I stare at that last line for a beat.
Our girls.
He’s right. Every cell in my body knows Sadie is mine. And I’m hers.
I’m still staring at the screen when a crack splits the air like a thunderclap.
A gunshot.
The mug in my hand hits the floor and shatters, but I’m already through the door, boots pounding the porch, heart punching against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
I don’t think. I move.
Snow churns under my feet as I sprint toward the pasture trail.
The air is sharp and still—and wrong. Maisie’s frenzied barking echoes through the trees.
Then I see a shape on the ground, half-hidden by the drifted edge of the field.
Sadie.
Christ. No.
My blood goes ice cold.
For one blinding second, I think she’s dead.
She’s not moving. Red spreads like an inkblot over her arm, staining my coat. Maisie stands over her, barking sharp and relentless, pushing her nose against Sadie’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her awake.
“Sadie!”
I skid to my knees beside her, hands already reaching.
She lifts her head—barely. Eyes wide and stunned. Her breath comes in short, quick pants.
“Wyatt…” she gasps. “I think someone?—”
Her voice shakes too badly to finish.
I cradle her face, checking pupils, pulse, anything that tells me she’s here.
She clutches her upper arm, blood seeping between her fingers. “I didn’t even see—didn’t hear it coming.”
“I’ve got you,” I say quickly. “Stay with me.”
I cradle her face with one hand, the other already running a fast, practiced sweep down her limbs.
Pupils reactive. Pulse thready but there. No signs of shock yet, but the adrenaline’s masking half of it.
Her shoulder’s bleeding badly, but it’s not arterial. I gently peel her fingers away from the wound.
“Upper arm,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Through-and-through maybe. No exit?”
I check. No exit.
“You feel anything else? Chest? Back? Gut?”
She blinks hard, trying to scan herself, still caught in the swirl. “I-I don’t think so. Just my arm.”
