“Careful, old man! Don’t go far,” I call out, but I can't help the quiet chuckle that escapes my throat. He looks like a puppy again, entirely thrilled by the chase.
Rue steps up beside me, slipping her hand into mine. Her fingers are warm, and our palms slot together like they were custom-made for it.
We walk aimlessly toward the back of the property, following the sound of Bullet sniffing through the tall grass. A low, rhythmic bleating sound catches my attention near a wire enclosure attached to the side of the rusted barn.
We walk up to the fence line. A pair of curious goats trots up to the wire, their rectangular pupils assessing us in the moonlight.
Rue laughs softly, reaching her hand out. One of the goats immediately presses its coarse head against her palm, begging for a scratch.
“I guess Bill likes goats,” she laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
I stand there, watching her pet a goat in the middle of nowhere, the dog happily digging a hole in the dirt nearby. It is the most bizarre, domestic, and utterly peaceful moment of my entire life.
And I fully commit it to my memory, because if there’s one thing I know about my life is that the good times never last.
“Come on,” Rue tugs me back toward the farmhouse.
I let her lead the way, breathing in the fresh air, and trying not to let my mind wander too far from the confines of this place. Rue plops down on the wooden steps, and I take a seat beside her.
Bullet finally tires himself out, trotting up the steps to collapse heavily across Rue's feet, letting out a long, satisfied sigh.
I lean back against the porch railing, pulling Rue against my side. She rests her head on my chest, her hand resting flat against my stomach. The silence of the farm wraps around us, completely void of sirens, news anchors, or the crushing weight of the law.
I rest my chin on the top of her head, staring out into the dark fields.
This is what a normal life would feel like. Sitting on a porch. Watching the dog. Holding the woman you love.
And goddamn, I don’t want to leave it behind.
36
RUE
I stareup at the night sky, the stars littered across in a way that’s familiar but also foreign. It reminds me of the night Noah and I walked to Glenrio. There were so many stars above us then.
And now we’re right back under the Texas skies.
I sit on the top step of the back porch, my knees pulled to my chest to ward off the night chill. The silence of the property is something else, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. It’s peaceful, but I do miss the way the wind whispers through the trees.
I miss the trees.
But I push that away. Out in the yard, Bullet is sniffing the perimeter of the rusted wire goat enclosure. Just hours ago, he was a puppy again, sprinting through the brush and chasing birds. But now, as he turns and slowly plods his way back toward the porch, the burst of youth is entirely gone.
He reaches the bottom of the wooden steps and stops. He lifts his front paw, hesitating. His back legs tremble visibly in the pale moonlight. He lets out a soft, frustrated whine, unable to muster the strength to climb.
A sharp, icy pang of panic grips my chest.
“Hey,” I gasp, scrambling down the steps. “I've got you, buddy.”
I scoop his thirty-pound body into my arms. He feels heavier tonight, his joints stiff and protesting as I pull him against my chest. I bury my face in his soft, floppy ear, forcing the rising lump in my throat back down.
He just overdid it.He chased those birds too hard, and now he’s sore.That’s all.He just probably needs to rest.
I carry him up the stairs and back inside, gently setting him down on the faded living room rug. He immediately circles twice and collapses into a tight, exhausted ball.
Giving him one last pet, I leave him to sleep and follow the faint, unexpected scent of roasted coffee down the short hallway.
Only a single, dim bulb is on over the kitchen table. Noah is sitting beneath it, shirtless, wearing the fresh pair of jeans from his duffel bag. His dark hair is a messy, sleep-tousled halo, and the stark white bandage on his left bicep is the only thing ruining the picture of perfection.
