The truck rounds the corner, and then I see it. The wreckage. The disaster.
The barn fire wasn’t enough for whoever’s messing with us.
Equipment is scattered across the yard, some of it crushed, others upended and twisted beyond recognition.
The once neat, orderly grounds are now a warzone.
The headlights catch the damage, highlighting every inch of destruction, and my stomach drops.
I slam the brakes, throwing the truck into park, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not yet.
Sawyer curses beside me, his usual calm shattered. “What the hell happened here?”
I don’t have an answer. I can’t even begin to process it all. The ranch, our home, has been violated. Ripped apart in a way that can’t be fixed.
I get out of the truck, boots hitting the dirt with a thud as I take in the devastation. This ranch, a symbol of everything we worked for, of everything we are, is now unrecognizable.
But it’s not just the buildings or the twisted equipment that gets to me. No. It’s the silence. No restless shifting in the pens. Just the wind whipping through the wreckage. And that’s when it hits me—the animals.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
They’re not here.
They’ve gotten loose in the mess.
Sawyer’s already out of the truck, scanning the damage with an unsettling calm. But even he knows we can’t waste any more time.
“We need to round them up.”
He’s right. The ranch animals are the heart of this place. Without them, we’re nothing.
They’re scattered, panicked, likely in danger of running into the road or getting tangled in the debris. They’re as much a part of this place as we are, and it’s our responsibility to get them back where they belong.
I head toward the run-in sheds, the smaller stables we use when the main barn’s full, moving fast, adrenaline kicking in.I don’t know how long we have before things get even worse. Before whoever did this decides to come back and finish the job.
I spot movement—a dark mass shifting near one of the pens.
“Got one!” I shout over my shoulder to Sawyer, who’s already halfway to the paddock, trying to calm a few of the horses.
I grab the nearest rope, looping it around the neck of a stubborn bull who’s pacing back and forth near the barn. His eyes are wild, and he’s snorting like a freight train.
It’s a dangerous situation. This bull could turn on us if we’re not careful.
The bull’s snorting grows louder, the force of his breath hot in the night as I struggle to keep the rope taut. His wild eyes lock onto me, and I feel the adrenaline surge, my heart racing in time with his frantic pace.
I can’t afford to back down. Not now.
“Easy, buddy,” I mutter, trying to calm myself, but the beast isn’t having any of it.
He bucks against the rope, dragging me a few steps before I can get a better grip. Behind me, I hear Sawyer as he moves to help with the horses, but I can’t take my eyes off the bull.
The ground beneath me feels unstable, broken wood and crushed equipment scattered. My boots sink into the dirt with every step, and the whole world’s sinking along with me.
“Reid! Get the bull in the pen now!” Sawyer calls.
The urgency in his tone snaps me back to reality, and with one final tug, I get the bull to move, heading him toward the pen. His stubborn resistance makes every second stretch to an eternity, but somehow, I get him settled.
I exhale a sharp breath, wiping the sweat from my forehead. My entire body is vibrating with tension, but I can’t let it show. There’s no time for panic.
