“Tex and I will handle the chores,” Seth says. “We’ll keep an eye on the herd. And on… everything.”
I nod, my decision made.
“Okay. Here’s how this is going to work. We cooperate. We give them everything they ask for. But we stick together. No one goes anywhere alone. We watch each other’s backs. And we watch out for them.” I turn toward the bunkhouse. “They’re our responsibility now. Understood?”
Tex and Seth both nod, their expressions grim but determined. It’s not a plan. It’s a pact. A promise to survive this together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sedona
The thunder is a deep,physical roar that shakes the very foundations of the bunkhouse. It pulls me from a fitful, feverish sleep, my eyes flying open to darkness.
A flash of lightning illuminates the room in a stark, brilliant blue-white, etching the outlines of the two empty bunks across from me and the sleeping form of Clara on the cot beside mine.
The rain follows, a sudden, violent lashing against the tin roof, a sound so loud it’s like the world is being torn apart.
I’m starving. It’s a hollow, gnawing ache in my stomach that eclipses even the pounding in my head.
My body is a battlefield of conflicting sensations: the external chill of the room versus the internal furnace of the fever, the exhaustion in my bones versus a strange, restless energy that hums just beneath my skin.
Clara is asleep, her breathing soft and even, one hand thrown over her eyes to block out the intermittent flashes of light. I slip out of my bunk, quiet and careful, not wanting to wake her.
My phone is on the small table between the bunks. The screen lights up when I pick it up, a cascade of notifications.
Missed calls from Dr. Alistair, from an unknown number that’s probably Cole, a dozen texts from Clara’s friends in New York. I ignore them all, swipe them away.
I can’t deal with the outside world right now. I can barely deal with the world inside this room. The time on the screen reads 4:02 a.m.
The hunger is a demanding beast. My thoughts drift to the kitchen in the main house. Is there any food left there?
The idea of making a run for it, of braving the storm for a piece of cold meat, is tempting.
I’m pulling on a pair of jeans over my leggings, my mind made up, when another flash of lightning illuminates the landscape outside the small window.
And I see it. A light.
It’s not the main house. It’s coming from one of the barns, a soft, yellow glow that’s a stark contrast to the violent, blue-white of the lightning. It’s a single bulb, probably a work light, and it’s cutting through the sheets of rain.
And then I see it again. A shadow moves past the light, a large, dark shape that’s definitely not an animal.
Concern cuts through my feverish fog. Who would be out in this? Jasper? Maybe he couldn’t sleep either. Or maybe something’s wrong. One of the calves, maybe?
The thought of one of those poor, stressed animals alone and scared in this storm is enough to propel me into action. I grab a hoodie from my bag, pulling it on over my T-shirt, and slip out of the bunkhouse, closing the door as quietly as I can behind me.
The rain is a cold, shocking assault. It soaks through my hoodie in seconds, plastering my hair to my face and making the thin fabric cling to my skin. The wind whips around me, howling through the eaves of the barn.
I squint, trying to see through the downpour, my feet sinking into the mud as I make my way toward the light.
The barn door is slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside, the warmth and the smell of wet hay and manure a welcome embrace.
And that’s when I see him.
Billy.
He’s standing by a stack of hay bales, his back to me. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of soaked jeans that hang low on his hips, the water running in rivulets down the broad, muscular planes of his back.
He’s unrolling a large blue tarp, his movements powerful and efficient, his focus entirely on his work. The sight of him, so raw and elemental, steals the breath from my lungs.
