Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Hazel
The sun hangs low but stubborn, all gold and fire along the ridge as I snug Blaze's saddle into place. The leather creaks under my hands, warm and familiar.
Eli stands a few yards off, checking his cinch.
We haven't spoken since the fight.
Not about yesterday. Not about the cattle. Not about anything.
The silence sits between us like something solid, heavy with everything we're not saying.
All I know is what Chace barked across the yard a half hour ago. A line cut. Cattle missing. East pasture. That's it. No numbers, no details, just the kind of clipped urgency that turns your stomach cold.
One day after the fight that left everything broken between us.
One day after I couldn't answer his question: are you staying or not?
And now we're riding out together anyway, because the cattle don't care about our problems.
I glance past Blaze's neck and see Addie and Chace riding up from the barn, their horses tossing their heads, restless. Addie's ponytail flashes against the fading sky.
"East fence makes more sense," Addie is saying. "If they slipped through there, they'd push downhill, not up."
Chace snorts. "You don't know that. Whoever cut it might've been herding them toward the creek."
They're still bickering when Eli steps forward, his jaw tight, eyes already scanning the horizon like he's measuring the land.
"We're heading south," he says, sharp enough to slice clean through them. "Tree line first. Then we work our way back."
No debate. No discussion.
Just orders.
Addie lifts a brow but says nothing. Chace tips his hat, already turning his horse.
I feel that old pull settle in—the way Eli steps in and the world adjusts around him, everyone falling into place. Including me.
I don't say anything either.
We start riding.
The land rolls out in endless waves of gold and green, broken by dark stands of pine and the silver thread of the creek winding through the low points.
We split up at the first creek crossing. Addie and Chace take the east ridge, Eli and I follow the creek bed south. The theory is simple: cattle need water. If they bolted through that cut fence, they'd eventually circle back looking for it.
But the creek is empty. No tracks. No fresh dung. No sign they've been through here at all.
For a moment, I think I see movement on the ridge—dark shapes against the grass. My heart kicks.
"There," I say, pointing.
Eli follows my gaze, then shakes his head. "Shadows."
He's right. Just wind through tall grass.
We keep moving, following the creek as it curves east. My legs ache from hours in the saddle, thighs burning. I take a swig from my water bottle—almost empty—and taste dust.
Still nothing.
We round a bend and I pull Blaze to a stop.
"Wait," I say.
Eli turns, impatient. "What?"
I dismount. The grass here is trampled, bent in a direction that doesn't match the wind. Fresh. I crouch, fingers brushing a partial print in soft earth.
"They came through here," I say. "Maybe six, eight hours ago."
Eli rides back and looks down. His jaw tightens, but he nods.
"Which direction?"
I stand, following the bent grass with my eyes. "South. Toward Hollow Creek."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite approval. But acknowledgment.
He doesn't thank me. Just turns his horse and follows the trail I found.
But he doesn't question me either.
We regroup with Addie and Chace an hour later at the split oak where the property line angles west. The clouds that looked threatening earlier have shifted north.
Addie and Chace ride up from the east ridge, their horses breathing hard.
"Nothing," Addie reports, frustration clear in her voice. "Not a damn thing."
"Shocking," Chace says. "Almost like the cattle didn't consult a map before wandering off."
Addie shoots him a look that could strip paint. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Not if I can help it." Chace grins, unrepentant. "Silence makes you twitchy."
"You make me twitchy."
"See? I'm consistent."
Despite everything, I almost smile.
"Hazel found tracks," Eli says, cutting through their banter. "Heading south toward Hollow Creek."
Addie straightens in her saddle. "How old?"
"Six to eight hours," I say. "Maybe more."
Chace whistles low. "That's a lot of ground they could've covered."
"Then we keep moving," Eli says. He checks the sky, calculating. "We've got maybe two more hours of good light."
We ride south together now, all four of us in a loose line, eyes scanning the horizon. The sun drops lower, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow.
The trail I found peters out near the rocky ground above Hollow Creek. We split up again, covering more ground, checking every draw where cattle might shelter.
The light fades from gold to gray.
Eli rides back toward me as the sun finally drops behind the ridge.
"We need to set camp," he says. "Can't track in the dark."
I want to argue. Want to keep searching. But he's right.
"Alright," I say quietly.
His eyes flick to mine for just a second, then away.
Dusk settles in slow and blue as Eli picks a rise of ground just above the tree line. High enough to keep us visible. Close enough to shelter the horses from the wind.
We make camp without much talk.
Chace gets the fire going while Addie stakes the tents. I unsaddle Blaze and lead him to where Eli has already tied the other horses, close enough to the trees for shelter.
