The hay smelled like dust, dried manure, and cold air. Mason curled beside the mare, Sierra, his back burning under the torn fabric of his shirt. The horse lowered her head and breathed softly into his hair, almost as if she were trying to guide him back to the world.
“It’s not that bad,” he whispered, even though every pulse of his heart sent pain through him.
Then he heard it.
A different sound.
A snort. Low. Short. Alert.
Mason lifted his head.
A dog stood in the stable doorway.
Large. Black, with a rust-colored patch on its chest. Its posture was straight and disciplined. This wasn’t like the ranch dogs. It didn’t look lost, wild, or playful.
It looked like something else entirely.
The animal wore a wide, worn leather collar. Its eyes seemed sharp, observant—almost knowing.
The dog stayed still for a moment, watching.
Mason barely dared to breathe.
“I don’t have anything to give you,” he murmured.
Finally the dog stepped forward, one slow step at a time, never looking away from the boy. It sniffed the air, then the blood on Mason’s shirt, then the riding crop lying nearby on a crate. Its muscles tightened.
Sierra stamped once.
Mason slowly reached out a trembling hand.