I'll get there, help the mare, and be back at the ranch before Mason even finishes his meeting. He’ll get Kelly tonight, and then all this will be behind us, and we’ll only have good things ahead.
For one stupid moment I actually believe that.
77
LILY
It’s a filly—small, wet, perfect. She lifts her head almost immediately, blinking at the world. The mare turns, nickering softly, and begins to clean her baby.
"Beautiful," Lester says, his voice thick. "Just beautiful."
I strip off the gloves and check the foal's breathing, her heartbeat. Everything is strong and steady. The mare is already on her feet, protective and attentive.
"She's healthy.” I stand, bending my back to stretch it after the physically brutal work. "They both are. The mare did great."
Lester's relief is palpable. "Thank you, Doc. I don't know what we would've done if you couldn’t come out."
"It all worked out," I say with a smile. "Keep an eye on them for the next few hours. Make sure the filly nurses within the first two hours. Call me if you have any concerns."
"Will do."
I pack my bag, wash my hands at the barn sink, and head back to my truck. I slide behind the wheel and pull out onto County Road 12, heading back toward Blackthorn Ranch. The road is empty, the landscape rolling past in shades of gold and green.
Ten minutes into the drive, my phone buzzes.
The screen mounted to my dash lights up with an incoming text.Unknown Number.It’s got to be Wes.
I pull onto the shoulder of County Road 12, gravel crunching beneath my tires while the truck idles around me. I pick up the phone.
Unknown Number
We should talk about your sister.
My vision tunnels.
It’s not Wes—he’d use our code. There are only a handful of people who know about Mandy.
Every instinct Wes drilled into me starts screaming at once. Trap. Manipulation. Psychological leverage. Designed to provoke an emotional response and override tactical thinking.
But my heart doesn’t care about tactics. I quickly tap back a reply.
I don’t have a sister.
Unknown Number
Don’t you?
I’m debating what to do when another message comes through—an image.
I open it and my breath stops.
It’s her. Older. Hollow-eyed. Thin enough it hurts to look at her. But it’s Mandy—alive.
I have so many questions, I can’t grasp just one. I’m staring at the picture so hard, trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not, that I startle and fumble my phone when another text comes in.
Unknown Number
Warehouse on the east edge of town. Old grain storage facility.