Page 2 of Alpha’s Vow (Copper Canyon Shifters #3)

CHAPTER 2

SABLE

T he canyon was silent except for the steady rhythm of the wind as it wove through the jagged cliffs, its low whistle a constant companion to Sable’s solitude. It was an unforgiving place, carved by time and weather into a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. Sable had chosen it for exactly that reason—no one would find her here.

The days bled into one another as she worked, her hands rough and calloused from the labor of survival. Her first task had been finding shelter. It was too dangerous to return to their small village. They weren’t wealthy. There was no vast estate, grand lodge or enormous ranch to sustain them. Instead they lived much like their ancestors had before them.

The overhang of trees she’d collapsed beneath her first night had been a temporary refuge, but from the moment she decided to call this place her own, she’d known she needed something permanent, something that felt secure. The hunters were far behind her, but the memory of their ambush was a wound that refused to heal.

The canyon behind the waterfall was large with more than enough grass to sustain a large herd of mustangs and a river that ran through it, offering more than enough water. She found a spot near the canyon wall where a natural outcrop offered a sturdy foundation. For weeks, she scavenged materials from the wilderness, her wolf form carrying what her human hands could not. Each day she pushed herself harder, her muscles burning as she dragged fallen logs, gathered stones, and fashioned tools from scraps of metal and bone.

After a time, she found her way to a small mercantile store—the kind that had a little bit of everything. She used her limited funds to buy things she couldn’t easily make for herself—a hammer, saw, nails, blankets, tarps, additional clothing, cast iron dutch oven and skillet.

The cabin grew slowly, its rough walls taking shape against the backdrop of towering cliffs. It wasn’t much—a single room with a thatched roof and a stone hearth—but it was hers. Every nail driven into the wood, every stone laid in place, was a testament to her resilience.

On the day she finished the roof, she stood back to admire her work, her breath fogging in the crisp morning air. The cabin was crooked in places, its seams imperfect, but it was sturdy. It would keep her safe. It was a symbol of her determination to survive.

"Not bad," she muttered, the sound of her voice startling in the silence. She hadn't spoken in weeks, her thoughts trapped in an endless loop of grief and fury. Saying the words out loud felt strange, but also grounding, like she was reclaiming a part of herself.

The cabin wasn’t just a shelter—it was a turning point. With it, she had a home, a base of operations for the life she intended to rebuild. But survival was only the first step. She needed purpose, something to anchor her to this fragile existence. She found it in the wild mustangs.

The first horse came to her by accident. She’d been tracking a small herd, her wolf senses sharp as she followed their trail through the canyon. They were magnificent creatures, their coats gleaming in shades of chestnut, bay, and gray. Sable had no intention of capturing one—at least, not at first. But when she saw the young stallion trapped in a thicket of brambles, its sleek body trembling with fear and exhaustion, something inside her shifted.

She approached slowly, her human form small and unthreatening. The stallion’s dark eyes watched her warily, its nostrils flaring as she came closer.

"Easy," she murmured, her voice low and soothing. "I’m not going to hurt you."

It took hours of patient coaxing to free the horse, her hands bloodied from the thorns that tore at her skin. When it was finally loose, the stallion bolted, its powerful legs carrying it far from her reach. Sable hadn’t expected anything else, but she watched it go with a strange sense of satisfaction. She’d done something good, something that had nothing to do with revenge or survival. It felt like a small victory.

From that day forward, she made it her mission to work with the mustangs. At first, it was just about observing them, learning their patterns and behaviors. But as the weeks turned into months, she began to capture and train them, each horse a new challenge, a new goal.

The first time she succeeded, it was with a mare—a sleek, gray beauty with a stubborn streak that reminded Sable of herself. The process was slow, requiring endless patience and a willingness to adapt. Sable spent hours with the mare, speaking to her in soft tones, letting her get used to the sound of her voice and the scent of her skin.

"You’re not so different from me, are you?" Sable said one afternoon, running her fingers through the mare’s mane. "Just trying to survive in a world that’s hell-bent on breaking us."

The mare snorted, tossing her head as if in agreement. It made Sable laugh, a sound she hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime. It was a small moment, but it reminded her that life could still hold joy, even in the midst of loss.

