Page 102 of For Fillies and Monsters

“Better pack it in and go see my woman,” I state to no one but the prairie dogs. I need to get a ranch dog.

Yes, a ring, and then a ranch dog.

I chuckle, the image and happiness associated with it making me feel like the luckiest man alive. I need to get it together—I probably look like a lunatic—sweat-drenched andsmiling at no one and nothing. Shaking my head, I start loading the wire and tools into the bed of the rusty pickup with a clang. Even though the sun continues to dip lower in the sky, and a dry breeze blows over the golden grasses, sweat beads down my back, making my shirt cling.

Dark curls mat to the back of my head, and not for the first time, I berate myself for my inability to cut it all off. It just doesn’t seem like a priority when there is so much work to be done.

And Stetson loves running her hands through it.

I’ve been whipped for years for her—no point in denying it—so what Stetson wants, Stetson gets.She is my everything, and I like it that way.

Driving along the fence, the truck bouncing and jostling around over the ruts in the dried, cracked earth, I admire the silence of night taking over the fields. It’s almost eerily quiet,too quiet, and the hairs on my arm stand to attention. I have the sudden urge to drive just a little faster.

I just want to get back to Stetson—see her face, hold her, fuck her—to know she’s safe in my arms like always.

The truck jumps, the tools clanging in the back. “Fuck,” I growl, slamming on the brakes. Looking in the rearview, I can see a rock lying in the dusty path. It wasn’t there when I drove out here earlier today, which is odd.

Really odd.

I park the truck but leave the engine running—I’m anxious to get back, but I also know I need to move the damn thing or Stetson will surely hit it next time she is out here. The thought of her barreling over it on Winston is enough to make me dive from the cab and hobble the rock back to the pile.

Hurling it toward the mound along the fence line, I take in the large rock collection. I’ve gone past it only a handful of times—Stetson always offered to come this waywhen we checked fences or argued about how she had fixed this patch well enough that it isn’t worth my time—but now, looking at it, I can’t help but raise a brow. The fence is nearly leaned over, the posts dangling along the wire instead of holding it, all twisted and mangled. It looks like she made it more of a hazard, which is odd for someone as picky as her.

It’s also a weird place for a rock pile, out here in the open like this.

I’ll have to come out and fix it next time. I don’t blame her for the shotty work; putting the fence through the pile would be challenging by yourself.

Remembering my strange anxiety about getting back, I turn to leave. And then I notice the section of rocks near the fence line is disturbed, like something had been digging through it.

But for what?

Sighing and tilting my head to the darkening sky, I clamber over the pile to see what I can find. Call it my obsessive need to make sure Stetson is always safe, but I can’t drop the nagging feeling in my gut to check it.

I start pulling rocks off of the top of the pile where it already looks disturbed, the gray and red chunks moving easily. I can tell more than just the one from the road had been moved recently—several rocks are weather-worn and bleached, but the lighter sides are facing down or out, not directly up, as you would expect.

So, something had moved them, and then put them back?More like someone.

I yank more furiously at the pile, my fingers ripping at the nails as I pull haphazardly at the rocks.Pick up, toss away, and repeat.Each rock hits the dirt below with a thud, a matching rhythm with my erratically pounding heart and labored breathing.

You know the saying, “Don’t leave any stone unturned”?Well, it’s a fucking lie. There are some stones you shouldn’t turn—these being those specific stones. There is nothing that could make me run from Stetson—nothing—but there are several things that will make me runtoher. And this one has me turning on my heels andsprinting.

It can’t fucking be.

“How is this even possible?” Still panting, I slam the truck door shut. I floor the still-running engine, the truck jolting violently over the rivets in the dirt. The wire and tools clang in the back, several pieces jumping so hard they fly from the truck; I don’t stop, they’re just fucking tools.

Someone had found it before me. Someone had seen what I saw, and I know who.

Racing toward the house, the darkness strangling the last ribbons of daylight from the sky, the glowing house comes into view. A dancing, burning glow—like a fire—flames dancing and sparking into the shadows. I push the engine harder, the old truck growling and jolting so violently over the field that screws and bolts rattle free from their hold on the frame.

I dial Dale’s number, not thinking straight enough to call for more help. She picks up on the first ring, surprised, no doubt, by me calling her and not Stetson.

“Hello?”

“Dale, listen to me. The barn is on fire. I’m still out in the far field, but I’m trying to get there.” My voice cracks, panic bleeding through the line, and I hear her drop something. “Dale, you need to get the fire department here, and then yourself. Stetson. She’s back at the house, and I think…” I pause, not wanting to say more than I have to but also needing Dale’s help.

“Gus, for the love of God, what?” I hear the dinging of a car door over the line.

“I found a body. Her dad’s body, in the far pasture. I think… Just get here and?—”

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