the pitchfork. “Who?”
“Sedona. Is she going to die?”
The word hangs in the air. Die. I hadn’t let myself think it. The parasite. The fever.
“No,” I say. “She’s not going to die.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I won’t let her.”
Jasper nods. He goes back to work.
I drive the pitchfork into the hay with more force than necessary, letting the anger fuel me. The anger at the parasite. The anger at the CDC. The anger at myself.
An hour passes. Maybe two.
The barn door opens. Seth walks in. He’s holding two bottles of water. He hands one to me.
“Hydrate,” he says.
I take it and drink half of it in one gulp.
“How is she?” he asks.
“Stubborn.”
“That sounds about right.”
He leans against the stall door. He watches me work.
“The CDC is moving the cattle to the south pasture,” he says. “They’re bringing in portable scanners.”
“Fine.”
“Billy. Look at me.”
I stop. I look at him.
“Tex talked to you,” he says. It’s not a question.
“He did.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I’m working.”
“You’re avoiding.”
“I’m managing.”
Seth sighs. He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s in the bunkhouse. She’s feverish. Clara is taking care of her. But she’s asking for you.”
My chest tightens. “She needs a doctor.”
“She needs her Alpha,” Seth says quietly. “That’s biology, Billy. Whether you like it or not.”
“I’m not her Alpha. Not anymore.” I stare at the hay on the floor. The golden strands are mixed with dirt and dust. “I don’t know how to trust her,” I admit.
It’s the truth. The core of the problem.
Seth nods. “I know. But you don’t have to trust her with your life right now. You just have to trust her with her life. She’s sick. She’s scared. And her Alpha is out here shoveling horse shit.”
He’s right. Damn him. He’s always right.
I drop the pitchfork. I walk past Seth, out of the barn, and toward the bunkhouse. When I reach the door, I knock once.
Clara opens it. She looks tired. Her hair is a mess. But when she sees me, she steps aside.
“She’s in the bedroom. Her fever spiked.”
I walk in. The main room is small, clean. I go to the bedroom door. It’s cracked open, and I push it.
Sedona is lying on the bed. She’s curled up in a ball, the blanket pulled up to her chin. Her face is flushed red. Her hair is damp with sweat.
She looks small. Breakable.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight.
She opens her eyes. They’re glassy, unfocused.
“Billy?” she whispers.
“I’m here,” I say.
She reaches out. Her hand finds mine. Her grip is weak, burning hot.
“Stay,” she says.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I lie down next to her, on top of the blanket. I don’t touch her. I just lie there, my body a barrier between her and the world.
She closes her eyes. She sighs.
I watch her breathe. In and out. In and out.
I can do this. I can be the wall. I can be the shield.
I can’t give her my heart. But I can give her this. I can give her my presence. I can give her my protection.
For now, that has to be enough.
I close my eyes. The smell of her fills the room. It’s not the scent of the past, not the ghost of memory. It’s the scent of the present.
Sick, and frightened, and mine.
I breathe it in.
And I stay.