I watch her breathe. In and out. In and out.
I can do this. I can be the wall. I can be the shield.
I can’t give her my heart. But I can give her this. I can give her my presence. I can give her my protection.
For now, that has to be enough.
I close my eyes. The smell of her fills the room. It’s not the scent of the past, not the ghost of memory. It’s the scent of the present.
Sick, and frightened, and mine.
I breathe it in.
And I stay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tex
I didn’t meanto see it.
Last night, the storm woke me up. Not the thunder—that was just noise. It was the calves.
I could hear them from here, bawling in the north pasture, separated from their mothers. The sound cut through the rain, frantic and high-pitched.
I couldn’t sleep through that. No rancher can.
I swung my legs out of bed and went to the window. I wiped a circle in the fogged glass, squinting out into the deluge.
I expected to see a stray coyote or maybe a downed fence line.
I didn’t expect to see them.
Two shapes running through the sheets of rain, blurred by the water streaming down the pane. But I knew that gait. I knew the way he moved, shoulders hunched against the wind.
And I knew the flash of red hair, even wet and plastered to her head.
Billy and Sedona. Running together like they were being chased by the devil himself. Or running toward something.
They disappeared into the kitchen. The light flicked on, a yellow beacon in the gray dark. I stood there for a long time, mybreath fogging the glass, my hand pressed flat against the cold surface.
I went back to bed. But I didn’t sleep.
Now, it’s morning. The sun is harsh, exposing every puddle and patch of mud. The ranch looks like a disaster zone. The CDC suits are back, walking around like ghosts in their plastic armor.
Nothing feels real.
I’m sitting on the porch steps, elbows on my knees, staring at the bunkhouse. I feel like I have a hangover, but I haven’t had a drink in days.
It’s the exhaustion. The worry.
And the smell.
I catch it every time the wind shifts. Drifting from the open windows of the bunkhouse, or maybe just carried on Sedona’s skin when she walked past us earlier.
Billy’s scent is all over her.
It’s not subtle. It’s a claim. A brand. Musk and pine and something sharp, like lightning.
