Sienna's mom baked cupcakes and encouraged the girls to decorate them with whatever they wanted, then checked that they only limited themselves to one indulgence. She hovered over them as they ate dinner and vacillated between wanting them to eat every bite and telling them to recognize the signs of being full. It reminded her of childhood dinners with her mom, Thanksgivings where Lilly would watch them all eat while sipping wine and pushing sweet potato casserole around her plate. Piper hadn't been in a house with a female for years. It was only Sienna and her mom. Their home brimming with crafted throw cushions, souvenir trinkets, a huge Live, Laugh, Love cross-stitch on the wall. It had only been a day, and she already felt claustrophobic. She hadn't appreciated how much her dad simply gave her space to be. She missed him. Wishing to be at home, cooking dinner with him, without a single mundane discussion about the calorie count in a Twizzler.

Sienna and Piper stay up late, talking boys and avoiding homework. They giggle and tease and doodle absentmindedly in their diaries, the latest pop tracks echo in the background. Finally, pajamas on and tucked into bed, the whispering fades and Sienna grows quiet. Piper waits for her breath to grow steady and heavy.

From the rollout on the floor under a hand sewn patchwork quilt, she turns on her phone, letting the light illuminate her face in the dark. She's been waiting so patiently to look at the pictures she took from Veronica's file. Properly. Examine them one by one like they do in mystery novels. But this wasn't a novel, it was real.

Piper could pinch herself with the fact that her dad is out there in the wilderness searching for a murderer, right now. She wished she could have gone along with them, but there was no chance in hell he'd let that happen, so it wasn't even worth asking.

Flicking through each shot, she focuses on the photos, the list of main characters in this mystery. Then, she does the only investigating a fifteen-year-old in the middle of Montana can. Facebook. Instagram. The social media connecting us is the only window into these lives that she can fathom.

Her username is Piper Lester, taking her Grandmother's maiden name for a semblance of anonymity. The rules were strict around her usage of social media, so she only had a few select school friends and relatives allowed as followers. She has to be careful. Send the friend requests, investigate their feeds, then unfriend them before her dad gets back. Methodically she finds names from the file and keys them into the search bar.

She starts with the big one.

Joseph Moyer.

It's a bust starting here, she knows, but she had to try it. Wanted people would hardly post their selfies on the gram.

Next she tries Rhys Arnold, the cop who survived. He appears to have a profile, but it's private. Just an outdated photo of himself on a beach.

She flicks through the photos again, landing on the family snap of Juan Gutierrez and his family. Juan is front and center wearing his police formal dress. His eyes are a deep brown, his smile wide and creased. His wife squints in the sunlight, hair whipping to the right. The children, twin girls, stand side by side clinging to their father. Emma and Bronte Gutierrez. She swallows, feeling a faint comradery with them. They know what it's like to lose a parent without warning. Piper wonders if they remember the way he smelled, or if when they closed their eyes, they could still conjure an image of his face.

Eight years ago this picture was taken, they'd be fifteen now. Keying in Emma Gutierrez, there is one result, a woman in Mexico city that is well into her forties. Next, she tries Bronte. This time there is a hit. Bronte Gutierrez appears with a location of Santa Barbara. Her profile picture looks about right, blonde hair, young, but posed to make her seem older. The kind of photo you take and display purely for Facebook.

Piper sends her a friend request and moves onto the next pile of names from Veronica's file. But before she can even type anything in, her phone vibrates in her hands.

Your friend request with Bronte Gutierrez has been accepted.

She rolls onto her stomach, positioning herself closer to the phone. Small thumps of excitement beat in her chest. She types Bronte a direct message.

Hi.

The phone goes quiet. She stares at the blank screen watching her message being read and waits. Finally, the smooth vibration alerts her.

Hi.


Veronica wakes to Logan cursing.

"Fuck!" He yells and his footsteps thump across the leaf matter.

Once she'd eventually relaxed and fallen asleep, she'd been sure she would awake to a forest bird singing its gentle song from the branches, not Logan's angry puffs.

Peeking her head out of bed and sitting up, he's busy stalking toward the river.

"What's wrong?" She calls out.

He answers something unintelligible as she pulls herself out of the bedroll. Logan's is beside hers still, blankets strewn in the dirt in a hurry. Pulling on socks and boots, she heads in the direction he is. It's a considerable effort. Her body is screaming. With each movement, she feels every muscle and tendon in vivid detail.

