"I wasn't thinkin'," I murmured. My voice didn't even sound like mine.
He didn't answer. Just stepped around me, reached for Spice's lead, and turned her slow toward the barn. Left me standing there in the middle of the field with a tied-up sheep and Red's gaze heavy on my back.
My legs felt stupid beneath me—mud-caked, shaking, too tight down one side from the fall. I crouched beside the sheep, tried to lift it, but the pull in my ribs flared sharp again and I had to pause. Swallowed it back. Focused. Got leverage under the damn thing and dragged it toward Red's cart.
It was a young ram—thank God—but still heavier than I expected. I got him loaded, hitched Red with one hand and a wince, and started the walk back alone.
The barn rose like a shadow ahead, quiet and too far away.
When I reached it, Colt was waiting—just outside the doorway, arms crossed. He didn't speak at first. Didn't need to. The silence said enough.
"Think you broke its leg," he said finally, nodding toward the sheep.
I flinched. Didn't mean to, but it showed. I moved to unload it from the cart, slower now. Everything in me felt bruised—physically, emotionally, in places I didn't know had names.
"It won't live if you turn it loose," he went on. "Won't last long out there like that. It'll have to be shot."
My voice came quiet.
"I've never..."
It frayed off before I could finish. Hung there in the air between us, like even the words didn't want to be held.
I wasn't lying.
I'd killed things before. Too many to count if I was being honest. Hens, when the flock grew too large and the feed ran low. Cows, come spring, when winter had thinned them too far and the frostbite set in deep through the legs and lungs. I'd knelt in the snow with a gloved hand on a forehead and whispered thanks before I pulled the trigger. Always quick. Always clean.
You had to hold a certain respect for it—for life. That was the only way it sat right in your gut. If you didn't believe it mattered, it made you hollow.
But I had never killed something because of me.
Because I moved too fast. Because I let instinct outrun thought. Because I needed to prove I still knew who I was.
That was different.
Colt didn't look away. Just stood there beside Red, loosening the hitch with hands that knew exactly what they were doing, like this day hadn't gone sideways, like this was still just part of the plan.
"First time for everything," he said. Low. Even. Like the edge of a blade that didn't need to shine to be sharp. "Between the eyes. It won't feel a thing."
My throat ached. Not from crying—I hadn't. Not yet. It was the ache of shame pressing up from someplace deeper. That slow-burning heat of regret that settled behind the ribs and made it hard to draw a full breath.
He turned to go get the rifle, and I stood there like my boots had roots in the barnyard. The sheep was at my feet, breathing hard through its nose, eyes half-lidded with pain. I crouched, brushing my hand across its side, and for a moment, it pressed into my touch like it didn't know who'd hurt it. Like it trusted me still. That broke something open inside me I hadn't planned to touch today.
When Colt came back down the stairs, I didn't move.
"Go on in," he said, voice softer now. "Get a drink. I'll take care of it."
YOU ARE READING
Firefly Nights
No Ficción▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance There's a kind of wild you can't outrun. Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
