The barrel of her gun comes up, eyes crinkling behind the scope. “Didn’t say you could do that, mister.”
“Trespassing. Well within your right to shoot me. But figure you’d have done it by now.” I drop my hands, watching the flash of anger that makes her pink cheeks flush.
Her face is heart-shaped, drawn at the point in a cleft. It pulls at something behind my sternum I thought long dead.
It comes again. Another surge tears through the tattoos beneath the duster. I grunt, trying to latch the feeling down. Bury it beneath decades of self-deprivation.
Not discipline. Something darker than that. More dangerous than Mags could ever comprehend.
“Heard about a bull. Drained of blood and organ-less. Figure I’d check for myself.”
Her forehead creases, face steady behind the gun. A puff of air escapes her lips. “But you’re not from around here. How?”
I remove my hat, rubbing the heel of my hand over my forehead. “Was from here. Before you.”
“How do you mean?” Her chin trembles almost imperceptibly. A hundred years ago, a tell like that was enough to take a man down in cold blood.
My forehead furrows. “Friend of Mags.”
“Thank God,” she says, lowering the weapon and stepping closer.
The throbbing instantly intensifies. Rips clean through me. I step back instinctively, hand clutching my chest. “Don’t.” It comes out too hard.
She arches an eyebrow, nostrils flaring. Eyes dropping for one second too long to my mouth.
A pressure builds in my head, but it’s nothing compared to the one lower. An ancient, unsatisfied longing. Should’ve died ages ago. Thought it had.
“Does she know… I mean, do you have any clue what may have happened?”
I shake my head, truly at a loss. “Tell me more about what you saw. What you noticed.”
Her eyes wander to the spot beneath the tree where the shadow presses thicker. “Like I said. No blood. Missing organs. No flies would land on it. And the smell…” She pauses.
“God awful?” I offer.
She shifts the weight on her feet, curvy body too full and inviting beneath white floral cotton and navy blue denim. “None at all.”
I rub a hand over my neck, trying to tamp down whatever this feeling is. This reaction to the range. This reaction to her.
“Lightning, maybe?”
Her mouth quirks, brows knitting. Entirely unconvinced.
“Insects… or a predator you haven’t considered?”
She grimaces, frowning. Disappointment flashes as if she expects more, better from one of Mags’s people. Don’t have the will to tell her I’ve never been one of them.
“Can I have a look at the carcass?”
“Too late. Already called it into the authorities.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Unspoken rules no longer apply, it seems. “Pity,” I grunt.
“I have pictures,” she offers reaching into her back pocket and digging out a phone. In the distance, I see her mount, a buttery Palomino, tail swishing against flies.
“Not the same,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my beard, feeling its wiry thickness, hearing the sound of rough hair against rougher flesh.
“The authorities… aren’t how we handle things out here,” I say matter-of-factly. She should know better.
