Tomorrow I’d patch the last run of fence, but by dusk I had nothing more left in me than to latch the barn, check on the horses, and listen to the flanks of cattle breathing in the dark. I slopped feed into the trough, my hands thawing with each shovel. Hourglass watched me from her stall, ears canted with suspicion that I was about to make her work again. I stroked her muzzle, felt the warmth, the steady pulse under her skin, and wished for a second that I could live like that—just eating oats, immune to the world’s harder edges.
I’d barely shut the barn door behind me when the wind brought that coppery smell again, iron bright and wrong even among the aromas of manure and hay. It was a trail from the barn to the base of the porch stairs. I drew closer.
On the top step, doubled over and shivering under empty feedbags, was a man. He was thick through the neck and forearms, with a face that looked familiar. I couldn’t tell how much of the red on his hands was from bloodstain or if it was frostbite.
“Goddammit,” I muttered.
I shake his shoulder. His eyes pop open, blue as creek ice.
“Jake?” More breath than voice. “They said you’d—”
I stare at him, the recognition slow and sour. The last time I’d seen my brother, he was in body armor, standing on the steps of Kabul’s airport. He was thinner now.
“Caleb,” I say.
He shivers so hard I can hear his teeth chatter. I heft him up, blood seeping through his sleeve and onto my glove. My body moves out of habit, unlocks the deadbolt, drags him over the threshold, and kicks the door shut. I get him to the couch and grab the ancient first aid kit from the kitchen.
He blinks up at me with a look that’s part apology, part accusation.
“You gotta help me,” he says.
My hands shake as I rinse the cut with whiskey, the cheap stuff I wouldn’t even use for company. He yelps, then passes out from the pain.
I want to ask a thousand questions, but part of me already knows the answers. I work on the gash in silence and tape him up. I cover him with a blanket, then head over to the window.
Outside, night settled as heavy as concrete. I sat at the kitchen table, not hungry, not tired, justwaiting for something to happen next.
In the back room, Caleb’s breath evened out. There was a peace in the silence until the phone buzzed—unknown number. I almost didn’t pick up.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Jake Brennen?” The voice was cold and female. “You don’t know me. But I know what you did last night. If you want the rest of your herd alive tomorrow, you’ll stay away from Ella.”
I could hear wind in the background. I could see the whole thing, the fence break, the scraps of longhorn hide in the wire, the look in the cattle’s eyes.
“You think you can scare me?” I said, but my voice was barely above a whisper.
“We’re not trying to scare you,” the voice replied. “We’re trying to save what’s left. And you’re in the way.”
She hung up. I let the silence settle, then stood, loaded the rifle, and sat at the kitchen window, watching the night.
Chapter 3
Ella
Somewhere around four in the morning, a snowplough blade scraping my driveway dragged me clawing out of uneasy sleep. Jake Brennen. I know it was him; he’s the only one who ever cleans my driveway. I lay in the dark, heart tripping, listening, but all I hear is the hush of snow settling on the roof and the click from the fridge in the next room. Beside me, Nora had kicked off her blankets and was cocooned around my pillow, her freckled nose peeking out. She seemed as unfazed by the night as a lunar rock.
It was the first Monday back after Christmas break, and right away, I wanted nothing more than to snuggle back down and go back to sleep. But that wasn’t happening. I hauled myself out from under the covers and went out to the kitchen to let Scout (our golden lab) out to do his business, while I brewed a cup of coffee, and then got his food dish. I frowned at it. He hadn’t touched last night’s dinner, which wasn’t like him. Usually, he gobbled it up thesecond the dish hit the floor. Concerned, I dumped the contents into the trash, washed the dish, then refilled it. He sniffed it then walked away, back to his bed in front of the gas fireplace.
I made a mental note to call the Vet if he didn’t eat his breakfast as I made my way back to Nora. She resisted being wrenched out of her dreams, batting me off until the third or fourth time I tried to dress her as she slept. She made a grunting noise, then shoved a stuffed fox down her pajama top, so that its blank, embroidered face stared out through a notch in the collar. That was Nora, stubborn, but too clever to fight directly.
After giggles and a quick snack for her, we made it out to the car by 5:30, minus two gloves (mine) and a scarf (hers), and with approximately all of my will to live. The car stank faintly of sour milk and chicken nuggets and made me briefly think that it was time to get a new car, until Nora said, “You look like a zombie.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I muttered, throttling the ignition until it turned over. “I feel like a zombie.”
“Will anyone be up when we get to the lodge?” she asked, yawning.
“Uncle Kane’s already up. He’ll drop you at school later,” I said, steering toward the main house at Wolf Creek. The headlights caught snow drifts like frozen waves across the road, interrupted by the clean path a tractor had carved through. Jake’s handiwork,maybe—all the way to the lodge, hopefully. And if he had, despite him being a grump, I would bake him an apple pie as a thank you.
