But no sign of danger. No unexplained traffic.
Before I leave the cabin, I confirm the interior lights are operational and the doors locked. Then, I check the generator.
With thermos in hand, I drive the perimeter, jumping out and surveying blind spots between the cameras. I twist the cap, take a swig of the black, bitter liquid. No disturbed ground, no unaccounted for prints except those of two does, one of the badger in question, and another set of coyote.
All quiet. All clear.
A blonde-haired woman with eyes like soft moss slips into my mind.
I climb back in the truck, pushing thoughts of the curvy beauty from my mind.
Not professional, Holt. Not advisable.
Grayson answers on the first ring, voice gruff.
“Site secure. No anomalies. Static perimeter.”
“You get any sleep last night, Holt?”
“Sleep’s overrated.” Only the ache deep in my hip says otherwise. Stiffer than usual, trying to make me limp when I don’t want it to.
He grunts. I end the call.
Texas flies by the window. Stark and unforgiving. Like the look on Edwin’s face.
My stomach twists, mind nudging me back to the way they looked at her. Their reaction when she was safe. How Edwin glowered when she requested a break. Time alone.
Back at the cabin, I check the window locks, then the maps. Remind myself of possible access routes. Areas that might need extra surveillance or tightening. Not that I need to do any of this.
Grayson calls two hours later, confirming law enforcement received a confession.
Still, I plan. Because you never know.
Scrolling through lists, I sort information about Mia. Not sure what I’m looking for. My eyes rest on a YouTube video from eight years prior. I drop the volume on my laptop to a whisper, watching the footage of an awkward teen. Couldn’t be much more than Josie’s age. Funny how time alters life.
Eight years ago.
For me, that was the top of the world. But that’s not what I pull up.
Instead, it’s six months ago. My gut roils, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. The smell of cow manure, the shock waves of the bull moving beneath me. My hand slipping.And then—hooves and blood, mud and the unending spiral into oblivion.
Into this time and place. This fucking job …and Mia.
The last part feels like a whisper … because I can’t let it be more.
I rub my hip, remembering pain in waves of loss rather than palpable sensation.
Newspaper articles float across the screen like phantoms.
Devastating injuries. A career cut short. The end of Maverick Holt…
That about sums it up.
A rustle of fabric, the swish of curls against flannel, bare feet padding across wood floors. I look up.
Mia Love.
She looks smaller today. Saner. Normal.
