Page 125 of What Remains

"It absolutely is."

"It absolutely isn't," Josie said.

"Thank you, Mommy."

"Traitor," Seth muttered.

Layla giggled. She looked ridiculous back there. Her car seat wedged into the only space they'd managed to carve out between blankets, duffel bags, boxes of canned food, seed containers, cookware, medical supplies, and everything else Liz and Josie had decided couldn't be left behind. A cowboy hat sat crooked on her head because she'd insisted it couldn't be crushed. A winter coat stuffed beside her like an oversized pillow. Somewhere beneath her feet sat a box labeled MOM'S KITCHEN, which Josie had refused to explain beyond warning Seth that if he broke anything inside it, she'd kill him herself.

Beast groaned under the weight, the suspension complaining with every rise in the road. In the side mirror, Liz's truck a steady presence, trailing them by a few lengths and pulling the second of the two horse trailers they'd wrestled into roadworthy shape through a long, desperate night.

The first trailer carried the living cargo: two horses, every last goat Liz owned, and all of the chickens. Every single one.

He couldn't believe they'd pulled it off. He remembered suggesting they take only what was reasonable, and the look Liz had given him—like he'd offered to leave Layla by the side of the road. "I'm not leaving them," she'd said, her voice flat with resolve. He'd pressed, thinking of the sheer logistics. "The chickens? Every single goat?" Her only answer had been a glare and a sharp, "Did I stutter?" That had settled that.

The second trailer held everything else they could possibly salvage—feed, hay, tack, tools, fencing supplies, buckets, seed, veterinary supplies, blankets, harnesses, a small mountain of gardening equipment, and several boxes of family belongings Josie and Liz couldn't bear to abandon. Anything that might contribute to the settlement at Cara's cabin packed in until the trailer's tires bulged and the frame sank low.

They'd pulled out before sunrise. Josie had cried when they rolled through the gate for the last time. Liz hadn't looked back at all, and Seth suspected that had been the only way she could manage to leave.

Hours later, mountains stretched endlessly, snow-covered pines crowding a silent highway. Sunlight glinted off ice patches, the only sounds the engine and the occasional shift of a horse in the trailer. Quiet shattered with a single, bloodcurdling scream.

"That's Pickles!" Layla announced, perking up.

Seth glanced at Josie. "Of course there's one named Pickles."

"Don't judge him."

"I'm not judging the goat."

"You're judging the goat."

"I'm judging the person who named him Pickles."

"I named him," a voice declared from the backseat.

Seth winced as Josie burst out laughing.

"Well..." he recalibrated rapidly, catching Layla's eye in the mirror. "Pickles is an excellent name."

Layla's eyes narrowed with deep suspicion. "You were judging him."

"Never."

"You were."

"Prove it."

Another giggle earned Seth's smile as he returned his attention to the road.

Despite exhaustion weighing on him, despite fear still coiled beneath his ribs, this drive carried something strangely good. The ranch ceased to be a home the moment the stranger's warning left his lips—more people knew about it, and more people coming. Staying meant patiently waiting for the next attack, so they made the only decision available: packed three generations of a family's life into two vehicles and two horse trailers, and headed east. Toward Cara. Toward Jay. Toward Sawyer and Addy. Toward whatever came next.

Seth glanced at Josie. "Addy's going to be tickled pink when she sees all these goats."

"The pregnant one?"

"Yeah." A smile tugged at his mouth as the memory surfaced. "She wanted to steal a goat last fall."

Josie's eyebrows rose. "Steal one?"