It only takes a moment before she realizes his curse is not from dropping a log on his toe or spilling breakfast onto the forest floor. There is something missing that should have been there.

The horses.

They're gone.

She tries to run to catch up to him, but the pain in her lower limbs is too great and instead slows to a waddle. His head cranes around in fierce determination, squinting his eyes to see beyond the trees and up onto higher ridges to the east.

"Where are they? What happened?" She yells.

Logan doesn't stop walking, doesn't look at her, "They could be anywhere," he says, half answering, half talking to himself.

"I don't understand. You tied them up, you checked, I watched you check on them," she replays the memory in her head. Logan going to the horses in the darkness, checking their headstalls, patting them, speaking to them in low tones.

"I did," he puffs and holds out a rope, finally still, letting her catch up.

In her outstretched hand, she takes it, inspecting the short length. The twisted blue cord is severed neatly on each side.

"It was cut," he says briskly, then immediately resumes his search.

She stares at it. The fibers are cleanly sliced, not worn or frayed. A dead straight cut. Most likely by a knife. It's 3/4 of an inch thick, so it would have to be a big knife.

Veronica runs to reach Logan, legs moving beneath her like they have iron strapped to them.

"I got up at around four and checked on them. They were fine," he says.

"But who...?" She starts but lets the words drift into the morning air.

Logan grunts.

"Surely not? We're not even near the cabin yet! How could he have known we were here?"

Again, he provides no response.

"Has the rope just been cut, or have they been taken?"

"I have no idea, but the tracks look to just be horses, I can't see human prints with them."

The sky is dark and swollen, clouds hanging low as if they're clinging with the last of their wispy fingertips to the rain. Veronica wishes she'd brought her coat when she followed him. The gray morning has silenced the birds, as though she has cotton balls shoved in her ears. Her muscles finally warming up, she jogs to catch him. Once close, she slows to a hobbled walk, watching him beside her, glowering. Logan's skin seems to have tensed. Yesterday it was soft and warm by the fire's glow. Today it was hard and dusty, like a saddle. It was the skin she saw when he slammed the door in her face. It's his skin now telling her this was a bad idea—I-should- never-have-come-out-into-these-woods-with-this-woman-skin. The face of regret.

But he says nothing. Instead, searching like a bloodhound, checking each broken stick for clues as Veronica follows uselessly. A horseshit here, a hoofprint there. It could have been a stegosaurus footprint for all Veronica knew. He was seeing things; she was sure of it. Those horses could be anywhere by now. Anywhere.

Despite her worry for the horses, for Logan. All she can think is that it's over. The string line effect of the lost horses.

Turn back and go home.

No Moyer.

No money.

Back home to Keith after a few short days.

Back to Neptune and the pile of bills, and not an extra cent to help pay for them. Less, in fact.

Logan will go back to his daughter, his ranch, his life.

"I'm sorry, Logan," she mutters.

He grumbles, seems to see something on the ground and makes a hard left.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." she starts again, and he spins around to her and snaps.

"For fuck's sake, stop! It's not your fault. I agreed to this. I am an adult and I made a decision and I need to live with that. If that means losing my horses, well, fuck, that's not your issue."

Veronica shrinks into herself and doesn't respond.

Logan stomps further upriver, bounds over a sizable fallen log, coming to an abrupt stop on the rocky edge of the river.

"They went across."

"What? How do you know?"

He points down to a rounded mark in the ground, a distinct fresh horseshoe print.

Before he can answer, he's in the water, navigating the slippery rocks. It reaches his calves, his blue jeans turning dark. Veronica hesitates only for a second before plunging in right behind him. They crossed it with the horses only yesterday, but in that instance, she didn't get a drip on her. It shocks her like ice on her skin, prickling at the sore muscles. Her legs are shorter. It touches her thighs, the darkness creeping up her jeans.

Logan is seething, despite his remarks that it wasn't her fault. She knew it herself, it was. All of it.

As if he can sense her thoughts, he turns to face her, brown eyes piercing.

"I just need to know. Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why this, is it revenge? Because he killed a cop?"

"No."

"The money then, it's all about the money, right?"

She doesn't answer.

"What are you willing to risk for a hundred grand?" he speaks, almost to himself, but loud enough for her to hear.

She bristles, takes a breath, and strikes.

"Someone who breeds his own bees on his sixty-five million dollar ranch, eating the bread baked by his maid, is the last person in the world who should make assumptions about what someone would do for money."

