Zane had been luckier than his brother.
The stone spike had missed his heart, catching him nearer the shoulder, narrowly missing the tip of his lung. He’d lain there on the cold desert floor for hours before I went searching, and might have died from shock.
But he hadn’t.
The crime scene specialists returned with their outlandish vehicle. While the police worked to process the area and transport Zane to the hospital in Florence, I helped the Halloways strike camp and load the horses and mules. Plans had changed, and Madsen ordered us back to the ranch.
The outward trek seemed to take ages longer than going in had done. Breaking our journey once again at the naturally formed ramada, Darren made a fire for warmth and cooking, but there was no music, no stories, no laughter. The three of