Gentling and training the mustangs became her new purpose—her new way to make a living—to have enough money to pursue those who had taken everything from her. She built a gate to block the entrance into her canyon and then a small corral and lean-to near the cabin, fashioning all of it from scavenged wood and rope. Each horse she captured and trained felt like a piece of herself reclaimed, a testament to her resilience and determination.

She returned to the mercantile and purchased horse equipment: halters, bridles, a saddle, saddle pads and various other equipment. The work was hard, grueling even, but it grounded her. There was something profoundly satisfying about earning the trust of a creature so wild, so untamed. It reminded her of the bond she’d shared with her pack, the way they’d moved together as one, a seamless blend of instinct and connection.

Some nights, as she sat by the fire in her cabin, her body aching from the day’s work, she thought about what she’d lost. The faces of her family haunted her dreams, their laughter and howls echoing in the quiet of the canyon. She couldn’t bring them back, but she could honor them. The mustangs were her tribute, her way of carrying their memory forward.

She often spoke to them as she worked, her voice filling the silence that had once seemed so oppressive.

"Your spirit reminds me of my brother," she said to a fiery chestnut stallion one day, his ears flicking back to catch her words. "He was stubborn, too. Always thought he could take on the world."

The stallion snorted, pawing at the ground, and Sable smiled. "I guess you’re not so different after all."

Each horse she trained was a symbol of her strength, a reminder that she could rebuild her life piece by piece. They weren’t just animals—they were her allies, her companions in this strange new existence, and they were her means to an end. She began using private auctions and word-of mouth to find buyers and see that the horses found good, safe, kind homes.

But even as she found purpose in the mustangs, the fire of vengeance burned in her chest. The hunters were still out there, living their lives as if they hadn’t destroyed hers. She thought about them often, her hands tightening into fists as she remembered the sound of gunfire, the scent of blood.

"I’ll find you," she whispered one night, staring into the flames of her hearth. "And when I do, you’ll pay for what you did."

The canyon was her sanctuary, her refuge, but it was also her training ground. Every log she split, every nail she drove into the cabin, every horse she trained was preparation. She was sharpening herself, honing her body and mind for the day she would face the men who had taken everything from her.

And she would face them.

That promise was the only thing that kept her going some days, the only thing that silenced the doubts that crept into her mind. She didn’t know when or how, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would avenge her family.

The mustangs were proof of that. They were wild and free, just like she had been before the hunters came. And like her, they had found a way to survive.

As she leaned against the fence of the corral one evening, watching the sunset cast the canyon in shades of gold and crimson, she felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in months. The storm that had nearly destroyed her had passed, leaving her stronger and more determined than ever.

But deep down, she knew the real storm was still to come. And when it did, she would be ready.

The roar of the crowd was a distant buzz in Sable’s ears as she leaned low over the mustang’s neck, her body moving fluidly with each powerful stride. The barrels loomed ahead, shining under the arena lights, their placement etched into her mind like a map she could navigate blindfolded. Every muscle in her body tensed as they neared the first turn.

“Steady, girl,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the pounding hooves and her own heartbeat.

The gray mare beneath her, Ghost, responded instantly as they shot into the arena, Sable’s lean body shifting as they rounded the first barrel. The turn was tight, so close that Sable could feel the edge of the barrel graze her jeans. Perfect. Adrenaline surged through her as they burst toward the second.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but she barely registered it. This wasn’t about them. It wasn’t even about the prize money, though she needed every cent of it. Barrel racing had become her sanctuary—a place where she could channel her grief, her anger, and her need for revenge into something tangible. The discipline of training the mustangs, the precision of every turn, and every stride gave her a sense of control she hadn’t felt since that day in the Montana wilderness.

The second turn was just as sharp, Ghost’s hooves kicking up dirt as they dug in, curled around the barrel, and charged out of the turn. Sable felt the mare’s strength beneath her, a raw, untamed energy that mirrored her own. Together, they were unstoppable.

As they approached the final barrel, a memory sliced through her focus, unbidden and brutal.

Her mother’s howl had been cut short, a sound that still echoed in the corners of her mind. Blood on snow. Her father and brother’s bodies crumpling to the ground, his silver fur matted with red.

Sable’s jaw tightened, and she tightened her grip on the reins. The anger that flared in her chest wasn’t a distraction—it was fuel. She would use it, just as she always did. Ghost responded to her unspoken command, accelerating as they rounded the final turn and charged toward the finish line.