Logan sighs, impatient, "Maybe if you explain it to me, then I'll understand?"

She stomps along, following him.

"I want a new car," she lies.

He eyes her speculatively. "Bullshit."

"Whatever, I want a new apartment, a new Rolex, I don't know. I want a new fucking life!" She yells. "Who gives a shit why? I don't understand why it's so important?"

"Because shit just got real, Veronica. Someone cut these ropes, someone doesn't want us here. We're not gallivanting through the woods singing Kumbaya, we are alone, searching for a goddamn murderer!"

"You knew that coming into this!"

He stops, spinning on his heels. It's as if his back has arched up, looming over her. "Yeah, and now that I've just lost tens of thousands of dollars' worth of horses, I'm starting to realize that this was probably a very bad idea. A cut rope is a warning, a fucking clear one."

"You know what? Find your horses, go home. I wanted to do this myself. I can do this myself." Veronica turns and walks away.

Logan calls out to her, but she keeps going. Head down, following the tracks they've made. Back across the river, the cold water lapping at her thighs. She goes until she can't hear him calling her, or the horses any longer.

Eventually reaching their camp, everything was as it was left, Logan's blankets still strewn about. She stands by the smoldering ash of the fire, wet now to her waist, and a familiar prickle creeps up. Her cheeks are flushed, her fingers curled into fists by her side. She wants to yell, to scream, to throw the bags around and rage but instead, she squeezes her eyes shut. The prickle comes closer now and she cries. Dropping onto her bedroll, she cries into her pillow. The birds watch her, the trees watch her, the ants crawling in the dead leaves watch her. They're witness to her pain, finally released. Tears are something she hasn't allowed herself for years. Since Keith's original diagnosis. She needed to be strong for him, she couldn't have a marshmallow center, it needed to be stone. No one could break stone.

Or so she thought.

Logan was right. She shouldn't have done this, risked his family and her own. It was selfish. Risky.

Veronica cries until her pillow is wet and her nose filled. It was a dam, once released, hard to suppress. Puffy-eyed the tears finally seem to have come to the end. Pulling herself from the bed she changes into dry clothes and searches for firewood, stacking the sticks in a neat pile beside last night's fire. She goes to Logan's bed, shaking out the blankets on the ground, tucking them into the bedroll neatly. It smells like him, the memory of him all those years ago.

Tugging the canvas cover over the top something hard rests toward the bottom. Veronica reaches down and finds the rifle. She pulls it into her lap, inspects it, tests the bolt lever, holds the scope up to her eye. Finding a blurry raven pecking in the dirt she adjusts the scope, until slowly she can see it in perfect clarity.

The sky blackens as the afternoon wears on, with no sign of him anywhere. Has he given up? On the horses? On her? Has he turned for home and began to walk back to the ranch?

Finally, it begins to spit. Veronica makes a dry camp in the belly of a white spruce. Its branches and soft needles, hugging around her. It's easily eighty feet tall, maybe a hundred, straight as an arrow, pointing all the way into the low clouds. Tying a tarpaulin as best she can among the branches for shelter, she collapses against the trunk, sitting and waiting as the sky opens. The cold barrel of the rifle sits snugly in her palm.

The rain seems like a sign. Some kind of ominous warning. It makes the forest inhospitable, silencing the animals, forcing them to take cover. Veronica doesn't believe in signs, so she tries to shake the feeling. She touches the bark behind her, the warmth still radiates yesterday's sunshine, and she waits.


It's almost dark.

Each raindrop hits the needles of the pines as their highest peak, making a laborious descent down, hitting each branch until it finally falls atop the tarp with a lazy smack.

Veronica has convinced herself that Logan is gone. Her game plan is set to continue at daybreak tomorrow. Find the cabin, get the pictures. Leave. This was the original plan. No Logan now. She can still do it, just alone.

Scrounging through the food storage bag, she finds a granola bar. While opening the wrapper, she hears the soft thud of footfalls nearby and looks up to see Logan approaching. Behind him trail all three horses on halters. Veronica jumps to her feet. She can't help but feel the smile spread across her lips, the happiness in her voice. Pure relief.

"Where were they?"

Logan passes her the ropes and he walks to repair the cut high line. He's completely drenched, clothes dripping, hair mussed and sticking to his forehead. The horses come to a stop before her. Opie nudges her arm, Banjo sniffs at her granola bar, his lips moving towards it. Mickey, the packhorse, is busy watching Logan with interest. She pats each one of them gently on the face, so grateful to see them back, the relief of their damp fur beneath her hands floods through her body. She doesn't even care that she's standing in the rain.

