Three
LEONORA
My eyelids shoot open at the rumble of an idling truck engine. I rub my face, shifting beneath the covers. Then, I hear it—a metal clank like a fence opening.
I sit up stock-straight, heart hammering behind my ribs. Not again. Throwing back the covers, I cross the room to my shotgun, bare feet cold on the creaking floorboards. Tube loaded, action closed, chamber empty, safety on. The way I always keep it.
Downstairs, I sit in the rocking chair my dad built opposite the hearth, trembling with anger and adrenaline. My ears strain for any sound that would make me chamber a round. A distress call from the herd. A barn door opening.
Instead, I’m met with silence. Heavy and wrong. No engine now. Just apprehension you can taste.
I don’t turn any lights on so I can track headlights or shadows crossing curtains by the full light of the moon.
Above me, the stairs squeak and pop. I look up catching sight of my new ranch hand. Still too handsome, even by the soft glimmer of lunar light. Burgundy hair turned dark and dangerous, eyes warily surveying every exit, each access point before coming back to me.
Pine sap and oiled leather wrap around me as he draws closer, face unreadable but taut. Crouching next to me, he whispers in velvety tones, “What’d you hear?”
I let out a sigh I didn’t know I was holding. “A truck engine and then a sound like someone was opening a fence. It’s been like this for weeks.”
He ruffles his hair, jaw tightening between his ruddy beard. “Better check it out then.”
“Not alone. We go together.”
He nods once.
“Let me just grab a coat and boots. Do you need a shotgun?”
“No, ma’am.”
I glance over my shoulder, arching a brow.
“Always pack. Never know.”
Outside, a new coat of powder dusts the expansive pastures, glowing with white light.
“Fresh tracks,” Arlo says, bending to touch the imprints. “Same as by the trough.”
“My neighbor, I’d wager.”
He grimaces. “Trespassing?”
“Yep, and maybe more.”
“You two fighting?”
I shake my head, lips tightening into a thin line. “Not yet… but definitely coming.”
“Over?”
“He wants my water. And up here, water means land,” I whisper, breath catching in my throat at the distant sound of cattle.
Arlo instinctively puts himself in front of me and the noise, his body moving lithely like someone used to patrolling the dark with a weapon.
Anger floods me, voice trembling as I vow, “If Martin does anything to my herd.”
“Want to take a truck up?” Arlo asks, nodding toward the winter pasture.
“Truck’ll spook him. I want proof.”
