Marlena is eating a brisket sandwich one-handed, trying to keep her little guy chilled out.
Banshee and Bex are on the bench across from them.
Bex’s boots are off. Her feet are in Banshee’s lap.
He’s holding his beer in one hand and her ankle in the other like both things are equally necessary for his survival, which, knowing Banshee, they probably are.
Shiver’s here with his ol’ lady, Siren, for the weekend—all dark hair and trouble and the kind of smile that says she knows exactly what she's doing.
She’s tucked under his arm at the end of the table, and Shiver’s doing the thing Shiver does where he’s loud enough to be the center of attention, but his eyes keep cutting to the road like he’s waiting for something that isn’t coming.
Brothers. Ol’ ladies. Kids.
Family.
And me at the fence, watching them all.
I’m always watching. That’s the problem.
I’ve built a whole life around watching—watching horses, watching men, watching the compound for threats, the road for trouble, and the round pen for the shift in a mustang’s ear that means he’s about to decide whether I’m safe or dangerous.
Right now I’m watching the men watch Dakota.
She came out of the bunkhouse about twenty minutes ago.
Changed out of whatever she drove in wearing this morning.
Jeans. Boots. Tank top, black, nothing special about it except that it’s on her body and her body is the thing I’ve been trying not to look at for eight years.
Her hair is down. Dark blonde, long, the kind of hair that catches firelight and holds it.
She’s got a LoneStar in one hand and she’s standing by the table talking to Presley, and from where I’m standing I can see the bandage on her left knuckles.
I can’t stop staring at her. At the way she tilts her beer to make a point, the way her neck looks when she laughs.
Two of the newer prospects are here, and they’re looking right at her.
One of them—a kid named Buckley who’s been prospecting for a couple months—keeps finding reasons to walk past her end of the table.
I take a drink and count to ten.
Buckley walks past her again. She doesn’t notice him. She’s not looking at him. She’s not looking at anyone.
Except she is. Because every few minutes, her eyes cut to the fence line.
Tome.
Quick. The kind of look you’d miss if you weren’t already watching for it.
I’m always watching for it.
That’s the fucking problem.
* * *
She crosses to me around eight-thirty.
The fire’s settled into the good coals now.