"They were about a mile from where you left, a lovely big open meadow. Plenty of dandelions to snack on," he grins and shakes his head beginning a complicated knot around the tree. "Catching them took a little longer than expected. I think they quite enjoyed their day being wild horses."

"You scared me so bad!" Veronica tells Opie, "I thought you were gone forever. Piper would never forgive me."

Then she turns to Logan, takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too, I was just worried."

"I know this is crazy, I just…" she begins and he waves his hands, shaking his head.

"You don't have to explain it, Veronica, it's fine. We'll stay the night tonight, go to the cabin in the morning, make our way straight home," he's all business, back to the task.

She nods, happy with his offer as he returns to her side, taking the ropes back. He comes close, giving her a friendly shoulder nudge on the pass. It's the unspoken apology, the unspoken forgiveness that they both they both need.


Backs against the tree trunk, they sit. Staring out into the black. If there was anyone out there tonight, they would never know it. Visibility was lucky to be a foot with no fire and no moonlight. Thankfully, it wasn't too cold. The rain grew so heavy Logan had to stand and press the bulging pool forming in the tarpaulin. The water slops over the side with a thunk and immediately begins to re-pool.

They'd changed into clean, dry clothes, eaten a dinner of apples and crackers. All of this in silence. Logan fussed over the horses, checked and re-checked everything until he was satisfied.

"You think we've had enough of a shitty day to constitute breaking into the emergency liquor?" Logan finally asks.

"As far as I'm concerned, any night out in the woods is an emergency-liquor kinda night."

"Good point," he says. From his backpack he pulls a silver flask, unscrews it, handing it to Veronica.

She takes a long swig. Whiskey, the expensive kind, smooth and smokey with a warming burn at the end. Passing it back, Logan sips once, then takes another before letting his head fall back.

"That tastes like drinking money," she says, "The cheap stuff my dad buys tastes like paint thinners in comparison."

Logan chuckles, "I'd argue that terrible whiskey is better than no whiskey at all."

"Keith Mars would agree with your sentiments." She says, enjoying saying his name, even in casual conversation. A reminder of him, that he's home, back in that shitty office building. There. Alive. Even when she's here.

"I'm sorry I acted like an asshole. It's just," he scratches his hair, "right now, those horses are close enough to my best friends. The thought of losing Banjo." The words hang.

Veronica looks in the horse's direction in the dark, in the rain.

"I get it."

"It's really only Piper and I. Out here it feels like us against the world."

She nods, taking another swig. His arm brushes hers as they pass the flask back and forth. She needs to tell him. To explain. The stakes are high now. He deserves to know.

"The reason I'm here," she says, breathing in deep, "It's my Dad. He's dying." The last word comes out as a strangled whisper. She realizes that she's never said those words out loud to anyone before. Ever.

Logan turns his head, watches her in the dark. For a moment she thinks he might reach out and touch her as a comfort gesture, but it doesn't come.

"We thought he was in remission. Then last year, it came back."

"How long does he have?" Logan asks.

Veronica shrugs, "he's stopped going to appointments. He's only managing the pain."

"I remember your dad, he's a great guy."

Veronica doesn't pass the flask back, instead she drinks some more, squints her eyes shut.

"He's given up. He says he's done. He's tired of trying, he's tired of life. That I should let him go. But I can't. He's all I have."

This time, Logan reaches out. His hand rests against her knee. She didn't think she'd cry, until that touch, and a single tear slips down her cheek. Suddenly, without warning, the words flow from her like the rain flowing down around them. She tells the story she never tells anyone. How Keith's downfall, their downfall, had all started with Aaron Echolls. How it all started with those photos.

Keith Mars had forever been a man of principals. As soon as she'd shown the images to him, he spun the wheels of justice. He wanted to get Aaron Echolls and get him good. No one had a right to abuse their power and privilege with women, least of all underage girls. So from the moment those pictures crossed his path, he gathered evidence, interviewed teenagers at Java The Hut. It didn't take long, he'd found multiple witnesses, other girls involved, people willing to testify. The photos were the tip of the iceberg.

