The line clicked dead.
I stared out over the pastures, watching the sunlight drain away like someone wringing the sky dry. Poet was a golden streak near the barn. Stephy’s braid flashed when she turned her head, brushing the mare’s coat.
She was safe. Right here. Where nothing could get to her.
I ran through the security checklist automatically:
Perimeter locked.
Cameras checked.
Motion sensors armed.
Dogs roving between the houses. Two Blackwood families within shouting distance. Fifteen acres of private land between Stephy and the outside world.
She was protected.
But the nagging worry wouldn’t let go. That old scar inside me—the one that whispered I’d be too late again—throbbed in a slow, relentless beat.
Not her. Not this time.
Dusk rolled in. Crickets started up. The temperature dropped enough that the air held a bite.
It had been three days since Stephy's first morning outside, and Wyatt's truck rumbled up the drive just as the sun was setting. I watched from my porch as he helped Ivy out, both of them carrying covered dishes that smelled good enough to make my stomach growl from thirty feet away.
Stephy was in the barn with Poet, had been most of the afternoon. It had become her routine—morning coffee on the porch, breakfast with me, then hours with her horse. The mare had become her therapy, her anchor, her way back to herself.
"That for us?" I called out.
"Ivy insisted," Wyatt said, but his eyes were soft as he watched his girl navigate the gravel in her boots. "Said you two could probably use a real meal."
"I've been feeding her Maggie's cooking, thank you very much."
"Then she definitely needs real food," Ivy said with a grin, but her expression shifted to interest when she spotted Stephy emerging from the barn.
Stephy had Poet's lead rope in one hand, her other hand resting on the mare's neck as they walked. She'd taken to wearing my old work shirts and Maggie's hand-me-down jeans, her hair usually in a messy braid falling over her shoulder. She looked nothing like the glossy country star from the magazines. She looked better. Real.
"Hey," she said, approaching cautiously. She was still skittish around new people, even family she'd technically met while semi-conscious.
"We brought dinner," Ivy said, her voice straightforward and warm. "Wyatt made brisket. Fair warning—he made enough for twelve people. These Blackwood men don't understand portion control."
"I cook normal amounts," Wyatt protested. "Y'all just eat like birds."
"Right." Ivy rolled her eyes, then looked at Stephy with the kind of direct assessment that came from someone used to evaluating cattle. Not unkind, just practical. "You look better than when I saw you last week."
Stephy's lips quirked—not quite a smile, but close. "I feel better. And it smells amazing."
"Let me put Poet up," I said, reaching for the lead rope, but Stephy shook her head.
"I've got her. I know the routine now." She looked at Ivy and Wyatt. "Five minutes?"
"Take your time," Ivy said. "We'll set up inside."
I watched Stephy lead Poet back to the pasture, the horse following her like a devoted dog. She'd taken to the routine ofevening feeding like she'd been doing it all her life—checking water, measuring grain, making sure the gate was latched twice.
"She looks better," Wyatt observed, following my gaze.
"She's getting there."
