All I know is what Chace barked across the yard a half hour ago. A line cut. Cattle missing. East pasture. That's it. No numbers, no details, just the kind of clipped urgency that turns your stomach cold.
One day after the fight that left everything broken between us.
One day after I couldn't answer his question: are you staying or not?
And now we're riding out together anyway, because the cattle don't care about our problems.
I glance past Blaze's neck and see Addie and Chace riding up from the barn, their horses tossing their heads, restless. Addie's ponytail flashes against the fading sky.
"East fence makes more sense," Addie is saying. "If they slipped through there, they'd push downhill, not up."
Chace snorts. "You don't know that. Whoever cut it might've been herding them toward the creek."
They're still bickering when Eli steps forward, his jaw tight, eyes already scanning the horizon like he's measuring the land.
"We're heading south," he says, sharp enough to slice clean through them. "Tree line first. Then we work our way back."
No debate. No discussion.
Just orders.
Addie lifts a brow but says nothing. Chace tips his hat, already turning his horse.
I feel that old pull settle in—the way Eli steps in and the world adjusts around him, everyone falling into place. Including me.
I don't say anything either.
We start riding.
The land rolls out in endless waves of gold and green, broken by dark stands of pine and the silver thread of the creek winding through the low points.
We split up at the first creek crossing. Addie and Chace take the east ridge, Eli and I follow the creek bed south. The theory is simple: cattle need water. If they bolted through that cut fence, they'd eventually circle back looking for it.
But the creek is empty. No tracks. No fresh dung. No sign they've been through here at all.
For a moment, I think I see movement on the ridge—dark shapes against the grass. My heart kicks.
"There," I say, pointing.
Eli follows my gaze, then shakes his head. "Shadows."
He's right. Just wind through tall grass.
We keep moving, following the creek as it curves east. My legs ache from hours in the saddle, thighs burning. I take a swig from my water bottle—almost empty—and taste dust.
Still nothing.
We round a bend and I pull Blaze to a stop.
"Wait," I say.
Eli turns, impatient. "What?"
I dismount. The grass here is trampled, bent in a direction that doesn't match the wind. Fresh. I crouch, fingers brushing a partial print in soft earth.
"They came through here," I say. "Maybe six, eight hours ago."
Eli rides back and looks down. His jaw tightens, but he nods.