Mayor Burano was nearing the end of his first term. A self professed charismatic game-changer. He got along with Keith. They'd enjoyed friendly rounds of golf and bonded over a shared love of Zeppelin's early recordings. The Mayor had secured extensive refurbishments to the bedraggled and perpetually under-funded Balboa Sheriff's Department. New officers were hired to cover staff shortages, Keith received a substantial raise. Naturally, Keith had been enamored by his new friend, rather than realizing that he was being wooed in order to secure loyalties.

The day Keith found a judge willing to sign an arrest warrant for Aaron Echolls, the Mayor took him out for lunch. "It's just media speculation, Keith. Tabloids and such. It will all blow over by the time the next pop star let's a nipple slip!" It began innocently enough, but ended with, "It's in your best interests to leave well enough alone."

Of course, by this he meant his best interests. Burano was an old friend of Aaron's. They went yachting in Monte Carlo each summer and was a minor investor in Dark Invasion II, Aarons latest film due for release next fall. The mayor had excellent reasons to keep Aaron out of handcuffs.

Keith Mars is many things, but he's not a pushover. And when he didn't push, the mayor began to shove. But Keith held firm. He ignored the not-so-subtle requests and drove down Edgemont Blvd to arrest Aaron Echolls. He'd played the whole thing out in his head, what it would feel like to cuff him, the look on Aaron's face. But on the way, he got a phone call. The judge had voided the warrant. The mayor had gotten to him.

Keith went higher up the chain of command. He called the superintendent and was told, in no uncertain terms, that the decision was out of his hands. Keith needed to wipe his hands of this case, let it go. "Sometimes, Keith you've got to pick your battles," he said seconds before Keith threw his phone out the window in a rage.

Veronica laughs but with no humor, "I asked him to let it go. Begged him. But he was still mad about the pictures being released, and my involvement. He felt compelled to see it through to the end, and they wouldn't let him, no matter how hard he tried. The next day, the Mayor found Dad's badge and gun on his desk. He quit. He loved the job, but hated the constant concessions he had to make at every turn. Bad guys rarely get what they deserve."

"They never do," says Logan, shaking his head.

"Of course, you know how the Aaron Echolls story ended. It didn't matter, dad quit for nothing. After Britany did the 60 minutes interview about Aaron's antics, the public had turned against him, and eventually the Sheriff's department had to do something about it for fear of appearing blasé ."

"And so, Aaron Echolls ruins another life," Logan sighs as though he's not at all surprised. Years of dealing with his legacy have pushed him into apathy where his father is concerned.

"So that's why dad set up Mars Investigations. He was done with 'the man' and wanted life on his own terms. Of course, being on his own terms meant he was responsible for paying into his own medical insurance. Being in the Sheriff's department came with decent coverage. But by quitting, not retiring, it had been canceled and any benefits revoked. Which, normally, wouldn't be an issue. Until, they found the cancer."

The tumor was growing in the membrane surrounding his spinal cord. The doctors had asked if he'd felt pain, numbness, tingling? Veronica could remember in high school laying on the lounge room floor, doing her homework while Keith would watch m*a*s*h reruns making constant revolutions of his feet, claiming pins and needles. He was always stretching them out, rubbing them, popping painkillers. He'd been nursing the symptoms in silence for years.

By the time they'd found it, the tumor was the size of a golf ball. The surgery proposed held a 50/50 chance of paralysis. They tossed a coin, went for it, and lost. It removed the cancer and simultaneously removed any movement or feeling below Keith's navel.

Veronica was nineteen, only in her second semester. She dropped out of college. "Only for six months, a year, until we get you sorted," she'd said. She didn't really believe it. Neither did Keith.

The first few years were a blur. There was physical therapy , wheelchair fittings, car adaptations, a second surgery to gain more movement, then a third. All the while Veronica worked every minute she wasn't helping Keith with his care, keeping Mars Investigations afloat. But it wasn't good enough. She wasn't getting the results the clients were used to. She was distracted, taking too much on their already overflowing plate.

"By the end of the year, we had to give up the lease on the building and sell the house. I couldn't do enough work to keep everything afloat."

"Surely you can't blame yourself for that?" Logan says.

Veronica sniffs, and takes another drink.

