I forced myself to take a breath through my nose. “I’m fine, why does everyone think I need Wyatt Hargrove to babysit me?”
Brooke shook her head. “You’re stubborn.”
“I am not.”
The rest of the afternoon passed with the kind of frantic normal that made your brain quiet. Animals didn’t care about Colin. They didn’t care about whispers. They cared about pain and comfort and hands that didn’t shake.
But my phone buzzed twice more, and each time I felt it like a pressure point.
Colin: You always look prettier when you’re mad.
When the last appointment left and Brooke flipped the sign to Closed, River’s Edge exhaled its last bit of daylight.
The ranch should’ve felt like relief, instead, I felt exposed. When I pulled up, the gate wasn’t latched. I stopped the truck so hard my seatbelt bit into my shoulder. For a second, I just stared at it, heart pounding, mouth dry.
“That’s not possible,” I said out loud, as I climbed out slowly, scanning the yard. The house sat dark. The barn loomed. Nothing moved except the wind pushing through dry grass.
I latched it hard enough to rattle the chain. Then I did it again, checking like repetition could make it true. My phone buzzed. I didn’t look at it. I shoved it deeper into my pocket and headed for the barn.
Inside, the air was cooler, thick with hay and dust. The horses shifted in their stalls, quiet huffs and hoof scuffs.The mare in the corner stall lifted her head the moment I entered, ears flicking, restless.
“Hey,” I murmured, moving toward her.
She tossed her head once, then pawed at the bedding. Not violent, not panicked, just wrong.
I checked her feed, and it was untouched, and she’d barely drank all day. My pulse tightened.
“Please be okay,” I whispered, running a hand down her neck. Her skin twitched under my fingers. She swung her head toward her belly like something irritated her from the inside.
I stepped back, watching her posture, her breathing. She shifted her weight, then pawed again, sharper this time.
“No,” I said, more firmly. I pulled my phone out, thumb hovering. Wyatt’s name was there, right where it always was. A simple button. A simple call. I stared at it until my eyes burned.
Then I locked the screen and shoved the phone away.
“I can handle this,” I said to the mare, like she understood pride.
She lowered her head and blew out a breath that sounded too heavy.
I went to the tack room for a lead rope. When I came back, the mare was down on her knees, trying to roll.
“Shit,” I breathed, dropping the rope and rushing to her.
She heaved, legs scrabbling, eyes wild for the first time.
My hands went cold.
I grabbed her halter, my voice tight. “Up. Get up. Come on.”
She surged, half rising, then tried to drop again.
I pulled, bracing my feet, trying to be stronger than panic.
My phone buzzed again in my pocket, like the world had a cruel sense of timing.
I fought with the mare, breath coming too fast, sweat already breaking on my skin. She lurched, and for a second Isaw Ray’s hands in my mind, steady and sure, and I hated that I didn’t have them.
She tried to go down again.
