Page 136 of Wild Sanctuary

The road out past Maggie’s runs straight for about four miles before it starts winding, and I’m going to take advantage of every inch of it. The engine complains. I don’t care. The tires are eating the road in a way I’ll pay for on my next oil change, and I don’t care about that either.

I called Marcus back to the ranch, and I’m going to live with that for the rest of my days.

Beside me, June’s hung up with Alma, one hand braced on the grab handle as the truck leans through a long curve.

“She’s gone to ring the sheriff.”

“Good.”

“Her boy Stan left the house this morning after they fought. Told her he was doin’ a job for his uncle. She thinks he’s with Marcus, or on his way to him.”

She pauses, then, “He’s in a black F-150. Older model, rusted out. And, if she’s right, he’s armed.”

The word armed goes through me like a shot.

My hands don’t shake on the wheel. They go completely still, because unsteady hands aren’t going to get her out of that house.

“Right.” I reach under the dash for the CB radio and key the mic. “Colt.”

A beat. Then his voice comes through, easy as the breeze.

“Big brother. You finished that paperwork already?”

“Colt. I need you to listen to me.”

He takes a breath on the other end and sobers instantly, “I’m listenin’.”

“Daisy’s in trouble at the house. Marcus Donnelly and that local boy, Stanley Cutter. He’s armed. I’m comin’ in hot.”

Silence on the line. Then⁠—

“Where are you?”

“Highway out past Maggie’s.”

“Rhett and I are with the herd at the east ridge. Twelve minutes, maybe less. You want us at the house?”

“I want you at the house, parked off the drive, Moretti side, where they can’t see you. And I want you armed.”

“On it.”

“Quiet now, Colt. Do not announce. Do not turn up the drive. Bring some riders. I’ll meet you on the pasture side.”

“Copy that.”

The line goes quiet for a half-beat, and when Colt comes back on, his voice is different.

“Wyatt. She’s still alive, you hear me?”

“Yeah.” The word is rasped past the lump in my throat.

“Say it out loud.”

Inhale. In and out. “She’s still alive.”

He clicks off, and I put the radio back in its cradle. The valley blurs past the windows, and the speedometer is sitting at eighty-seven, and what feels like a lifetime later—but is in fact seven minutes fifty-two seconds—I kill the engine a quarter-mile away from the ranch road. We’re behind the stand of cottonwoods at the old Moretti fence line, where we know the truck can’t be seen from the main house. June is out of the passenger side before I’ve killed the engine.

“Stay with the truck, June.”