"I negotiated one of the biggest bills down. A hundred and fifty thousand down to ten because of extenuating circumstances. Took out a credit card for the ten. But it didn't matter. There were always more of them, and more, and more. We could work forever and never pay them, even with his disability checks. That doesn't even touch on the PT or the proper care that he needs day to day, and just goes without. He's had infections, and gaping pressure sores and the drug bills alone, even the costs to keep the pain at bay, is frightening. And all the while I feel guilty that I'm not doing enough to get us out of this huge pit we've got ourselves into." She sighs, "And Dad feels guilty thinking that he's ruined my life. But he doesn't see that he's all I've got. Without him, I'm… alone. No one would care if I lived or died."

Logan squeezes her leg, just a little. "You know that's not true, right?"

She shakes her head as if shaking off his comment, "Anyway, last April the cancer came back. It's metastasized. He's still working against doctors orders. He won't listen. Then, about a month ago, his oncologist called, said there is a new trial drug. It's had good success in similar cases, but he wasn't able to get dad into the company sponsored trial. But there's a pay-in trial. A six-month dose is a little over eighty grand."

"So that's why you want the reward money?"

Veronica nods.

"Dad refuses to let me find funding for it. But I thought if I came to him, with it fully paid, no debts, that he would do it. I know he would. I wouldn't have come out here to annoy you for anything unless it was desperate. I know you wanted nothing to do with me. I get that. But when I found out that Moyers' place was right here, next to yours, well… I had to try."

"I get it," he says softly, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry I asked you to take those photos. I wish I'd left well enough alone. The on-flow of that decision, well, it changed everything in my life, and yours too."

She shakes her head slowly. "You didn't know. None of us did."

No one was to know at the time that despite all the heartache, Aaron would never spend a minute in jail. He would continue to live his life in infamy. His back catalogue of films peaked in sales after the scandal. The royalties on that alone were more than enough to buffer the blow of the end of his career. He signed the divorce papers from Lynn and moved to Vegas where he played the celebrity poker tournament. So much for a downfall. The public has a ridiculously short memory.

Logan and Veronica sit in silence for a few moments. Logan takes another drink, passes the flask back.

"I'm sorry I'm risking you and your horses, and your privacy with all this drama. I really didn't mean to fuck up your life."

He shakes his head vehemently, "I'm fine, don't worry about me too. You've got enough on your plate. And hey, I offered to come!"

She smiles, through tired eyes, "Under sufferance," nudging him, "and the direction of a fifteen-year-old girl."

He laughs, "true."

"You're such a good dad, Logan. You remind me so much of my dad."

Logan feels something hard in his throat. He tries to swallow it. It's all he ever wants to hear–that he's doing the right thing, being the parent he never had. He knows deep down that he's a step up from Aaron, but it's something else entirely to hear it from an outsider.

"Thank you."

"This has been nice. A good distraction. Even if it's only for a few days. I'm remembering what it feels like to breathe."

"Even in this torrential rain?"

"Even now," she says, blinking slowly and thoughtfully, realizing she's slightly drunk, trying to mask it.

"Thank you Logan, for coming along with me. I really appreciate it," despite the alcohol in her system, she means it wholeheartedly. The flask in her fingers has magically emptied. She frowns, placing on the cap and passes it to him.

"I'm sorry, I drank all the emergency liquor."

"We'll just have to survive the rest of the trip sober."

"As long as we don't have another day like today. I'm sure we'll get through."

"Fingers crossed."

"On that note, should we keep a lookout? To avoid a repeat of last night?" she asks.

"It probably wouldn't hurt."

They don't talk about the reality of what happened in the darkness last night. The prospect that not only were they not alone out here, that someone was willfully trying to slow them down is too big of a concept to inspect closely. They can only continue and hopefully, by tomorrow, it would all be over and they'd be heading back to the ranch.

Logan shuffles against the tree, a vain attempt to get comfortable. The rain is louder now, but he doesn't care. He flicks the flashlight towards the horses, but the beam mainly illuminates the droplets as they fall. The horses face their rumps toward the direction of the droplets, apparently unconcerned by the weather.

"How about I take first watch?" he says.

She nods, drained from the emotion of the day, finally releasing it into the atmosphere. Veronica's eyes loll closed, puffy and sore. She rests back against the trunk, her hair catching in the spikes of the bark.

"I've heard my shoulder is a good pillow, in a pinch."

Veronica doesn't fight it, letting her head fall on him. He's right. It's good and she's so damn tired.

"Goodnight," he speaks into the rain.

"Night."

With the whiskey and the warmth of a man by her side, she's asleep in minutes.

Logan sits, staring into the darkness, feeling the soft weight of her head, listening to her breathe.