Chapter 2

The prairie grew quiet after the smoke thinned.

Fire consumed what it wanted and settled into black ribs of wagon wood. The sun slid lower, red and swollen, as if embarrassed by what it had witnessed. Wind moved through the cottonwoods with a dry whisper.

Moira lay where she had fallen.

Thomas’s body was a few feet away, already stiffening in the cooling air. She had dragged herself to him before darkness came, pressing her face against his chest until the truth would no longer be denied. He did not breathe. He would never breathe again.

The arrow still jutted from the back of her thigh.

Every heartbeat drove a deep, sickening throb into her bones. The shaft trembled when she shifted. Blood had slowed to a sluggish ooze, sticky against her skin.

When night crept in, it brought cold.

Moira shivered violently. The pain in her leg sharpened as the warmth left the day. She could not remain beside Thomas. The smell of smoke and blood would draw scavengers.

It already had.

She heard them before she saw them—wings beating heavy air.

Vultures circled high above, black shapes against a bruised sky. They were patient. They would wait.

“No,” she whispered hoarsely.

She rolled onto her stomach and began to crawl.

Her wounded leg dragged uselessly behind her. It felt wrong—numb in places, burning in others. When she tried to bend it, nothing answered properly. The muscles refused command. The arrow had buried deep; she could feel how deep.

Each pull forward was done with her hands and her good knee. Dirt ground into her palms. Her breath came in ragged pulls.

She reached the shadow of a half-burned wagon tongue and collapsed there, panting.

The arrow had to come out.

She knew that much.

With shaking hands, she reached back. Her fingers brushed the shaft. Even that light touch sent a wave of nausea through her.