Page 115 of Westin

He blinks twice. For him, that’s a lot of emotion. “What?”

I shrug. “I can’t live in the gatehouse forever, Sovereign. I want a family, kids, same as you.”

He gives me a slow stare, the gears in his head turning. “You’re thinking of buying Carter Farms for Diane and living there?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” I say. “It runs along Garrison Farms. I can liquidate the shares I have, buy some of the Garrison land to the west, and we’ll be living on two ranches, side by side.”

His mouth twitches in a short smile. He shakes his head once.

“Who would’ve thought,” he says. “Just don’t liquidate yet. I can’t buy any shares for a while longer if I’m buying up that much Garrison land. I’m fresh out of free cash until we move through the season.”

“I can hold out for a little while. I still have to figure out how to get David Carter off the land.”

“We’ll talk more.”

We’re both quiet for a while. The fence line is strong, and there’s little to no storm damage. We ride back down to the barn, and by then, it’s the middle of the afternoon. I stop inside the dining hall to bring some food for Diane and feel someone tapping my arm.

I turn. Keira stands behind me, twisting her hands. We’ve barely spoken since that night at the gatehouse. She looks the best she’s ever been—whatever Sovereign is doing is working.

“I wanted to ask about Diane,” she says, chewing her lip.

“She’s fine,” I say. “I think she’s feeling a little overwhelmed. Me and her are on good terms, though. She’s just resting.”

“That’s okay,” Keira says. “I just hoped…maybe she’d like to help Maddie and I cook something later in the week. Maddie helped me come out of my shell; maybe she’d be good for Diane.”

I smile, putting my hat back on. “I’ll let her know.”

Sovereign appears. He steals her attention with a hand around her waist, and I leave out the side exit via the porch.

The sun is already starting to sink. I’m halfway to the gatehouse when I hear a shot in the distance, down the south end of the farm.It sounds like a shotgun, perhaps a poacher or someone clearing wild hogs away.

Maybe it’s the conversation I had with Diane about my past, but the walls that keep back all my least favorite memories are fragile. That gunshot stops me in my tracks. The discomfort of revealing the past is still fresh. It bursts out, hitting me like a rush of water.

I freeze, and suddenly, I’m a child again.

BEFORE

I’m twelve, standing on the curb outside the hardware store. My father said he would be back in a minute. He gave me two dollars and told me to get a pack of bubble gum. I got some from the gas station. It’s crushed between my back teeth, the sweet taste sickly in the summer heat.

There’s a faint screech at the end of the road. I squint, but the sun burns my eyes. From behind me, I hear my father leave the general store a few blocks down. The bell rings, and I hear his heavy tread. I know he’s got a bag full of cigarettes, some flour and butter, and a little gift for my mother.

Usually lemon candy from the cash register.

The screech gets closer. I turn, and a car peels around the corner. It comes to a quick halt before the door flies open, and a man with pale blue eyes and a bandana pulled over his nose appears. He’s screaming something, but it makes no sense.

I stumble back. He pulls a gun out, yelling someone else’s name.

I’ve practiced at the range for as long as I can remember, but I don’t have a gun. My heart feels like it’s laying on my tongue. My vision is blurred.

“Get back!” my father yells, stepping in front of me.

My father has a gun on his belt. The man’s eyes drop, and my father’s hand moves to the pistol. A sharp crack rings out over the street. I see my strong, tall father collapse like a sack of bricks into the gutter. Blood trickles from his thigh.

Something flips in my brain.

Everything goes completely still, the way it does after a heavy snowfall. The man with the pale eyes backs up. Two other men jump from the back seat and round the car, their pistols up. I drop to my knees, pick up the gun, and shoot the way I was taught.

Intuitively, trusting that my heart knows where the bullet needs to go.

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