Just as he’s about to claim me, just as I’m about to let him, his face blurs, the features smearing like wet paint until all I can see is the cold, hard hatred from yesterday at the ranch.
I wake with a gasp.
The room is bathed in the soft, gray light of pre-dawn. Clara is beside me, a warm, still lump under the quilt, her breathing soft and even.
My skin is clammy, the phantom heat of the dream clinging to me. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to erase the image of Billy’s face, the way his love had curdled into hate.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen glows, 5:58 a.m. No point in trying to go back to sleep. Not with ghosts in my head.
I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. I pull on a pair of jeans and a worn flannel, the movements automatic.
Downstairs, the kitchen is still and quiet, holding its breath with the rest of the town. I move through the space, my body remembering the layout even when my mind wants to forget.
I fill the coffee maker with water, the sound loud in the silence. As I reach for the canister of grounds, my fingers brush against a small cardboard box tucked in the back of the pantry. I pull it out.
It’s a collection of coffee sachets, probably one of my dad’s impulse buys. One of them is a fancy hazelnut blend.
The memory hits me so hard it feels like a physical blow. We’re in the grocery store in the next town over, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Billy’s got a cart, and I’m tossing things in, a domestic kind of bliss I’d never let myself admit I wanted. We’re in the coffee aislewhen he holds up two sachets—one a plain black roast, the other a ridiculous, overpriced hazelnut blend.
“What do you think, Mrs. Carson-to-be?” he’d asked, his blue-gray eyes crinkling at the corners with that rare, genuine smile that was just for me. “Should we be sensible people who drink sensible coffee? Or should we be fancy people who eat tiny pastries and pay ten dollars for flavored beans?”
I’d laughed, grabbing the hazelnut one. “We’re definitely fancy people. We’re going to have a fancy coffee pot and fancy mugs, and we’re going to be insufferable about it.”
He’d tossed it into the cart with a grin, pulling me close and kissing my forehead. “Whatever you want, babe. As long as I have you, I don’t care if we drink dirt.”
The memory is so vivid, full of a love so potent it aches. I clutch the little sachet, my throat tight.
That was the life I threw away. The fancy coffee pot, the mugs, the man who looked at me like I was his entire world.
I let the sachet fall from my fingers, clattering back into the box. I can’t breathe in this kitchen. I can’t be in this house.
A loud knock on the front door makes me jump. My heart leaps into my throat. Who in God’s name is here at six in the morning?
I wipe my hands on my jeans, my pulse still thrumming from the dream and the memory. I peer through the peephole.
A man stands on the porch, his back to the morning light. He’s tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair cut short. I don’t recognize him.
I unlock the door, opening it just a crack, the chain still latched.
“Can I help you?”
The man turns, and his face is a map of hard lines and sun-weathered skin. He has dark gray eyes and a stubble beard.
Then I see the hands—rugged, with faint, white scars that look like rope burns. It clicks into place, a face from a lifetime ago.
“Clay? Clay Weston?” I ask, my voice full of disbelief.
He gives a curt nod. “Sedona Archer. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. You’re up, it seems.” It’s not a question.
He looks older, harsher than the man I remember from my teens, a quiet hand who always seemed to be in the background at Iron Horse Ranch.
“I am,” I say, undoing the chain and opening the door wider. “What’s going on?”
“I heard a rumor this morning at the feed store,” he says, his voice a low gravel. “Something about a sickness hitting the cattle over at Copper Creek. That you managed to get it under control.”
I nod, my guard up. “It was bad. I think we saved most of them.”
