“Then explain it to me.”
I almost do. Almost tell him everything, the FBI, the plan, only half formed in my mind. But I can’t risk it. Can’t put that burden on him. Can’t make him complicit.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He throws up his hands. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But Wayne’s going to be a problem. He’s already been in town, and if whispers get to Emma or that hellcat Allie, then we’re fucked.”
“I know. Fuck.” I turn and pace away so I don’t punch the fence post just to let off some of this frustration.
“Yeah, well, what Roman doesn’t know is that Wayne’s been skimming from the protection money. Taking a cut before it gets to Sawyer for the books. He’s trying to create a distraction so no one looks too close at his side hustle.”
That gets my attention. “You sure about that?”
“Caught him myself last week at the Garrison place. Tom paid his monthly envelope, but Wayne pocketed a hundred before adding it to the collection.” Levi’s eyes are serious. “He’s a problem, Calder. A loose end, and even worse, he’s stealing from us.”
I should have handled him when we dealt with Martin, but there wasn’t time. Now it’s coming back to bite me.
“I’ll take care of it.” I glance at the fence line, the work that still needs doing. “What about the herd here? They ready to move?”
Levi accepts the change of subject, falling into the familiar rhythm of ranch business. “Yeah, grass is getting sparse up there. I was thinking we would move them to the east field tomorrow. Should be enough hands if we start at dawn.”
We talk logistics for another few minutes, the easy back and forth of work that’s been in our blood for generations. But underneath the mundane details of cattle and grazing rotations, I can feel Levi’s question lingering between us, unanswered.
Are you willing to sacrifice Saint for him? Why?
I don’t have an answer he’d accept. Don’t have one I fully accept myself. All I know is that the full moon is coming, and with it, a ceremony that will either save us or destroy us both.
As Levi climbs back into his Jeep, he pauses, one foot on the running board. “Just so you know, I don’t get it. I don’t understand how after what Roman did to Saint, after the branding, you can still follow his rules like they’re gospel. She deserves better from you.”
He drives off before I can respond, dust kicking up behind his tires, leaving me alone with the weight of his words and the tightness in my chest that feels like something breaking.
He’s right. Saint deserves better. Deserves someone who isn’t caught between worlds, trying to dismantle an empire from the inside while pretending to uphold it. Someone who didn’t drag her into this hell in the first place.
But she’s stuck with me. And I’m going to make damn sure we both survive what’s coming, even if it costs me the last shreds of my soul.
I spend the next hour mending the fence line, the physical work silencing the noise in my head. By the time I head back to the house, to Saint, I’ve come to a decision. The full moon ceremony will happen. Has to happen for my half-baked FBI plan to work. But what comes after will be on my terms, not Roman’s.
I just hope Saint can forgive me for what I’m about to put her through. For what I’ve already done. And for what I still need to do to free us both.
Saint
The wallsof this house are closing in on me.
I’ve memorized every crack in the ceiling, every knot in the wooden floorboards, every pattern the afternoon light makes as it moves across the bedroom walls. Two weeks of healing. Two weeks of antibiotics and bandage changes and Calder’s gentle hands applying ointment to the brand on my hip. Two weeks of being treated like glass that might shatter at any moment.
I’m not glass. I’m not fragile. And I’m going to lose my mind if I spend one more hour staring at these four walls.
The house is quiet. Calder left before dawn, muttering about meeting Sawyer and handling business I’m not supposed to ask about. He kissed my forehead, told me to rest, and disappeared into the gray morning light like he always does. Like I’m something precious to be left behind and protected.
I don’t want to be protected anymore. I want to feel like myself again.
The thought hits me as I’m standing at the kitchen window, watching a hawk circle over the distant pastures. Today is Friday. And on Fridays, the church holds its community sale. Tables set up in the fellowship hall are piled with donatedclothes and baked goods and old books. Women from town gather to gossip and sort and price things. My father oversees it all with his gentle smile and patient presence.
I used to help every week. Used to spend Friday and Saturday mornings folding donated sweaters and arranging homemade preserves and listening to Mrs. Garrison complain about her arthritis while Mrs. Peterson nodded along sympathetically. It was boring and predictable and wonderfully normal.
I want that normalcy so badly it hurts.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m pulling on jeans and one of the soft sweaters Calder bought me. The movement tugs at my hip, the brand still tender beneath the bandage, but the pain is manageable now. Dull. Constant. Something I’m learning to live with.
