I nodded toward the window. “Tracks.”
He stepped beside me, following my gaze. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift most people would’ve missed.
“Could’ve been someone turning around,” he said, easy as anything, but his eyes stayed on the tracks a moment longer than they should have.
“Right,” I said, forcing a smile. “Probably nothing.”
He slid an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Probably.”
But when he thought I wasn’t looking, I saw his gaze drift toward the gun safe by the door.
By midmorning, the world had returned to normal.
The tree stood upright in the living room, half-decorated and shedding needles faster than I could sweep them up. The smell of pine mixed with the cinnamon candle I’d lit, filling the air with a cozy chaos that almost drowned out the unease in my chest.
Almost.
“Hold that side,” I told Linc, balancing on the stool as I tried to loop garland across the top.
He steadied the tree with one hand and my leg with the other. “You know, we could’ve picked a smaller one.”
“You know, you could’ve said that yesterday before you pretended it wasn’t heavy.”
“I was trying to impress you.”
I grinned down at him. “You already did, lumberjack.”
He looked up, eyes dark with amusement. “Careful, Mrs. Felder. Compliments like that come with consequences.”
“Threats, you mean.”
“Promises.”
I laughed, and for a little while, it was easy to forget about the tracks in the snow. Easy to just be us again.
After lunch, I drove into town. The wind had picked up, sweeping thin veils of snow across the gravel road. The sky was bright but cold, that winter blue so sharp it made your eyes sting. I kept the heater turned up high, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping my thermos. The tires hummed against the packed snow, steady and familiar.
The warehouse sat just beyond Everton, a wide, weathered building with a tin roof and a faded sign that still read Everton Feed & Tack from before I bought it. Inside, it smelled of hay,oil, and old wood. The space was half lit by sunlight through the high windows, the rest by humming fluorescents that flickered just enough to drive a person crazy.
I spent longer than I meant checking inventory. A shipment of new tack had come in overnight: bridles, halters, and enough saddle soap to shine an army. I went through each box by hand, ticking names off the clipboard, answering calls from suppliers, and replying to emails on my phone. By the time I looked up, the light outside had shifted to that deep lavender that meant snow was coming.
I locked the side door, tugged my coat tight, and stood there for a second, staring at the faint snowline creeping across the horizon. Then I climbed into the truck, started the engine, and watched my breath fog the windshield while it warmed.
The drive back felt longer than usual.
The world was quiet, muffled under the weight of snow clouds. Frost glittered on the fence lines, and every mile of road seemed more deserted than the one before. My tires slipped once on a patch of ice, and I caught myself gripping the wheel tighter.
Halfway down the county road, I caught a shape in the rear-view mirror. A vehicle had crested the hill behind me—dark, boxy, and without headlights.
It stayed there, far enough back that I couldn’t make out the make or color. For several long seconds, it matched my speed perfectly. I tried to tell myself it was a coincidence. This road connected to half a dozen ranches; people used it all the time. Still, my pulse climbed.
At the next bend, the vehicle vanished behind the trees. I searched the mirror again and again, but it didn’t yield any results. The quiet inside the cab grew louder than the engine.
By the time I turned onto our lane, I almost believed I’d imagined it. But then my headlights swept over the gate, and my stomach dropped.
It was hanging slightly open.
We never left it open.
