Page 52 of Ranger's Pursuit

A burst of energy explodes outward, raw and electric, flaring in every direction. Thunder crashes. Lightning fractures across the rafters as if the heavens themselves crack open. The stained glass windows rattle in their frames, trembling in resonance with the bond forging between blood and soul.

Frank’s body jerks once, a convulsion more spirit than muscle, and then stills in her arms.

And Sutton, glowing faintly with the imprint of the wolf awakening inside her, lifts her head—eyes blazing, chest heaving—as something ancient and sacred seals itself into being.

Outside, the wind screams through Cinder Gap like it recognizes the birth of something unstoppable.

CHAPTER 22

SUTTON

The raw bite of blood still clings to the back of my throat, burning like acid, making my stomach clench and my eyes water, when my dad's body jerks in my arms.

Not a death spasm... a breath that barely brushes my skin, ghosting across my neck with the fragile insistence of life refusing to let go.

Shallow. Weak. But unmistakably there.

"He's breathing," I rasp, cradling his head against my shoulder as tears blur my vision. "Deacon, he's alive. I bit him and it worked. He’s alive."

Wonder floods me, crashing against the edge of disbelief. I turned him. I actually turned him. And he’s going to live. Joy bursts inside me, wild and overwhelming, as I hold him tighter, my breath catching on a sob that tastes like hope.

Deacon's hands are already moving, pressing gauze from his med kit against the wound, muttering something sharp and urgent under his breath as Dalton radios for evac. The church reeks of gunpowder and old wood and fresh blood, but in this moment, all I can smell is the sweat on my father’s neck, the living heat of him against me. Alive. By a thread—but alive.

My dad's lashes flutter, the movement slight but unmistakable. His lips part, a faint rasp of breath escaping as if it costs him everything. I lean closer, my pulse racing, awe and disbelief coiling in my chest. I turned him. He's going to live. And somehow, impossibly, he’s trying to speak. A thousand emotions surge at once—wonder, gratitude, hope. I cradle him tighter, eyes stinging. "I'm here, Dad. I'm right here."

"Howling... moon," he breathes, barely audible.

"What?"

He tries again, his voice clearer this time, but only just. "Sookie. Told me. Thumb drive. Said she left it... howling at the moon."

I go still. That phrase... the wolf. The carved one on my porch. The one Sookie always ran her fingers over when she visited. My mind flashes back to the last time I saw her standing there, her eyes too bright, voice tight when she hugged me goodbye.

Deacon looks at me. "Do you know what that means?"

I meet Deacon's eyes, breath catching. "I think I know where it is."

Dad tries to sit up and groans. He blinks, still disoriented, then looks down at the hole in his chest, his fingers brushing the dried blood around it. "I thought... I felt the bullet... I should be dead."

I grin at him. "Dad, remember the stories you used to tell me when I was a kid about beasts and goblins and things that go bump in the night?"

He smiles weakly. "Yes. You never liked the ones about the princess in the tower who gets saved by the handsome prince."

"Well, have I got a story for you..."

Back on the road to Galveston, dawn cuts across the skyline in bruised golds and smoky lavender, the air thick with the scent of salt and last night’s rain. The breeze carries a faint chill that slips beneath my jacket, raising goosebumps across my skin. Seagulls cry overhead, their wings slicing the early light as if to remind me that we’re still here—still standing. Still breathing.

Deacon’s Harley growls beneath us, our bodies pressed close, the warmth of him seeping into my spine. There’s no conversation—none needed. Not yet. The ride back is all motion and memory, wind and silence.

When we pull up to my townhouse, I’m already halfway off the bike before it fully stops. My boots hit the pavement and I sprint for the porch, the adrenaline from the night’s chaos still crackling through every nerve ending, sharp and electric beneath my skin.

I drop to my knees beside the carved wooden wolf that has watched over my home for years—silent, stoic, and suddenly more than just a sentimental keepsake. My hands tremble as I reach for it, fingertips feeling along familiar grooves. I search beneath the paws, behind the ears, and along the base, willing myself to find something, anything, until?—

There.

A panel—nearly invisible, camouflaged by time and familiarity. My fingers hesitate, then press with purpose. A soft click breaks the silence, and the base creaks open. Tucked inside: a small, battered USB drive, carefully wrapped in wax paper like a secret meant to last.

My heart skips, a flutter of awe and disbelief catching in my chest. I hold the drive out to Deacon, and the way he takes it—careful, solemn, as if it’s something sacred—sends a swell of emotion through me so sharp it aches.

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