But I don’t want to, not until I know what happens to the baby.
He sets the calf on a bed of hay, his breath ragged, jaw clenched against the pain in his own torn arm.
“Grandpa would’ve shot him,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “But some things deserve a fighting chance.”
He grabs the first-aid kit, kneeling next to the calf and making quick work of cleaning and bandaging the wound. I kneel beside him, the scene too intimate, like I’m watching something I shouldn’t.
The calf shivers and bleats, then stills when the bandaging ends.
“Repack the kit?” he asks, like he can’t get rid of me. “Need to get warm milk in him.”
That’s when I notice his arm. The one he snagged earlier. No longer bleeding through torn fabric. Instead, the laceration looks half-knitted, more pale scar than angry wound. And shimmering with strange ink.
I catch his shoulder before he can turn away. “Your arm?—”
He jerks free. “It’s nothing.”
Our eyes lock.
“But it was bleeding before. I saw you snag it.”
“Guess it changed its mind.”
We’re too close. And I have too many questions to move.
The barn creaks against a gust of wind, lantern light fighting to fill the darkening space.
He inhales sharply, blinking hard like he can’t believe his vision. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The whole barn seems to listen.
“Don’t,” he whispers, eyes dropping to my mouth.
My breath stutters.
Lightning flashes through the open loft window, and he’s on his feet, shaking, furious.
“You should go, Josephine.”
I rise, reluctantly, eyes training on the baby. Body feeling something else entirely. The air is charged—alive—the barn leaning into the storm.
“Right,” I manage, though my voice sounds far away, not mine at all.
Rain hammers the roof. Wind howls through the eaves. Behind me, lightning splits the sky, and for an instant his silhouette flashes against it—head bowed, shoulders bent, as if the storm itself is breaking through him.
Then, I remember. My journal in Winnie’s saddle bag. “Sorry,” I mutter, annoyed by the breathiness of my voice as I approach the mare, sliding a hand over her back before I go for my journal.
He tips his hat, jaw unyielding.
Wind threads through wires, pushing me along as I sprint for the ranch house.
Patterns surround me as I near the porch. The snort of a horse, the steady pump of my heart, the splattering of rain. Inside, I hear the hiss of the radio.
Then, silence.
Grandpa has a headache. He decides to lie down for a nap.
Grandma hums an old hymn. I can’t place the name, but the tune somehow matches the low note of the range.
