Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“I should have seen them sooner.”
Her eyes soften, and she shakes her head. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” she repeats more firmly. “Cade, there was a rock face between you and them. It’s not failure, it’s geology.”
Across the room, Boone laughs, short and rough, but I don’t.
Wren steps closer to me. “You warned me as soon as you saw him. You pinned the man down, and you got me out.”
“He was twenty yards from you.”
“And he ended up screaming into a cloud of bear spray.”
“A detail I plan to enjoy later,” Boone says, “when I can feel anything except homicidal.”
A corner of Wren’s mouth lifts. It’s not fully a smile, but it’s enough to let me breathe.
There’s a sound outside, and every one of us freezes.
A vehicle, moving slowly on the road.
Rhett picks up a rifle, crosses to the front wall, and angles himself beside the curtain.
Tires crunch at the end of the drive, then stop.
I ease back the other side of the curtain and watch a man get out of an old pickup. His shoulders are hunched, and his face is hidden beneath a weathered ball cap. He opens the mailbox, shoves a white paper inside, then gets back in the truck and peels off.
“I’ll get it,” Boone says.
“No.” I’m already reaching for the door.
Late afternoon shadows stretch long between the pines, and the road is quiet except for the fading engine noise. I move off-angle, using the ditch and timber instead of the open drive, eyes sweeping my surroundings.
There’s a sealed envelope in the mailbox. No address, and no stamp.
I carry it back into the cabin between two fingers and set it on the table. Boone puts on gloves to slice open one end, then tips it until a photograph slides out.
For a long moment, my brain refuses to make sense of it.
It’s Wren, smiling, sitting at a table at the restaurant in town next to Kira Parker, who’s holding her baby in her lap. There’s a dark-haired woman sitting across from them, but we can’t see her face, because it’s not a posed shot. In fact, it appears to be taken from outside the front window.
“Fuck,” Boone whispers.
“Turn it over,” Rhett tells him.
One line is written in black marker: Back off, or you’ll pay.
Wren reaches for the chair behind her and grips the back of it. “That’s Kira and Elena.” Her face loses all color. “And Kira’s baby.”
Rhett picks up his phone and calls Atlas first, then Buck Brennan, telling them about the men on the trail this morning, and about the threat that involves their families. Boone stays close to Wren while Rhett tells the men to be on alert.
When he ends the second call, Wren says, “I can leave.”
My chest goes cold as she speaks faster. “Not because I want to. I know running doesn’t fix this, but if my being here brings danger to you, and to Kira and Elena and their children—”
“No,” Boone says.
“No,” I repeat.
When she looks at me, there’s fear in her eyes, but it’s not for herself.
Rhett steps closer to the table. “We’re not handing over our mountain or our town because Turner’s trying to scare us.”
“This isn’t about pride,” Wren says.
“You’re right. It’s about territory.” Rhett’s voice hardens. “Not land. People.”
Boone moves to Wren’s side. “If you leave, Turner learns that pressure works, and he’ll lean harder on the next person.”
“Atlas won’t run,” I say. “Buck won’t. Their families won’t be safer if we fracture.”
As Wren’s throat moves, Rhett holds her gaze. “Easy decision. We stand.”
Boone nods once. “We stand.”
They look at me, but they don’t need to. “We stand,” I say.
Wren exhales like something inside her has cracked, but she doesn’t break. She looks down at the photo and uses the tips of her fingers to turn it face up again.
It’s a stolen moment made into a weapon.
“He’s not going to make me regret making friends,” she says, finally, with her usual determination back in its rightful place.
Boone smiles, though there’s nothing easy about it today. “That’s our girl,” he says.
Wren gives him a look, but he doesn’t walk it back.
As night falls, we keep preparing. Boone finishes loading magazines, while Rhett and I review maps. I mark one with every approach to our property, and note every blind angle and every place a man might think he can hide.
Wren comes over and stands close enough that her sleeve brushes my arm. She studies the map with tired eyes.
“That drainage there,” she says, pointing. “Wildlife stopped using it a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was displacement from traffic farther north, but maybe men are cutting through there.”
Rhett leans in, Boone comes over, and all three of us look where Wren points.
She should never doubt she’s part of our operation. She’s inside the center of it. She’s ours.
Turner made his threat, and we’re going to answer. Back off, or you’ll pay.