Chapter 5

For two more weeks, things were almost normal.

Gwen worked the ranch from sunup to sundown. She ate meals at the table without being asked. She slept in the small room upstairs, though Ethan noticed she never fully closed the door—always left it cracked, always kept one ear open.

She didn’t talk much, but she listened. When Tom told stories about old roundups, she’d pause in her work. When Jesse asked her opinion on a horse, she’d give it—blunt and honest.

She was becoming part of the rhythm of the place.

But Ethan saw the signs.

The way she’d startle at sudden sounds. The way her eyes would go distant sometimes, staring at nothing. The way she’d grip a fence post too tight, her knuckles white, like she was holding herself together by force.

At night, he heard her pacing upstairs. Back and forth, back and forth, until exhaustion finally dragged her under.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t push.

He just waited.

It broke on a Tuesday night.

Ethan woke to the sound of something crashing in the barn—wood splintering, metal clanging, a sound of violence that sent him out of bed and running.

He found Gwen in the barn, wild-eyed and shaking.

She’d slammed a pitchfork into the wall so hard the handle had cracked. Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. Sweat plastered her hair to her face despite the cool night air.

She looked like she was fighting an enemy Ethan couldn’t see.

“Gwen?” he said carefully, stopping in the doorway.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked like breaking glass. “Don’t come close.”

“Okay.” Ethan stayed where he was, hands visible, non-threatening.

She pressed her back against the stall door, breathing hard. Her eyes darted around the barn like she was looking for exits, for threats, for chains that weren’t there.

“I woke up,” she choked out. “Thought I was back in that canyon. Thought they had me again. Thought I was—” She couldn’t finish. Her breath hitched. “Thought I was chained.”