Page 55 of The Shield
The evenings had been filled with stories around the fire, Dad’s tales of his own youth weaving us closer, his hand ruffling my hair as he’d taught us to whittle sticks into arrows and army men, the shavings falling like snow.
For two weeks, we had been allowed to be whole—away from the ranch’s demands, from the silence of his absences, with him there morning and night, a presence that had filled the gaps I’d grown used to. I had felt complete, a part of something larger, the weight of being the eldest lifting as Dad had taken his place among us.
Halfway through the trek, the idyll had shattered. We had been in a thicket near the stream, a lush tangle of alder and willow, the water bubbling over smooth stones, a perfect spot for the boys to practice new tricks on their horses. The air had been warm, the sun filtering through the canopy in dappledpatches, the horses’ hooves thudding softly as Levi took a jump, whooping with delight.
I had watched, a grin tugging at my lips, the camaraderie a balm, when Dad’s phone had buzzed, a rare intrusion in this wilderness.
The signal had been bad, static crackling, and he’d frowned, holding it up. “Gotta head to higher ground for a clear call,” he’d said, his voice light with a joke. “Don’t let these fools burn the camp down while I’m gone!” He’d flashed a smile, ruffling Micah’s hair, and he’d disappeared up the slope, his figure swallowed by the trees within minutes.
We had turned back to our games, the horses prancing as Jacob tried a spin, the stream a gleaming ribbon below.
Then I’d heard it—crashing in the brush, a sound that had stopped my heart, followed by the roar of a grizzly, deep and guttural, a primal force that had shaken the air. Everyone had frozen, the laughter dying, the thicket falling silent except for the rush of water and the pounding of my pulse.
It hadn’t been fear for myself that gripped me—it had been for my younger brothers, Levi and Micah, standing between me and the beast as it emerged from the undergrowth. Its fur had been matted with mud, its massive form towering, eyes glinting with hunger, teeth bared in a snarl that had echoed through the trees.
The world had slowed, the colors of the meadow sharpening—the green of the grass, the silver of the stream, the deep brown of the bear’s fur, its claws menacing—each detail had been etched into my mind as terror for them took hold. My chest had tightened, not for my own life, but for theirs, the fragile lives I’d sworn to protect since Dad’s absences had begun.
The grizzly had charged, a blur of fury, and the younger boys had reacted, kicking their mounts into action. The horses had bolted, wild with instinct, their hooves churning the earth,but in that slow-motion chaos, I had seen Levi’s horse stumble, pitching him off, then Micah’s following suit, both tumbling to the ground. They had been nimble, scrambling to their feet with the agility of youth, but the grizzly had smelled blood, its nostrils flaring, its focus locking onto them with killing intent.
I didn’t hesitate.
At fifteen, I had been strong, my frame already broad from ranch work, my muscles honed by years of lifting bales and breaking horses. I had spurred my horse forward despite its hesitation, muscles tensing as I guided him straight into the grizzly’s path, a shield between the beast and my brothers.
The horse had reared at the last moment, its front legs pawing the air, a defiant scream ripping from its throat as the grizzly swiped, its claws raking through the air with a furious roar. The impact had thrown me backward, my body twisting instinctively, and I’d executed a clumsy back somersault, landing almost on my feet, the ground jarring my bones as I dodged the falling horse. It had screamed, a sound that pierced the silence, its neck torn open, blood spurting dark and thick across the grass, the scent metallic and overwhelming. The grizzly, enraged by the blood, had turned its fury on me, its massive form charging again, the earth trembling under its weight.
I had drawn my .45 pistol from the holster at my belt, the metal cold against my palm, my hands steady despite the chaos. I had taken aim, the world narrowing to the bear’s snarling maw, and had fired—once, twice, the shots ringing out, echoing off the trees. The bullets had struck, but the grizzly only grew more furious, its charge unrelenting. I’d kept firing until the magazine was spent.
I’d stood firm, reloading with a calm that had surprised me, the click of the magazine a rhythm against the beast’s roars. It had come down on me, its claws slashing, a searing pain acrossmy shoulder and chest, but the details had blurred as darkness swallowed me. I’d kept firing …
I hadn’t remembered losing consciousness, only the agony that had greeted me when I woke, my father’s hands wrapping my wounds with a gentleness I hadn’t felt in years, my brothers’ faces—Levi, Micah, Jacob, Caleb—hovering above, their eyes wide with worry.
I’d turned my head, the pain a dull throb, and seen the grizzly, its massive form still, lifeless on the blood-soaked ground, its eyes glassy. My family had been safe, the younger ones unharmed, their horses calmed, and in that moment, I knew.
The Shield. That’s what Dad had called me later, his voice thick with pride as he’d stitched me up by the fire, the nickname born from this day. I’d have gladly given my life to save them, a calling that had sunk into my bones, shaping the man I’d become—a protector, a guardian, forged in the crucible of that Montana thicket.
The memory faded as I finished packing at The Palmetto Rose, the storm outside a mirror to the turmoil within. I slung my bag over my shoulder, the weight of the pistol a familiar comfort, and stepped into the rain, the downpour swallowing me as I disappeared into the storm. It would sit over Charleston for the next three days, a relentless shroud, and those three days would be mine—time to hunt, to protect my family, to unravel the threat that loomed like the gray-suited man’s shadow.
The city stretched before me, a labyrinth of wet streets and hidden dangers, and I moved into it, ready to face whatever came, The Shield once more.
25
NATALIE
The whiteboard across from my bed said NATALIE KENNEDY in purple dry erase with a little heart. The rain outside kept to its library voice, tapping the glass like fingers drumming through a long meeting. The TV murmured without sound.
My old phone had drowned on Meeting Street, but Granddaddy had swung by while I was still asleep and left a brand-new one in a zip-top bag with a charger and a Post-it that read,Use this. —Granddaddy.
Kimmy had already signed me in like a fairy godmother with two-factor. The new phone buzzed itself into a faint, angry dance until Pearl slid it face-down beneath a napkin like it had misbehaved at supper.
“Overnight,” Pearl reminded me, looping the blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Concussion observation. Hourly neuro checks till midnight, then every two. Lights low between. Hydration high. Screens low.”
“Define low,” I said.
“Less than ‘I am trending nationally,’ more than ‘I’m in a cave,’” she said. “Symptoms to watch: worsening headache, vomiting, slurred speech, growing confusion, sudden sleepiness I can’t shake you out of, weakness or numbness, vision that acts drunk without the fun. If any of that shows up, you let me know. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said, and because the ground had shifted under my old rules, I meant it.
She flashed a penlight across my eyes again, brisk and merciless. “Pupils behave.” She clipped a red band around my wrist: FALL RISK in shouty font. “That’s not a prediction,” she told me. “It’s a precaution.”
