I’m perched at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Wyatt’s hoodies, hands curled around a mug of tea I keep forgetting to drink. Maisie lies at my feet, chin on her paws, making soft huffing noises like she’s guarding me from the world.
Wyatt is across from me, frying bacon on the stove, like if he feeds me enough protein, the universe will reset to factory settings.
He’s quiet but not closed off in the way he used to be. This quiet is protective, coiled, still scanning for threats even though we’re inside and the worst is over.
Tank and Tex arrived fifteen minutes ago with Jessie and Jane.
Jessie brought soup in a thermos and hugged me like we’d known each other for years. She smells like cinnamon and kindness and talks with her hands like every word is too big to stay contained. She complimented the hoodie I’m swimming in, then promised to teach me how to make sourdough from scratch when I’m ready to stand that long again.
Jane didn’t say a word at first, just gave me a long, assessing look, then nodded like I’d passed some test only she knew the rules to. Five minutes later, she cussed out the coffeemaker, fed Maisie half a biscuit from her coat pocket, and shoved the chair out with her boot and plopped down like a gunslinger.
She’s all grit and instinct, swears like a ranch hand, and wears her heart in plain sight, whether she means to or not.
And I like her more than I can say.
They’re so different—one sunshine, one wildfire—but both made something in my chest ease. And Tank and Tex look at their women like they tripped, fell, and landed face-first in a miracle.
Now everyone is sitting at the table, including Henry, who has Shay tucked under his arm. She looks exhausted but safe, which is all that matters.
Shay hasn’t stopped apologizing for being used as bait. I haven’t stopped assuring her it wasn’t her fault.
Tank finishes texting someone and looks up. “Clarissa’s en route to federal custody. They’ve got her at a secure holding site in Billings.”
Shay shivers, and Henry pulls her closer.
Wyatt flips another strip of bacon. “Charges?”
“Plenty,” Tex says. “Financial fraud, attempted murder, accessory to a bunch of other crap, obstruction, conspiracy—hell, she’s lucky they didn’t tack on domestic terrorism. The feds are pissed.”
A strange, unsteady breath leaves me. Not exactly relief, but something adjacent, because I’m not at the finish line yet, but I can finally see it.
Tank studies me. “You okay, kid?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just… processing.”
Wyatt glances over his shoulder, jaw ticking. “You don’t have to think about her anymore.”
The words land warm against my ribs, but reality still tugs. “I do a little,” I say softly. “There’ll be a trial.”
“You won’t have to testify, right?” Jessie asks from where she’s perched on Tank’s lap. “Didn’t the FBI say they had enough already?”
“Agent Hawk said he’d confirm everything today,” I answer. “I might not have to. But if I do… I want to be strong enough to handle it.”
Wyatt’s shoulders tense like he has Opinions About That.
Before he can voice any of them, Maisie lifts her head, ears perked at the sound of tires crunching on snow.
Wyatt is across the room in two strides, peeking through the blinds.
He exhales. “Harry.”
Tank mutters, “Man has the timing of a bad sequel.”
Tex snorts.
Wyatt opens the door, and Agent Hawk—Harry—steps inside, shoulder bandaged, face pale but determined. He looks at me immediately.
“Sadie.”
