She sets the brush down, turns, and walks toward the door. Sunlight spills in as she opens it, catching in her hair again. She pauses with one hand on the frame.
“Levi?”
I don’t answer right away.
“Yeah.”
“You’re wrong about one thing.”
I wait. She looks back at me.
“You don’t fix things by keeping your distance.”
Then she steps outside. And the barn feels quieter without her.
Too quiet.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the empty doorway. The horse shifts beside me, nudging my shoulder like he’s looking for something that isn’t there anymore.
“Yeah,” I mutter. I get it. I reach up, resting my hand against his neck—solid and grounded.
Safe.
The way things are supposed to be.
But for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like enough.
Chapter
Four
DAKOTA
Night presses in on the ranch. Quiet. Cozy.
Crickets chirp from the long grass where the pastures begin. A chaos of tiny bodies locked in one pursuit, finding mates.
They’re proof of this place. That looks can be deceiving.
Fields that stretch into forever, lonely and foreboding, hide endless activity. Not empty—never empty. Not even at night, when what runs wild during the day settles into something watchful beneath a sunless sky.
In the distance, coyotes call. Strange vocalizations. Almost otherworldy.
Lanterns flicker around the main house. Someone’s set up a fire pit just past the fence line, flames licking up into the dark while guests gather with drinks and easy laughter.
It should feel like a vacation. It almost does. Until I spot him.
Levi stands off to the side, just outside the circle of light, one shoulder braced against a fence post like he’s here out of obligation and counting the minutes until he can leave.
He doesn’t belong to this part of the ranch.
He belongs to the spaces in between. The quiet edges. The places where things aren’t put on display.
I take my drink and walk straight toward him. Of course I do.
“You always hide out here?” I ask.
His gaze shifts to me, slow, measuring.
