“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” he says over his shoulder. “She’s gone. She’s sick. And I’m just the guy trying to keep the ranch from falling apart.”
He starts walking again.
“But Seth?” he calls back.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t hide from me,” he says. “And don’t apologize. It is what it is.”
He disappears into the darkness.
Tex lets out a low whistle. “Well. That was…”
“Yeah,” I say.
I feel lighter. And heavier at the same time. The secret’s out. Billy knows. He doesn’t hate me. He just… accepts it.
It hurts in a different way now. The denial is gone. The pretense is over.
I look at the bunkhouse. The light is on in the window.
She’s in there. She’s going to be okay.
That’s what matters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sedona
The bark joltsme out of a dreamless sleep.
It’s not a subtle wake-up call; it’s a sharp, percussive sound that splits the fog in my head. I sit up, blinking against the pale light filtering through the bunkhouse curtains.
My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on cotton balls. My limbs are heavy, weighted down by the sedatives Dr. Petrova and Maggie pumped into us last night.
I turn my head. Clara is sprawled on the other cot, one arm hanging off the edge, her mouth slightly open.
She’s out cold. The medication hit her harder than it hit me, or maybe she was just more exhausted. I don’t want to wake her.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool wood floor. I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, my skin still feeling slightly sensitive, but the fever is gone. The burning ache in my bones has faded into a dull, manageable thrum.
I stand up. I’m thirsty. Desperately, painfully thirsty.
I walk to the small kitchenette and check the tap. A few drops sputter out, then nothing. They must have forgotten to turn on the water pump.
Boone barks again. It sounds like he’s near the barn.
I grab a hoodie from the back of the chair and pull it on over my tank top. I open the door and slip outside.
The morning air is crisp, and the CDC tents are quiet. The skeleton crew monitoring us is probably sleeping in shifts.
I walk toward the barn. I need water. I need fresh air.
I round the corner of the barn and stop.
There’s a large wooden barrel sitting near the pump. Seth is standing next to it. He’s working the handle, his back to me.
He’s wearing a grey T-shirt that clings to his shoulder blades. His arms flex with each pump, the muscles shifting under his skin.
