Page 67 of For Cowgirls and Kings

I look around me, desperate for any sign of some kind of direction. The sky’s so dark now, and I’m becoming aware of just how late into the night it’s become.How long have I been running?It has to be the dead of night; the trees are so thick I can barely see even a sprinkling of stars.

Tears stream down my face, freezing before they even drip from my chin. I spin around once more, looking for my foot prints to make sure I don’t accidentally take off in the way I came, when I spot a light.

It’s bouncing slightly, like a flashlight in a person's hand as they walk, and I want to scream, but bite my tongue instead. It’s either someone who can save me, or it’s someone here to kill me. My nerves are fried, but I have to at least try to get away. It’s not coming at me from the way I came, so I’m praying it’s someone new. Someone who can help me.

God, protect me.

And then I run towards the light. As I get closer, the large frame of a man, darker than the night around him, comes into view and I push my legs harder—I don’t know how or why he’s here.

But I’d know that outline anywhere.

TWENTY-FIVE

MATEO

February 18th, 2025

I’m jolted awake.The hairs on my arms are at full attention, and sweat clings to my skin in sticky droplets. Fog covers the front windshield, crystals forming along the edges, and I can’t see a thing.When did I even fall asleep?

I look over my shoulder into the recesses of the van, noting Gus and Stetson on the back seat, Stetson’s face buried into Gus’s chest, his own eyes closed. He shifts slightly, and I flick my eyes away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually awake, but just avoiding me. And I don’t blame him.

Everything’s so fucked up.

Faith’s curled into a ball in the middle seat, her normally perfect bun sitting like a crown on her head, frizzy and slumping to the side. And it’s the sight of each of them—haggard but here—that nearly crushes me. I’ve put each one of them in this position, especially Dale, and I don’t know how to fix it.

As silently as possible, I sit up in my seat, zipping my jacket, and move to open the door. I know the light and noise will likely wake everyone up, but I have to see what’s out there.Just to make sure.

Grabbing a flashlight in the cupholder, I press open the door.

“What is it?”

I halt, the door cracked open enough to signal the lights. I peek into the rearview mirror, finding exactly what I expected—a very wired and awake Gus. My throat feels achy and dry, and part of me wants to apologize, but now isn’t the right time.

“Uh, I have to pee.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want him to worry over nothing. My stomach has been in knots for days now, and even though this feels different, I know it’s probably not.

He grunts and leans back, pulling Stetson closer, but his eyes remain fixed on mine through the mirror. I’m the first to concede, pushing the door, and tiptoeing out. I pause, looking around. It’s still pitch black, and so quiet, the breath sawing in and out of my lungs sounds closer to a scream.

I can’t shake that crawling feeling against my neck, so I flick on my flashlight, and walk past the van. After a little while, I stop, listening.

“Do you hear that?” I nearly jump at the sound of McCrae’s voice, way too close for comfort, the familiar waft of cigarette smoke curling around me. I hate that he’s here—and so fucking close. And in the same breath, having him here somehow calms me too.

How can the same person who makes my skin crawl, give me a sense of safety? Like a devil in flesh, but wielding his evil on my behalf. Not good, but also not unwelcome.

Without responding, I step toward the blanket of darkness, straining my ears.

And that’s when I hear it: crunching, and heavy breathing. It could be an animal, but it’s cold, and dark, and even if I want to rationalize it, something tells me it’s not.I should have grabbed a gun.

I contemplate turning around and heading back to the van,but my body remains frozen—every cell straining and hyper-aware.

And then I hear it.I hear her.

“Mateo?” Her voice is hoarse, like she’s strained her vocal cords so thoroughly they’re raw and brittle. And in that singular use of my name, my heart detonates into a thousand tiny pieces.

I rush into the dark. “Dale?” I still can’t see her, but I can hear her—closer now than before. I keep moving as quickly as my legs will carry me toward the growing sounds of her labored breathing.

And then she materializes, like a flickering light in a dark room. Her legs are bare, feet clad in enormous shoes, an oversized, holey hoodie wrapped around her shoulders. Her face is black in more spots than it’s not, her left eye swollen over, lips cracked and bleeding. Her long hair flies in a wave behind her, but even that I can see is matted with god knows what.

If I wasn’t so desperate to get to her, I’d fall on my knees and cry at the sight of her.