Eventually, hunger crept back in, and we found ourselves pulled toward the promise of lunch. We grabbed something casual, sitting outdoors, plates of food spread between us as the afternoon drifted by. Conversations ebbed and flowed—from silly to sincere and back again.
At some point, Beth leaned back in her chair, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “You know what I love about you?”
I blinked. “This feels like a setup.”
“That you don’t rush yourself,” she said. “Even when everyone else thinks you should.”
Natasha nodded. “You listen. You observe. You feel things deeply.”
I swallowed. “Sometimes that just feels like … hesitation.”
“Sometimes,” Natasha said, “it’s discernment.”
The word sat with me.
Discernment.
We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly—ducking into shaded side streets, stopping for iced coffee, taking photos we’d probably never post but would look back on someday and remember exactly how this felt.
By the time we headed back toward The Palmetto Rose, the sun had begun to dip just enough to soften the edges of everything.
My feet ached pleasantly. My skin felt warm. My mind felt … open.
As we climbed the stairs to our room, Beth groaned. “I need a shower and a nap.”
Natasha smiled at me. “And then?”
“And then,” I said, feeling something spark low in my chest, “we see what tonight brings.”
4
WYATT
Dawn came cold and sharp, the kind of morning that bit at exposed skin and turned breath to vapor.
I found the first coyote fifty yards past the fence line, exactly where I'd dropped it last night. Clean shot. Through and through, the exit wound larger than my fist. The others were scattered in a loose pattern—nature's way of organizing predators who'd gotten too bold and paid the price.
Seven total.
I dragged them one by one to the truck, their bodies stiffening with rigor mortis, fur matted with blood that had dried black in the night. They weren't heavy—coyotes never were, all wire and sinew—but their weight felt significant, anyway. Like I was carrying something more than just dead animals.
The sun was barely clearing the horizon when I threw the last one into the bed, metal rattling as it landed with a hollow thunk. I stood there for a moment, wiping my hands on my jeans, looking back toward the ranch. Smoke still rose from the chimney, gray against the pale morning sky. The Cuthberts were awake. Starting their day the way my father had startedhis—before the sun demanded it, before the heat made work unbearable.
I turned away and climbed into the cab.
Valentine was already stirring by the time I rolled back through, the town waking slowly like an old dog stretching in the sun. Early risers heading to the post office, farmers stopping at the feed store before the real heat set in, their trucks still dusty from yesterday's work. I drove straight to the edge of town, pulling up outside a small workshed that looked like it had been built in the fifties and never updated—corrugated metal roof, weathered wood siding, windows clouded with decades of dust.
Roy Pacheco stood in the open doorway, coffee mug in hand, watching me approach like he'd known I was coming.
"Wyatt Dane," he said, voice gravelly from decades of cigarettes he'd quit ten years too late. "Heard you might be around."
"Roy."
He nodded toward the truck bed. "How many?"
"Seven."
His eyebrows lifted, deep lines creasing his forehead. "Busy night."
