Buckshot leaned hard into his collar before settling down.
Beyond the corral, the ranch kept moving.
A truck rolled slowly past the main drive. Someone shouted near the equipment shed. A door slammed somewhere behind the row of cabins. Life, irritating and loud and stubborn as hell, kept going like it had never once asked permission.
Syx crossed the yard with a limp he was pretending didn’t exist, one hand pressed lightly to his side when he thought no one was watching. Winter followed him, arm in a sling, scowling like the fabric had personally insulted him.
“You’re favoring your left,” Winter said.
“You’re in a sling,” Syx shot back.
“Observation isn’t limited by injury.”
“Neither is bitching, apparently.”
Memphis appeared behind them with a bottle of water and shoved it into Winter’s good hand. “Drink that before you pass out and make me carry you.”
Winter glared at him. “I’ve been shot.”
“Again,” Memphis said.
“That’s not my fault.”
“Seems like a pattern.”
Sage’s mouth twitched.
Somewhere near the main house, Ashley’s voice carried—bright, animated—cutting through the open air as she talked over Cookie about something that sounded like it involved weapons and dinner at the same time.
Cookie barked back, half laughing, half offended. “You are not bringing that into my kitchen.”
“I’m just saying, it would be efficient—”
“No.”
Sage didn’t look that way.
Didn’t need to.
Jade’s funeral had been handled three days ago.
Small. Quiet. No spectacle.
Sage hadn’t said much.
Neither had Law.
Some things didn’t need a lot of words pressing against them.
Both Ashley and Rook had come back to the ranch to meet with Viper that very same day.
Near the far pasture gate, Viper crossed with a phone to his ear, expression unreadable, posture sharp enough to make even the horses mind their business. He paused long enough to look toward the corral, taking in Micah on horseback, Black beside him, Sage at the fence, Buckshot sitting on his foot like a claim.
Viper gave one nod.
Sage gave him two fingers back.
Then Viper moved on.
