Page 23 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

But he didn’t pry. Didn’t draw attention

He merely gave her his strength in the silent, soft brush of his thumb.

It was a gift she wasn’t sure she deserved or could accept.

5

The rooster crowed for the third time, and Liv still hadn't moved.

She'd been awake since four. Lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, phone face down on the nightstand like it might bite her if she looked at it again.

We know where you are.

Five words. Sent from a blocked number at 9:47 p.m. while she'd been sitting by the fire pit with Mike's hand warm against hers and stars overhead and the faint smell of wood smoke curling through the air.

She'd deleted the text immediately. Powered off the phone. Shoved it in the drawer.

Then she'd lain awake all night, racking her brain, trying to figure out what or who could have given up her whereabouts. The fact that she hadn’t been able to get through to Detective Sanchez filled her with dread. Had something happened to him? Had his files been compromised? Files that pertained to her? Specifically the phone number of the burner phone he’d given her?

And then it dawned on her. At the Colorado bus station. She’d accidentally used her bank card. Olivia Langford’s bank card. She’d nearly passed out when she realized her mistake, prayed no one would trace her, convinced herself she was being overly dramatic. That she’d been watching too many crime dramas. That she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.

Well, she’d obviously been wrong.

For the rest of the night, she’d listening to every creak in the old house, every rustle of wind against the window, every distant bark from Heather's dogs.

Waiting.

But nothing had happened. No footsteps on the stairs. No knock at the door. No black SUV tearing up the gravel drive.

Just silence. And the rooster. And now, golden light creeping through the gap in the curtains like the world hadn't just tilted sideways.

Liv pressed her palms against her eyes.

Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe it was spam. Maybe. . .

She sat up. Swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Who was she kidding?

It wasn't spam.

Someone knew. And that meant she was out of time.

She should pack. She should leave. Disappear again before whoever sent that message decided words weren't enough.

But then she thought about Charlotte, sticky-fingered and earnest, telling her the biscuits tasted like a sunset had a baby. Thought about Heather, steady and kind, offering her space without questions. Thought about Mike, standing between her and trouble without even knowing what the trouble was.

Thought about the way his body had felt against hers last night. Solid, warm, like an anchor she hadn't known she needed.

Liv stood. Pulled on jeans, a sleeveless white blouse, and the worn leather boots Heather had given her. She braided her hair with shaking hands, swiped on concealer that didn't quite cover the shadows under her eyes, and took a breath.

One more day.

She'd give herself one more day to figure out if she was overreacting or if the walls were really closing in.

And if they were... she'd leave quietly. No goodbyes. No explanations.

Just gone.