“I’m down a man so if he’s willing to work, we’ll take him,” I say. “I’ll need documentation within twenty-four hours, his full medical and psychological files, therapy notes, emergency contacts, and any triggers or danger zones you’re already aware of.”
“Thank you, Ms. Whitmore,” Andy breathes. “You might’ve just saved a life.”
“I’ll expect the file today,” I reply evenly. “We’ll prepare for his arrival.”
When I hang up, the room stays frozen for a beat.
Paige leans back in her chair, eyes wide. “Well… damn.”
Lena folds her arms. “Sounds like we’re getting a new participant.”
“We are.” I flip to a clean page of my pad even though the name is already stamped into my thoughts. “His name is Trace Buchanan.”
I underline it once, then look up at Paige. “When his paperwork comes through, put him in one of the empty cabins for now. I want him a little removed from the main bunkhouse until we get a feel for him and he gets a feel for us.”
Paige nods, already mentally rearranging housing. “Cabin three’s empty.”
“Good. Send him an email once we have his file arrival instructions, expectations, all of it. CC Cash and me. Make sure the map of the grounds is attached, and have the cabin stockedbefore he gets here, linens, toiletries, basic groceries. Since Romeo’s gone, he can fill in on the work schedule for now, before he starts formal therapy. Light duty until we see where he is.”
“Got it,” Paige says, fingers already flying over the keyboard. “Empty cabin, welcome email, map, CC to you and Cash, and Romeo’s old slot on the rota. I’ll take care of it.”
Lena gives a short, thoughtful hum. “Guess we’d better make a good first impression.”
I close my notebook, the name still echoing in the back of my mind.
“We will.”
CHAPTER TWO
Trace
When Andyfirst tells me about the new ranch, my instinct is to lie and tell him I’m going, while heading somewhere else entirely. In my head, I picture taking off without a plan, driving until the road runs out, finding some nowhere town where nobody knows my name, and just… fading out. That’s the place I’m in when this starts, not because I want to die; I’m just tired of living like this. Tired of waking up already exhausted, tired of holding myself together with sheer will. I’m tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m not, but most of all I’m tired of trying to force myself back into the man I used to be, or invent a new version that feels anything like him.
I pull up Copper Ridge’s website, scrolling without paying attention to the horses, pastures, therapy talk, smiling faces. None of it really matters, until I stop on a picture of the woman who runs the place. Delta Whitmore. There’s nothing special about the photo, but there’s something in her eyes that feels… kindred somehow. And for that reason I can’t explain, it hits me harder than the brochures, the testimonials, or anything elseabout the ranch. It’s just enough to make me think maybe I’ll try this before I disappear somewhere no one can find me.
Two weeks later and I am heading from South Dakota to Wyoming. The trip isn’t long, most of the drive is along empty roads, with no signal, no music, and only static when I try to find a station. The only thing that comes through is the kind of music that sounds like it’s been recorded in somebody’s barn, songs like “Three Teeth and a Banjo” by Harlan & the Possum Choir or “Moonshine Made Me Call My Ex (And Her Mama Too)” by Jebediah Slim & the Porchlight Prophets.
The GPS cut out about twenty minutes earlier, leaving me alone with the road and the sound of the tires. The last few miles stretch longer than they should, and by the time the dirt road opens ahead, I’m stiff from the drive and ready to be done with it. When the sign for Whitmore at Copper Ridge comes into view, a small wave of relief rolls through me. Suddenly, music blasts through the truck speakers, scaring the hell out of me, but also telling me one thing; I finally have cell service again. I grab my phone from the cup holder and see the signal jump to 4G, and I pull through the gate, easing off to the side where the gravel shoulder widens so I can figure out where the hell I’m going. I scroll straight to my email and open the one from Copper Ridge, the map, the directions, Guest Cabin three assigned to me, Cash’s note telling me it’s normal to feel out of place and to just get here.
The gravel shifted under my boots as I stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind me. The Wyoming morning was already warm, and the air carried the faint scent of hay mixed with dust. I stand for a moment, stretching the stiffness from my legs before walking to the back of the truck to grab my bag. “Alright, let’s get this started,” I muttered, lifting the strap of my bag over my shoulder and taking a long look around. I take a slow breath and start towards the bunkhouse, trying toshake the tension sitting low in my chest. I tell myself it was just a ranch, just another job, and just another stop along the way to figuring myself out. Deep down, though, I knew that if this didn’t work, I was running out of chances to try again.
Delta
I closed the folder and set it on the desk with a muted thump. “Has Trace gotten here yet?”
“Not yet,” Paige said, lifting her mug that read Don’t Let the Pretty Face Fool You. “Cash is watching the main road. He said he’ll radio in as soon as he sees him.”
Lena was already working on her tablet, fingers moving fast without her eyes ever leaving the screen. “He’s supposed to be here by nine, right?”
“That’s what Andy said,” I replied, glancing toward the window. The morning light was steady across the pastures, and the horses were already out grazing. “I just want him to get here before the day gets moving. It’s easier to settle a new person before everything really gets busy.”
Paige tilted her head, studying me over her mug. “You nervous?”
“Not nervous,” I say after a beat. “His file’s got a lot going on, combat vet, PTSD. The fan incident…”
Paige flips the folder open, scanning the page like she’s reading celebrity gossip. “You mean the one where he tackled that guy at the concert? Says here the fan made a move for the woman he was guarding, pulled a knife, and Trace put him on the floor before security even realized what was happening.”
“That’s the one,” I say. “He didn’t lose control, he was protecting somebody, the charges were dropped because the guy had a weapon, but Trace made it clear, if someone he cares about is in danger, he’ll take the hit himself before he lets them get hurt.”
