What he felt wasn’t exactly relief.
It was something stranger.
For once, the blow didn’t come.
Later that afternoon, a state police truck pulled up at the ranch.
Two officers had come to ask about cattle stolen from a nearby property. One of them, a dark-haired man with a graying mustache, stepped out — then froze when he saw the dog.
“That can’t be…”
He approached slowly.
The German Shepherd barely moved, staying beside Mason.
The officer swallowed.
“Rex.”
Angela frowned.
“You know that dog?”
The officer removed his hat.
“He’s a retired K9. Search and protection. His handler died in the line of duty about a year ago.”
Mason looked up.
Rex.
The name sounded powerful.
Like something unbreakable.
The officer crouched slightly.
“Come here, boy.”
Rex didn’t move.
He remained beside the child.
The officer then studied Mason — the oversized sleeves, the hunched shoulders, the bruises hidden along his neck.
Then he saw the riding crop.
Something in his expression hardened.
“That boy live here?”
“Of course he does,” Angela replied with a polished smile. “He’s my stepson. Poor thing is terribly clumsy. Always falling.”
Mason lowered his head.
Like he always did.
As if the truth was something he wasn’t allowed to hold.