Tex is on Bandit, the chestnut horse, a flash of muscle and fire beneath him. They’re a perfect match, horse and rider, moving with a fluid, intuitive grace that’s mesmerizing to watch.
He’s practicing for the rodeo, weeks away still, but you’d never know it from the intensity in his eyes. Every movement is precise, every turn a calculated risk.
Jasper is perched on the top rail of the fence, his camera held up to his face, the click and whir of the shutter a constant, reassuring sound. He’s always documenting, our quiet, observant shadow.
I lean against the fence post, my arms crossed, just watching. The weird, angry energy that’s been vibrating between Tex and Billy for the past few days seems to have dissipated.
It’s not gone, not completely, but it’s settled. They’re on the same page again, or at least reading from the same book. It’s a good thing.
I like order.
Ineedorder.
The chaos of the past week, with the sick cattle and Sedona’s sudden, looming departure, has frayed my nerves to the breaking point.
Billy’s here too, leaning against the opposite fence, his silhouette dark and brooding against the bright sky. He’s quiet, but he’s always quiet.
His presence is a grounding force, a silent acknowledgment that we’re in this together. It almost feels like we might actually be a pack again.
That’s when I hear it. A low rumble, distant at first, then growing louder, a sound that doesn’t belong.
It’s the sound of engines, multiple engines, all coming at once.
I shield my eyes, squinting down the long dirt road that leads to the ranch. A cloud of dust is rising, kicking up behind a convoy of vehicles.
“What the hell is that?” Tex asks, pulling Bandit up short, the horse dancing nervously beneath him.
As they get closer, the shapes resolve themselves. At the front is a familiar black and white, the unmistakable cruiser of the Prairie Pine Sheriff’s Department.
Right behind it is an ambulance, its lights off, but its presence a stark white beacon of alarm. Following them are several large, dark SUVs, the kind government agencies use, their windows tinted, their purpose unknown and ominous.
Jasper lowers his camera, his face pale. “What’s going on, Seth?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my mind already racing, trying to calculate the possibilities, to find a logical explanation where none seems to exist. “Tex, get off your horse.”
He swings down, his boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. Billy is already walking toward the main drive, his long strides eating up the ground.
We follow, meeting him halfway as the convoy pulls to a stop in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
The doors open. Sheriff Ben Riley steps out of his cruiser, his face grim, and beside him is his deputy, Jamie Martinez.
They’re both wearing pale blue surgical masks, a detail that sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated fear through my veins.
“Hello, boys,” Ben says, his voice muffled by the mask, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a tense seriousness.
Jasper takes an involuntary step back, his eyes wide with panic. “I… I should probably go.”
“Don’t you move,” Billy says, a low, commanding growl that pins the kid in place.
“What the hell is going on, Ben?” I ask, my voice tight. “Is this about the cattle?”
Before he can answer, the back doors of the ambulance swing open. And my heart stops.
Sedona steps out, followed closely by Clara. They both look pale and exhausted, their faces etched with a worry that mirrors my own.
Trailing behind them is Nurse Maggie Torres, her expression a mixture of professional concern and personal anxiety.
And then, the other doors open. The ones on the big black SUVs. And people get out. People dressed in full white hazmat suits, the plastic crinkling as they move, their faces obscured by reflective faceplates.
