“All in a day’s work,” Winter grimaced.
All of it faded.
Sage didn’t look away from Voss.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t say a word.
Behind him, Law stayed exactly where he was.
Close.
Steady.
There were voices somewhere outside—boots, movement, someone calling out—but it didn’t touch the space inside the room.
Nothing but this moment held for one long beat.
Voss lay still.
And it was done.
Sage’s fingers loosened on the blade without him thinking about it.
Not a release. Just…less force.
The tension that had been wound tight through his shoulders didn’t snap—didn’t break—just settled, shifting into something quieter.
Law didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
The space between them stayed close. Solid. Unbroken.
More voices outside now. Closer.
Boots in the hall. Orders low and controlled.
It still didn’t reach him.
Sage’s gaze stayed where it was for another second—two—before it shifted, slow, deliberate, taking in the room like it finally existed again.
Nothing left to do.
Nothing left to take.
He didn’t look back at Voss.
And he didn’t need to.
Two weeks later…
The corral fence was warm beneath Sage’s forearms.
Late sun spilled across the ranch in slow gold, catching on dust, saddle leather, the rails, the edge of the barn roof. The day had started hot and stayed that way, but the evening was taking the bite out of it inch by inch. The air smelled like hay, horses, dry earth, and coffee someone had forgotten on the porch behind him.
Buckshot sat at his boots, tongue lolling, one spotted ear flipped inside out like he’d lost a fight with the breeze.
