I sat there in the fading light, beer going warm in my hand, and let myself feel the full weight of what had just happened. Not the hogs. Not the shots. Not even the girl.
Owen Blackwood had looked me in the eye and decided I was worth the conversation. Had listened to me talk about his daughter and hadn't reached for his rifle. Had called me "son" and invited me to dinner.
In four years of drifting, nobody had done that.
"Well, Sul." I scratched behind his ears. "Guess we're staying for supper."
His tail thumped twice. Agreement.
I finished my beer, cleaned my rifle, and walked toward the lights of the main house with my dog at my heels and my hands finally still.
16
Maggie
I found out by accident.
The morning after the attack, I was hobbling around the main house like a wounded animal, ankle wrapped tight and throbbing despite the painkillers, pride bruised worse than my body. Sleep had been elusive—fragments of dreams interrupted by pain, by the memory of tusks and fury and the crack of gunfire.
I'd given up on rest around five a.m. and dragged myself to the main house because the alternative was lying there thinking about Jack for another hour.
Momma kept pointedly leaving the crutch within reach—leaning it against the counter, propping it near the door, placing it beside whatever chair I happened to be sitting in—and I kept pointedly ignoring it. I didn't need a crutch. I needed everyone to stop looking at me like I might shatter.
The family was treating me with that careful tenderness that made me want to scream. Daddy's worried glances across the breakfast table. Wyatt's hovering presence every time I tried to do anything more strenuous than breathe. Even Hunter had softened his edges around me.
Momma handed me a cup of coffee and settled into the chair across from me. The kitchen was quiet, and I could tell she was working up to something. "How's the ankle this morning?"
"It's fine."
"Your father said he had a nice talk with Jack last night." Her voice was perfectly casual. Too casual. "Seems like they're on the same page about things."
My coffee cup froze halfway to my mouth. I set the cup down very carefully, using the motion to buy myself time. "What things?"
Momma's expression was perfectly innocent—which meant she knew exactly what she was doing. "Oh, I'm sure he'll tell you himself."
The words hit me like a slap. My brain skidded, caught, then detonated.
Jack talked to my father. About me. About us. Without my permission. Without even warning me it was coming.
"Maggie." Her voice was gentle. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing." I wasn't. Or if I was, it wasn't doing much good because my chest felt like someone had wrapped steel bands around it and was slowly tightening them.
"It was a good conversation, sweetheart. Your father was impressed. And Jack?—"
"I need to go."
I pushed back from the table too fast, and my ankle screamed in protest. The pain lanced up my leg, sharp enough to make my vision white at the edges, but I didn't care. I grabbed the crutch—fine, I grabbed the damn crutch—and started for the door.
"Maggie—"
"Later, Momma."
I found Jack near the horse barn twenty minutes later.
Howdarehe talk tomyfather.
Sully saw me coming first. His tail gave a tentative wag of greeting that I ignored completely. Jack was sitting on a hay bale near the barn entrance, mending a bridle. He looked peaceful. Content. Like a man who hadn't just torpedoed my carefully constructed life.
