Boon Carter didn’t buy the old ranch for charm. Sagging fences, peeling paint, a barn half-swallowed by weeds—it was falling apart. He bought it because no one else wanted it. Because silence was cheaper than therapy. Because after everything he’d survived, solitude demanded nothing in return.
But on his first week, as pale dawn spilled across the prairie, he realized the ranch wasn’t empty. Something watched him from the treeline.
At first, just a shadow. Then a girl emerged—barefoot, clothes torn, hair tangled like wind and hunger. Muscles taut, eyes bright with feral intelligence. She moved like a predator, yet she was real—breathing, watching, waiting.
Boon froze, coffee cooling in his hand. Slowly, he raised a hand. “Easy,” he murmured.
Her head tilted, assessing him with uncanny focus, then she vanished into the trees.
Evidence of her presence kept mounting: bare footprints around the well, missing jerky, a deer carcass dragged under the fence. And always—the feeling of being watched.
Days passed. Boon worked the barn, mended fences, and always, she lingered at the edges of his vision—perched on a boulder, crouched in tall grass, half-hidden, fully present.
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