The shaking came when I was behind the equipment barn, alone except for Sully.
It always came. The killing was instinct. The body did what it was trained to do. But afterward, when the threat was gone, and the world went quiet, my nervous system presented the bill.
My hands started first. Then my forearms. Then my whole body—a fine, deep tremor that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the distance between a man's aim and Maggie's spine.
Three feet. The third hog had been three feet from Maggie's back.
I sat on an overturned feed crate and let it wash through me. Didn't fight it. I just had to sit in it. Let the body do its math. Let the adrenaline metabolize and the cortisol drain and the animal part of my brain accept that it was over.
Sully pressed into my side, his head heavy on my knee. He knew this. He'd seen Brad go through it—had been trained to ground a man in exactly this way, body contact and warmth and the unspoken promise that someone was there.
"Good boy," I murmured, my voice uneven. My hands found his ears. Held on.
I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for the tremors to fade. Long enough for Owen Blackwood to find me.
He came around the corner of the equipment barn without hurry, two beers in hand. He didn't ask if I was okay. Didn't comment on finding me here. He just held out a bottle.
"Thought you could use this."
I took it. "Thank you, sir."
"Owen." He settled onto a hay bale nearby. "I think we're past 'sir' after today."
He cracked his own beer and took a long pull, eyes on the horizon. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"Hell of a day," Owen said finally.
"Yes, sir." I caught myself. "Owen."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Wyatt's been talking about it all afternoon. Still trying to work out how you made that first shot."
"Training. Instinct. Bit of luck."
"Wasn't luck." Owen's voice was quiet but certain. "I've been shooting guns my whole life, and I've never seen anyone make a shot like that." He turned to look at me then. "I've seen men with training freeze when it matters. You didn't freeze. You moved like you've done it before."
I met his eyes. "I have."
Owen nodded slowly. He wasn't the type to pry into a man's service record.
"Rangers," he said. Not a question—Wyatt must’ve told him.
"Yes. Four years. Two deployments. Honorable discharge." I gave him the basics because he deserved them. "I left the service about four years ago. Been working ranches since."
"Why ranches?"
I took a pull of the beer. Let the question sit for a moment.
"Because the land doesn't ask you about the things you've done. It just needs you to show up and do the work."
Owen was quiet with that for a while.
"Well," he said finally. "Thank you for your service. I mean that." He took a drink. "And I'm glad you found your way here."
The silence stretched again. Comfortable. I could feel the conversation shifting, and I wasn't going to rush it. Owen Blackwood had something else to say. He'd get there in his own time.
"My daughter," he said. "You and her.” Not quite a question. More like a statement waiting for confirmation.
I met his eyes directly. There was no point in denying it. I respected Owen—and Maggie—too much to hide it. "Yes."