When they crossed it, the clock stopped, and the crowd erupted into deafening applause. Sable reined Ghost to a halt, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breathing. She could hear the announcer declaring her time—faster than anyone else that night—but the words were distant, unimportant.

The money mattered. The fame didn’t.

Sable dismounted, patting Ghost’s neck as the mare shook out her mane, still thrumming with the adrenaline of the run. “Good girl,” she murmured. “You did it again.”

“Damn right she did,” came a voice behind her. Sable turned to see a fellow racer, Carrie Blake, striding toward her with a grin. “Fastest time I’ve seen all season. You’re on fire, Morse.”

Sable gave a small, tight smile. “Thanks.”

Carrie looked at her for a moment, her expression softening. “You ever let yourself celebrate? Or is winning just another stop on the way to… whatever you’re chasing?”

Sable shrugged, brushing a speck of dirt from her jeans. “Something like that.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re making the rest of us look bad.” Carrie winked, giving Ghost an affectionate pat before heading off toward the stalls.

Sable watched her go, a faint pang of guilt tugging at her chest. Carrie was one of the few people on the circuit who’d tried to break through her walls, but Sable couldn’t let anyone in—not when every ounce of her energy was devoted to the hunt.

She led Ghost back to the stables, her boots crunching against the dirt path. The rhythmic sound soothed her, grounding her in the present. The money from tonight’s win would go a long way toward funding her search. With each victory, she inched closer to her goal.

Inside the stall, she rubbed Ghost down, letting the repetitive motion calm her racing thoughts. The mare nickered softly, leaning into the strokes of the brush. “You’re the only one who gets it,” Sable muttered. “The only one who knows what it means to fight for survival.”

The words felt heavy in the quiet stable, but she didn’t regret saying them. Ghost had become more than a horse to her—she was a partner, a symbol of everything Sable was fighting for.

Later, back inside the living quarters of her horse trailer, Sable spread a map across the bed. The towns she’d visited were marked with red sticky flags, each one representing a lead, a clue, a piece of the puzzle. The hunters who had slaughtered her family were careful, but not careful enough. She’d tracked their movements from Montana to Texas, their trail as faint and elusive as smoke.

Tonight’s winnings would pay for more supplies, more time to chase them down. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

She traced a line on the map, her finger pausing over a small town near the Mexican border. The name was scrawled in black ink, a reminder of a rumor she’d heard at the last rodeo—something about a man who’d bragged about killing wolves and seemed to fit what she knew of the hunters. Sable didn’t trust rumors, but she couldn’t afford to ignore them, either.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling her attention away. She frowned, picking it up to see a text from Carrie.

Nice work tonight. Drinks are on me next time you’re in town. Don’t let that phantom of yours keep you from living, okay?

Sable stared at the message, her chest tightening. Carrie meant well, but she didn’t know, didn’t understand. No one did.

She set the phone down, her gaze drifting back to the map. The phantoms Carrie mentioned weren’t just memories—they were her family, her pack, and they deserved justice. She couldn’t let herself forget that, not even for a moment.

The night stretched on as she pored over her notes, piecing together the fragments of information she’d gathered. Faces flashed in her mind, unbidden—her mother, her brother, her cousins—all of them stolen from her in an instant of gunfire and blood.

Her hands clenched into fists. They were gone, but she was still here. And as long as she drew breath, she would hunt the men who had taken them from her.

The sound of Ghost pawing at her stall outside broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. Sable stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long, and stepped outside to check on the mare. The night air was cool and crisp, the stars scattered like shards of glass across the sky.

Ghost nickered softly as Sable approached, her eyes reflecting the faint light of the moon. “You restless, too?” Sable asked, running a hand along the mare’s flank.

The horse snorted, tossing her head as if in agreement. Sable smiled faintly, her resolve hardening. They were a team, she and Ghost—two survivors bound by a shared determination.

She turned her gaze to the horizon, the faint glow of the next town visible in the distance. The road ahead was long, fraught with danger and uncertainty, but Sable wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Somewhere out there, the hunters were still breathing, still living their lives as if they hadn’t torn hers apart. But they wouldn’t escape her forever. With each victory, she grew stronger, more focused, more determined.

“Soon,” she whispered into the night, her voice carrying on the wind. “I’ll find you. And when I do…”

Her words trailed off, the stars overhead burned brighter, but the promise lingered in the air.