I finished the section I was working on, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind churned. Probably nothing. Ranch life was full of small disasters—broken equipment, spooked horses, weather turning bad. No reason to think it was anything more than that.
I couldn't shake the feeling. I headed back toward the main buildings, taking my time, telling myself I wasn't rushing. The sun was warm on my shoulders, the breeze carrying the smell of grass and cattle and the distant sweetness of hay. A normal afternoon on Longhorn Ranch.
Except it wasn't.
I heard them before I saw them—a cluster of workers gathered by the water pump, voices low and urgent. Carla wasthere, and Dan, and a couple of the others who'd been on hay duty. Their body language was all wrong. Tense. Watchful. Like they'd seen something that unsettled them.
I slowed my pace, staying out of their line of sight, and listened.
"—didn't mean to scare her." That was Dan, his voice rough with something that sounded like guilt. He was rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his eyes fixed on the ground. His whole posture radiated shame and confusion, like a man who'd accidentally kicked a dog and couldn't figure out how it had happened. "I just touched her shoulder. That's all. I didn't know she'd?—"
"It's not your fault." Carla cut in, her voice firm but sympathetic. She had her arms crossed over her chest, her brow furrowed with concern, her body angled toward Dan in a protective stance. She was a small woman, but she had a way of taking up space when she wanted to. "You couldn't have known. She seemed so... normal. Quiet, sure, but normal."
"Did you see her face?" The other Beta—Marcus, I thought his name was—shook his head slowly, his eyes wide and slightly unfocused, like he was replaying the scene in his mind. His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper, and he glanced around nervously before continuing. "She looked like she was going to tear his throat out. I've never seen anything like it."
My gut clenched. I knew who they were talking about before Dan said the name.
"I hope Reid doesn't fire her." Dan's voice was quiet, worried, carrying a weight of genuine concern that surprised me. He stared down at his boots, scuffing the toe against the dirt, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders had dropped even further, making him look smaller than his broad frame should allow. "It wasn't her fault. I startled her. She just... reacted."
"Reid took her somewhere." Carla glanced toward the storage barn, then away, her expression troubled. She uncrossed her arms long enough to push a strand of hair from her face, her movements restless and uncertain. "Don't know what he said to her. She looked pretty shaken up when she came out."
I'd heard enough.
I walked away without a word, my boots eating up the ground, my jaw tight. I knew where she'd go. Knew it the same way I knew my own name, the same way I knew the feel of a knife in my hand or the sound of trouble coming. She'd go to the stable. To Bella and the foal. To the one place on this ranch that felt safe.
I found her halfway there.
She was walking fast, her head down, her shoulders hunched up around her ears like she was bracing for a blow. Her dark hair fell across her face, hiding her expression, but I didn't need to see it. I could read the defeat in every line of her body. The shame. The certainty that she'd ruined everything and now she'd have to run again.
I knew that feeling. Knew it bone-deep, in the marrow of me.
I fell into step beside her without saying anything.
She tensed—I felt it more than saw it, the way her whole body went rigid for a split second before she caught my scent. Sun-baked grass and wind. Me. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, and she kept walking.
Good. She wasn't running. That was something.
We walked in silence, our boots crunching on the gravel path, the afternoon sun warm on our backs. I didn't try to talk to her. Didn't try to touch her or comfort her or tell her it was going to be okay. Words had never been my strong suit, and empty reassurances would just make things worse.
So I just walked. Let my presence be enough. Let her know she wasn't alone, even if I couldn't find the right words to say it.I remembered what it felt like—showing up here five years ago, half-starved and feral, flinching at every shadow. I'd been on the run for months, moving from place to place, never staying long enough to let anyone get close. I'd done things I wasn't proud of. Survived in ways that left marks on my soul darker than any scar on my skin.
Reid had found me sleeping in his barn.
I'd woken up with my hand around his throat before I was fully conscious, my body reacting to the threat before my brain caught up. Most men would have thrown me out. Called the sheriff. Put me down like the wild animal I was acting like.
Reid had just stood there, calm and steady, those dark eyes watching me without fear. He'd waited until my hand dropped, until the red haze cleared from my vision and the shame flooded in.
"You hungry?" That's all he'd said—two words, delivered in that low, steady voice of his, like I hadn't just tried to choke the life out of him. His dark eyes had held mine, calm and patient, his broad shoulders relaxed despite the red marks my fingers had left on his throat. Like I was just another lost soul who needed a meal and a chance.
I'd been here ever since. We reached the stable, and I stopped. Aster stopped too, turning to look at me with those pale green eyes—wounded, wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I understood that look. Understood the exhaustion behind it, the bone-deep certainty that kindness was just another trap waiting to spring.
"It gets easier." The words came out rough, scraping against my throat like sandpaper. I held her gaze, my pale blue eyes steady on her green ones, trying to put everything I couldn't say into those three words. My voice was low, barely above a murmur, the kind of quiet that demanded attention. "The fighting instinct. Learning when you're safe." I paused, my jawworking, the muscles in my face tight with the effort of speaking. Forced myself to give her something real. "Took me two years before I stopped reaching for a weapon every time someone walked up behind me."
Her eyes widened slightly, those pale green irises going bright with sudden understanding. I saw the recognition dawn in them—the acknowledgment of one broken thing to another. I nodded once, sharp and final, a single jerk of my chin that carried everything I couldn't put into words. Then I turned and walked away, my boots crunching on the gravel, my auburn hair catching the afternoon light. I'd said what I needed to say. The rest was up to her.
But I didn't go far.
