Hunter appeared on foot from the brush—he'd been closer, had come through the tree line at a run, rifle up, covering ourflank without being asked. He took in the scene with his usual economy.
"Nice shooting," he said.
Wyatt was still staring at me. "You took the first shot at a gallop. Full speed. Sixty yards."
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
I met his eyes. "Army," I said. "Rangers. A long time ago."
Something changed. Not friendship—recognition.
"Rangers." He absorbed it. Nodded slowly. "That explains it."
"I got lucky."
"That wasn't luck." Owen's voice, quiet and certain.
Wyatt crouched beside Maggie, his hand finding her shoulder with a gentleness that cracked through his usual armor. "You scared the shit out of me, Mags."
"Sorry." Her voice cracked. "Not how I planned the morning."
"Let's get her home."
We worked together. I wrapped her ankle with supplies from the kit she'd packed herself—the irony not lost on either of us. Wyatt braced her while I worked. Owen kept watch. Hunter retrieved the mare, who'd stopped running a quarter mile south and stood lathered and wild-eyed in the pasture.
Getting Maggie mounted was a process. She insisted she could do it herself, which lasted three seconds before the pain turned her face gray and her knee buckled.
"Maggie." Just her name. Quiet.
She looked at me. Something cracked open in her expression. Not fear of the hogs. Fear of how close we were. How familiar. Of what her family had just watched.
"Let us help," I said.
She nodded once.
Wyatt and I lifted her into the saddle—careful, coordinated, neither willing to let her fall again.
The ride home was slow. I stayed beside her without crowding—close enough to catch her if she listed, far enough for dignity. Every jolt drew her mouth into a hard line, but she didn't ask to stop. Didn't complain.
Owen rode point. Wyatt flanked her other side. Hunter brought up the rear with the vigilance of a man who'd decided nothing else was getting within a hundred yards of his family today.
When Maggie's horse stumbled on uneven ground, and she hissed through her teeth, my hand reached out—steadied her knee for one brief moment, then pulled back.
She looked at me. Surprise. Gratitude. And something raw enough underneath that I had to look away.
Sully came sprinting from the barn the moment we rode through the gate. He reached us in seconds, pressing against my leg the moment I dismounted, his whole body vibrating.
I dropped to one knee and buried my hands in his fur. Let his warmth ground me. He whined softly, nosing at my hands—checking for injury, for blood. The way Brad had trained him to do.
"I'm okay, Sul," I murmured. "We're okay."
When I rose, Maggie was watching. Still on her horse, Wyatt preparing to help her down. But her eyes were on me—on the way I'd knelt in the dirt to hold my dog, on the gentleness I didn't hide with Sully.
Then the family closed around her, and the moment passed.
Louisa appeared with the brisk efficiency of a mother who'd been counting minutes since dawn. Ice. Phone calls. Orders were delivered in a voice that was warm and absolutely non-negotiable. Maggie was already arguing with all of them, and I stepped back. This was family. Their people were safe. I was the hired hand who'd done his job—anything beyond that was a conversation for later.
I helped where I could. Unsaddled horses. Cleaned tack. Helped Hunter coordinate the hands heading out to deal with the hog carcasses. Kept myself useful while the adrenaline drained.
