"He's going to make it legal," Newt mumbled. "He said he would. He said I was—I was sick, that they'd make you give me up. That no one couldn't protect me, not from him."
I didn't bother with platitudes. I just stroked his hair again, rhythmic, like calming a spooked horse. My other hand went to the inside pocket of my shirt, where the knife was sheathed and ready. The safety of this house was an illusion, and I was done pretending otherwise.
"Newt," I said, flat and level, "Look at me."
He didn't, at first. Then he did, and I let him see the truth. The cold, the calculation, the hard edge behind every soft word I'd given him so far.
"You're not going anywhere," I said. "Not unless you decide to. I don't care if he brings the law, the goddamn National Guard, or a firing squad. He sets foot on this property, I'll put him down."
Harlow, still at parade rest a few feet away, didn't flinch. He just nodded, once. Ransom, who had reentered and was loitering in the archway, grinned like Christmas had come early.
Newt's breathing slowed, marginally. The shaking lessened, but didn't vanish. "He'll find a way," he whispered, voice going thin. "He always does."
I leaned in, until our foreheads were almost touching. "Tea first," I said. "Then I deal with the rest of this shit."
I dragged him upright by the wrist, gentle as I could manage, and marched him to the kitchen. Harlow followed, silent as a bodyguard, and took up station at the door.
The rest of the house had gone to ground, but every McKenzie eye was on us, I could feel it. I made Newt sit, planted him at the end of the table where the view of every exit was clear.
I set the kettle on and grabbed a mug from the rack. It was the chipped one, the one that had survived three generations of men too stubborn to throw anything away. I poured the water, dropped the bag in, and shoved it across the table to him.
He clutched the mug in both hands, knuckles bone-white. When he sipped, the tremor in his fingers was barely visible, but I saw it.
I saw everything.
I pulled out a chair and sat at his side, never letting my body get further than an arm’s reach from him. My left hand rested on the table, open, palm up. After a long minute, he set the mug down and put his own hand in mine, like he’d just remembered how.
We sat like that, not talking, while the rest of the house pretended not to listen. I catalogued every shadow out the window, every noise from the yard.
I replayed the encounter with the sheriff a dozen times, memorized the cadence of Bridger’s voice, the way he’d stood just a little too close, the way the sheriff had let his eyes linger on Newt’s bruises for a half-beat too long.
It was a threat assessment, pure and simple. Two targets—one predictable, one wildcard. The sheriff had limits to what he could do. He liked the McKenzies more than he hated us, and that would buy some time.
But the father was a different animal. He wouldn't come at us straight; he'd try to outmaneuver, use leverage, maybe the courts, maybe something dirtier.
Fine. I'd seen it all before. I had answers for every scenario.
I was in my own head, planning three moves ahead, when Newt finally spoke. "Why are you doing this?" he said, staring into the mug like it might spill secrets if he looked hard enough.
I didn't answer right away. I wanted to say, because I can, because it's what I do, because the sight of you shaking like that makes me want to set the world on fire just to keep you warm.
Instead, I settled for, "Because I said I would."
Newt snorted, a shaky, aborted laugh. He still didn't look at me, but his hand gripped tighter. "You don't even know me," he whispered.
"Don't need to," I replied.
He did look then, eyes red but clear. "You think you can fix this?" His voice was bitter, but there was something behind it—hope, or maybe just the need for someone to lie to him convincingly.
"Not interested in fixing," I said, voice flat. "Just making sure nobody breaks you again."
That was the truth, the only one that mattered.
The house was quiet. The kettle clicked off, and the radio in the other room played a low hum of country static.
Newt drank his tea, slower now. He didn't let go of my hand.
I let my other hand drift to his shoulder, thumb tracing the edge of his collarbone through the thin fabric. He was fragile, but not breakable. Not anymore.
