“I wanted to be with you.”
I couldn’t say I didn’t want the same thing.
I gestured to him. “Come here.”
Jojo padded down the stairs. When he reached me, I tucked him into my chest, keeping myself between him and the kitchen. “You can lay down in the living room.”
He pressed his face into my shirt, breathing deep.
And in that moment, I knew exactly what I was fighting for.
After Jojo was settled on the couch with his eyes closed—blissfully unaware of the carnage in the kitchen—I went outback, found Dan crouched by the burn barrel, cigarette stub glowing like a firefly between his fingers.
He looked up at my approach. “You bury them?”
I hefted the shoebox, already heavy with blood and guilt. “Thought maybe you’d want to take them for evidence.”
Dan sighed, took the box, and set it in the trunk of his cruiser. “Not sure I’ll get much from them. But it’s the right thing to do. Especially with Victor.”
I let the name hang.
“He’s connected, Steele. In ways you can’t imagine.” Dan ground out the cigarette, not meeting my eyes. “Local council, bank, hell, his wife’s related to the state water board.”
“I’m not worried about politics,” I said. “I’m worried about escalation.”
Dan’s jaw flexed. “You ever get tired of it? Always having to out-move the other guy?”
“No,” I said. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
He nodded, like that was the answer he expected. “That omega inside. You in it for the long haul?”
I looked at him, and for once I didn’t hedge or joke. “He’s carrying my child. It doesn’t get more serious.”
Dan’s posture shifted, the edges of his authority softening just a hair. “Congratulations,” he said, and meant it. “But you know what this looks like to Hargrove? Not just a rival rancher. A permanent stake in the ground.”
I grinned, all teeth. “Good. Maybe he’ll think twice before fucking with me again.”
Dan gave a soft snort, then looked me over, slow and appraising. “You sure you don’t want backup?”
“I’ll call if I need it.”
He slapped the side of the truck, then climbed in. Before he closed the door, he leaned out and said, “Don’t let him see you coming. And don’t let him near the kid.”
He meant Jojo, but also the one inside him.
When he was gone, and the dust of his cruiser had faded back into the white static of morning, I stood alone by the barrel and stared at the kitchen window. My own reflection looked like a stranger, something warped by the old glass.
I went inside and started to clean.
First, the mop and bleach. Then rags, then a toothbrush for the seams. Every drop of blood, every fleck of tissue, every ghost trace. I worked it methodically, just like clearing a jammed rifle or packing a wound.
The kitchen floor was pitted, old hardwood full of scars, but I made it shine. I spent a solid hour on my knees, feeling the ache in my busted leg and letting it fuel me instead of slow me down.
As I scrubbed, my brain mapped out every possible avenue of attack, every vulnerability. The ground floor windows—too easy to jimmy open. The attic vent—large enough for a grown man if he knew how to squeeze. The locks—ancient, purely decorative. The horses—predictable, all in the barn at the same time every day. The river—could mask footsteps, cover a scent trail.
The list kept growing, like a tumor.
I went over the pantry twice, then rewiped the counter, and then stood back and surveyed the result. Clean, not just of blood, but of all the sticky reminders of failure. It was almost as if it had never happened.
