Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I stop outside it.
Not to be dramatic. Not to be a creep.
To listen.
War teaches you to read the rhythm of a place. The little sounds that mean normal. The lack of them that means wrong.
I hear movement—soft, human, safe. The faint rustle of sheets. A quiet exhale.
My chest loosens a fraction. “Goodnight, Laney,” I murmur under my breath, and step into my room. I lock the door, then unlock it again.
Locked doors make people feel safe. Unlocked doors make me useful.
I shower fast, keeping my ears tuned for anything that doesn’t belong—footsteps that hesitate, a creak that shifts direction, a sound that doesn’t have an explanation. The water doesn’t help with the thoughts. It never does.
When I’m dressed down in sweatpants and a worn tee, I cross the room and stare at the bed.
It’s positioned with the headboard against the far wall. It’s comfortable. It’s normal.
Normal won’t protect her if someone decides to turn this house into the next message.
So I grab the frame and drag it.
The legs scrape across the floor with a low groan. I reposition it closer to the door, closer to the hall, close enough that I’ll hear if Delaney’s door opens fast—or if it opens because somebody else opened it for her.
I pull the nightstand with it.
Then I lay down.
And I don’t sleep.
Not right away. Because my brain has decided tonight is the perfect time to replay two images that shouldn’t share the same space:
Delaney’s hands on my arm in the bathroom—steady, warm, familiar.
The clean cut wire at the south line—cold, deliberate, malicious.
I close my eyes and run through lists.
Who benefits from pressuring the Colemans to sell?
Who knows the ranch’s layout well enough to hit the most vulnerable points?
Who has access to tools and the nerve to use them?
Who’s watched this place long enough to understand the rhythm?
A developer. A neighbor with old grudges. Someone on payroll with debts. A local official with a backroom handshake.
Or someone who hates the idea of a Coleman ranch surviving without bowing to money.
The careful one isn’t a random vandal.
The careful one is strategic.
I roll onto my side and stare at the dark.
The last time I lived in the same town as Delaney Coleman, we were teenagers sneaking soda out to the creek and swearing we’d never let the world turn us into strangers.
Life is funny like that.
Life keeps the words and changes the people.
Eventually, exhaustion wins a narrow battle.
I drift off to sleep with memories of the red-haired girl who would meet me at the creek, and that I almost kissed once upon a time.
Morning comes soft and early. I wake before the house does, the way my body always insists on doing. The hallway is quiet. I listen at Delaney’s door again—more subtle this time.
Nothing wrong.
That’s my favorite report.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like strong coffee and home-cooked intention. Mrs. Coleman is already up, moving in the quiet way women do when they’ve carried families through storms and learned how to make calm out of pure will.
“Mornin’, Nash,” she says.
“Ma’am.” I take a mug she slides over like it’s a contract and a blessing.
“Delaney’ll be down in a minute. She’s mad at the universe today.”
“Any reason in particular?”
She smiles without showing teeth. “You’ll figure that out on your own.”
Yes, ma’am.
I step onto the back porch with my coffee and let my eyes sweep the ranch.
Work trucks. The barn. The paddock. The repaired fence line that is now a bruise we’re pretending is healed. I want whoever is doing this to understand that a threat against this ranch is a threat against her—and that will never end well for them.
Behind me, boots tap the wooden floorboards.
Delaney appears in the doorway wearing a fitted tank under a flannel she’s tied at the waist, jeans that look like they were made for her, and that stubborn early-morning look that says sleep did not win.
She’s also carrying a toolbox.
I take a slow, careful sip of coffee, because my mouth has gone dry for reasons that are not caffeine-related.
“You gonna stare or you gonna help?” she asks.
“I’m evaluating the threat landscape.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying you’re stalling.”
“Maybe I am.”
She steps closer, and I catch the faint scent of her shampoo—clean and citrusy, like sunshine that learned to punch.
I shouldn’t notice.
I do.
“Fence first,” she says briskly. “Before the crew gets here and throws us into the town engagement photo session.”
I follow her across the yard, the early light turning the ranch gold. Birds cut arcs over the pasture. A horse tosses its head like it disapproves of our modern relationship status.
We reach the south line where the cut happened.
The wire has been temporarily secured overnight. It’s ugly but functional.
Delaney squats, runs her fingers along the post, checks the tension with practiced hands.
“There’s intention here,” she says quietly. “This isn’t a kid with bolt cutters trying to scare us for fun.”