Eli's back is to me, his hands working over his horse's legs, checking for injuries, stones, anything that might slow us down tomorrow.
I do the same with Blaze, working in silence a few feet away.
"There's extra grain in my pack," Eli says without looking at me. "They'll need it."
It's the first practical thing he's said to me since the fight.
"Thanks," I say quietly.
He doesn't respond.
I grab the grain and measure it out carefully. Blaze dips his head immediately, content. I run a hand down his neck, feeling the warmth and muscle beneath his coat.
When I turn back, Eli is already walking toward the fire.
Dinner is canned beans heated over the fire and coffee that tastes like dirt and salvation in equal measure. No one talks much. We're too tired. Too worried.
I sit on a log across from Eli, the fire crackling between us. He eats mechanically, staring into the flames.
Once, our eyes meet across the fire.
For half a second, I think he might say something.
Then Chace asks about tomorrow's route, and the moment passes.
The sky above us deepens from blue to black. Stars appear, one by one, until the whole dome is scattered with light.
"First watch?" Addie asks, looking at Eli.
"I'll take it," he says.
"I can—" I start.
"I've got it," Eli cuts in, his tone making it clear the discussion is over.
I bite back the argument. Not everything has to be a fight.
Addie yawns and stands, stretching. "Wake me in four hours."
"Will do," Eli says.
Chace is already heading toward his tent. Addie follows, her silhouette disappearing into the dark.
That leaves me and Eli.
Alone.
The fire pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the night. I should go to my tent. Should leave him to his watch.
But something holds me in place.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words tangle before they reach air.
The fire pops. A log shifts, sending sparks up into the dark.
"You did good today," I say finally. Safe. Neutral.
It's not what I meant to say, but it's something.
Eli's jaw works. He stares into the flames like they might give him an answer he's not finding on his own.
"You always could read the land better than anyone," he says quietly. "Even when we were kids."
The past tense lands heavier than it should. Like he's talking about someone who doesn't exist anymore.
But I'm right here, I want to say. I'm still me.
Except I'm not sure that's true.
"You remember that time we lost your dad's prize heifer?" I ask. "We were what, fifteen?"
His mouth curves. A real smile, brief but genuine. "Sixteen. And it wasn't lost. It got stuck in the ravine past Carson's property."
"You wanted to tell your dad. I made you wait."
"Because you were sure you could find her." He shakes his head, but there's something softer in it now. "Dragged me through half the county looking."
"We found her."
"We did." He pauses, then adds, "Took us all night. We fell asleep by the creek waiting for her to calm down enough to move."
The memory surfaces fully now. Both of us exhausted, covered in mud, his jacket draped over both our shoulders because I'd left mine behind. The stars overhead just like tonight. The way he'd kept watch even then, making sure I was warm enough, safe enough.
The way it had always been easy with him. Uncomplicated.
Until it wasn't.
"I miss that," I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes lift to mine across the fire.
The air between us shifts. Tightens.
"Miss what?" His voice is low. Careful.
Us, I want to say. When it was simple. When I didn't ruin everything by taking more than I could handle.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because he was there that night too. The night everything changed. The night I reached for him in the dark and he reached back and for one perfect, terrible moment, I thought maybe I could stay.
And then the sun came up and I ran.
"I miss knowing what to say to you," I manage finally.
Something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. Or recognition.
He stands abruptly, his shadow cutting long across the firelight.
"You should get some sleep," he says, and this time it sounds less like an order and more like self-preservation.
I nod. Stand. Brush the dirt from my jeans.
I make it three steps toward my tent before I hear him again.
"Hazel."
I turn.
He's still standing by the fire, his back to me now, shoulders tight.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, not looking back, "I miss it too."
The words hit harder than anything he's said to me since I came home.
I don't trust myself to respond. So I just nod—even though he can't see it—and walk to my tent before I do something stupid like cry.
Or stay.
Inside, I lie on top of my sleeping bag, fully dressed, staring at the canvas above me. The fire's glow filters through the fabric. Orange. Shadow. Orange.
Outside, Eli's boots crunch softly. Wood crackles as he adds to the fire.
Keeping watch.
Protecting what's left.
Like he always has.
The thought lands heavier than I expect.
I was scared. That's why I left. Drowning in grief and terrified of the way he looked at me—like I was something worth holding onto when I felt like I was breaking apart.
If I'd stayed, I would've failed him. Disappointed him. Become one more thing on this ranch that couldn't be saved.
So I ran.
And I've been running ever since.
Even now, lying here, part of me wants to keep running.
But there's nowhere left to go.
I pull the sleeping bag over my shoulders and close my eyes. Tomorrow we'll search again.
But tonight, I let the exhaustion pull me under, grateful for the temporary reprieve.