Her nostrils flare. “I already told you. I’m documenting sequences. Potential instances of astronomical alignment.”
Impressive. Dangerous.
My face tightens, trying to play it off. “You mean like horoscopes?”
“No, like solstice alignments.”
Two days in, and she’s already too close to all of this.
I remove my hat, ruffling my hair. “Better ways to do that nowadays.” I nod toward the phone in her hand. Then, add, “Or if you prefer old-fashioned, you can purchase an almanac at Redfern Feed for real cheap.”
She huffs a laugh, face livid.
I don’t want to belittle her work. But I do want her to leave.
She’s smart. Too smart for this place.
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to babysit long today. I’ve got a meeting at the museum later.”
“Good.” Then, I turn without another word, forcing myself to ride without looking back.
If they see what my body’s doing every time she steps near the range, they won’t need a council vote.
The back roomof the Grange smells of dust and old tobacco. Folding chairs line a long table scarred by decades of elbows and arguments. Nothing holy about it.
Except for what we know.
Six of us sit. Ranchers to the town. Wildbloods underneath.
Mags Redfern takes the end of the table. Red and silver hair braided tight. Spine straighter than any of us.
“You called this early,” Clay mutters. “Storm patterns again?”
“Storm patterns aren’t the only ones shifting,” Mags says. Her gaze lands on me. Steady. Assessing.
My stomach drops. I keep my face neutral.
“What’s the update on the researcher?” Clay asks.
“She’s cataloging petroglyph sequences,” I say evenly. “Claims possible astronomical interest. Solstice alignment.”
A low murmur runs the length of the table.
“She step near the boundary?” another asks.
“Yes.”
“How close?”
“Close enough to feel it.”
Silence.
Mags folds her hands, face darkening. “And did the land answer?” she asks.
I hesitate. I’d hoped to avoid this kind of talk. “She didn’t go all the way.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
