Somewhere outside, a rooster goes off.
One of the barn cats threads between my boots, tail up, and disappears into the feed room.
The coffee’s fully cold now. I drink it anyway.
By the time the sun clears the tree line, I’ve fed and watered the quarantine horses, mucked the stalls in the main barn, and checked the fencing along the south pasture where one of the older rescues keeps testing the bottom rail.
The ranch runs on routine, and I’m the one who sets the clock.
First one in. Last one out. Every day for years now.
The Shotgun Saints compound sits on one-hundred thousand acres of Texas Hill Country—rolling limestone terrain,live oaks, mesquite, a seasonal creek that runs through the eastern section when it bothers to rain.
The clubhouse and main buildings are on the south side, closer to the roads, but not as close as Grace’s vet clinic.
Residences scattered throughout the property for brothers who live on-site.
Barns, round pens, and pastures on the north end where our rescue operation runs.
It’s not a small operation anymore.
What started as me pulling a couple horses from a kill pen auction six years ago has turned into something real—thirty-plus on the property at any given time, a proper quarantine setup, a vet on staff.
Part of me thinks that Phantom agreed to pay Grace’s vet school if it meant she would oversee the cattle operation and take care of the livestock here on Sharp Shooter Ranch.
She has a busy vet clinic, but makes time to take care of the animals here.
One of my Prez’s daughters, but also Shadow’s wife.
She was working a lot more hours until recently, until the pregnancy really started showing and slowing her down.
Now she’s on the ranch full-time, except for a few emergency calls.
Anyone who needs routine care has agreed to wait until she’s back from her leave, or have a vet friend of hers tend to their animals while she’s out.
I see the lights on in their cabin as I walk from the south pasture back toward the main barn.
Warm yellow glow through the kitchen window.
Shadow’s truck parked outside.
The porch light they leave on all night now because Grace gets up three times to pee and Shadow hovers behind her likeshe’s going to trip on something between the bedroom and the bathroom.
The man survived exile, a rescue mission, and a shootout with the Copperhead Kings.
Yet his pregnant wife has him more rattled than all of it combined.
I watch the kitchen window for a beat longer than I should.
I can see them moving around inside—Grace at the counter, Shadow behind her, his hand on the small of her back as he reaches past her for something.
She leans into him without thinking about it.
Automatic. The easy choreography of two people who share space like they were built for it.
Something twists low in my chest.
Not jealousy. Not exactly.
