The barn was hot that afternoon, the smell of hay and dung thick in the air. Dust swirled in slanted beams of sunlight cutting through the gaps in the wood, and Elias wiped the back of his hand across his brow as he worked, pitchfork in hand. His shirt clung to him with sweat, the muscles of his arms flexing as he shoved hay into a fresh pile for the cattle. The rhythmic grunts of animals mixed with the occasional creak of the wooden rafters above.
The barn door groaned as it swung open. Thomas stepped inside, his boots heavy on the packed dirt floor, his shadow long across the hay. He carried that familiar aura—commanding, stern, as if the air shifted when he entered a room.
"Boy," Thomas said, his voice firm but not unkind, "leave that a moment. Got somethin' needs doing."
Elias leaned the fork against the stall wall and wiped his palms against his trousers. "Yes, sir."
Thomas gestured with a jerk of his head toward the far end of the barn. "That bull's ready to be sold. We'll move him into the pen."
Elias's gut tightened. The bull was mean—broad shouldered, with a thick neck and a temper like fire. It had already busted one fence rail last week. Still, he nodded. "Alright."
They stepped out together, father and son, the air outside heavy with the heat of the day. The circular pen wasn't far, a fenced-in space where Thomas kept the livestock ready for trade. The bull waited in its stall, snorting, pawing the dirt with thick hooves. Steam puffed from its nostrils like smoke from a forge.
Thomas grabbed a rope halter, his jaw set. "Keep steady, boy. Don't let him feel you're scared. He'll sense it."
Elias swallowed but nodded, stepping up beside his father. Together they slid the halter around the bull's head. The animal bellowed and jerked, nearly pulling Thomas off his feet, but the older man dug his heels into the dirt like roots. "Hold!" he barked, muscles straining as the bull tossed its head.
Elias lunged, grabbing the rope further down to steady it. His arms screamed with effort as the bull twisted and bucked, throwing its weight against them. The rope burned his palms, the raw strength of the animal jarring through every bone.
"Pull!" Thomas ordered.
Together they heaved, step by grueling step, dragging the beast from its stall. The bull resisted, throwing its head back, nearly knocking Elias down, but Thomas yanked hard, his voice low and commanding. "Move, damn you."
Sweat streamed down Elias's temples, his heart hammering. He pulled with everything he had, teeth gritted, legs churning against the dirt. Slowly, grudgingly, the bull staggered forward.
The path to the pen felt endless, every lurch of the animal threatening to tear them both off balance. Elias stumbled once, catching himself against the side rail of a fence, his arms trembling with exhaustion. Thomas barked at him to get back in line, and he did, refusing to falter again.
Finally, they neared the pen gate. Thomas swung it open with one hand, the other locked on the rope. "Get him in, Elias. Now."
Elias tugged, shoving his shoulder against the bull's side. The animal resisted one last time, stamping and swinging its head. Elias dug deep, every muscle screaming, and shoved with a roar of effort. The bull bellowed but gave way, stumbling through the gate. Thomas slammed it shut behind, locking it fast.
The two of them stood outside the pen, sweat pouring down their faces, their chests heaving like bellows. For a moment neither spoke.
Thomas lowered himself onto the bottom rail of the fence, breathing heavy. "Sit," he said, nodding to the spot beside him.
Elias obeyed, sinking down, his arms limp at his sides. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of the bull stomping inside the pen and the hum of cicadas in the trees.
Then Thomas spoke, his voice low, almost casual. "So. What's the deal with that .44 lever-action under your bed?"
Elias froze. His stomach dropped, cold dread pooling in his chest. His eyes darted to his father, who stared straight ahead, his face unreadable.
"I—" Elias stammered, words caught in his throat.
"Your mother found it," Thomas said, his tone flat as a hammer striking steel. "Now don't lie, boy. Just tell me the truth."
Elias's pulse thundered in his ears. Punishment—he thought of it instantly. His father's belt. The sting, the shame, the rage it always brought. He stared at the dirt beneath his boots, afraid to meet those unyielding eyes.
Finally, his voice broke through, quiet. "Judas gave it to me. For my birthday. Said he'd start takin' me hunting… show me how to use it."
Thomas turned his head, studying him with that expressionless gaze. "And he has?"
Elias hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."
A long pause stretched between them. The weight of it pressed on Elias's shoulders, heavy as stone. Then Thomas looked up at the afternoon sun, its glare sharp in his eyes.
"Good," he said simply.
Elias blinked, stunned. He looked at his father in disbelief, sure he'd misheard. But Thomas was already pushing himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers. He reached out and clapped Elias roughly on the back.
"You did good work today," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Go rest."
Elias stood, still dazed, his heart pounding from more than just the labor. "Thank you, sir," he managed, voice barely above a whisper. He turned toward the house, walking with quick steps, needing the shelter of its walls.
Thomas watched him go, his eyes lingering on the boy's back as he disappeared inside. For the first time in a long while, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
---
Inside the farmhouse, Veronica stood beside her mother at the washbasin. Sunlight poured through the window, catching the suds on the plates in their hands. The steady rhythm of water sloshing filled the room.
But Margaret, seasoned as she was, didn't miss the tightness in her daughter's jaw, the way her shoulders hunched as if carrying more than the dishes.
"You've got somethin' on your mind," Margaret said, her voice gentle but sure. "Best you tell me."
Veronica set a plate down a little harder than she meant to, the clink sharp in the quiet. "It's Elias," she said finally, her tone heavy. "I'm worried about him."
Margaret glanced at her, brows raised. "Worried? About what?"
Veronica wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes troubled. "He's never been off this farm, ma. Not once. He barely talks to anyone besides us. I'd like to take him into Abilene when we make our next run. Let him see something different for once."
Margaret's hands stilled in the water. "I'll speak to your father about it."
Veronica shook her head sharply. "It should be his decision. Elias's. Not father's."
Margaret sighed, turning to face her fully. "It's not like that, Veronica. We all have our roles here. Our jobs. That's what keeps this family steady. It works."
Veronica's eyes burned with quiet frustration. "But what about our lives, ma? What about what he wants?"
Margaret set the plate down carefully, drying her hands on a cloth. "He'll live his life when he inherits this farm. That's how it's always been."
Veronica pressed her lips together, not satisfied but unwilling to argue further. She turned back to the basin, scrubbing another plate.
Margaret joined her in silence for a few moments before speaking again. "What about Judas? How's he doing?"
Veronica let out a slow breath. "He's alright. Caught a squirrel this morning. Says he'll cook it up later."
Margaret smiled faintly. "What a good man he's turned out to be."
Her mind wandered as she worked, memory pulling her backward. She saw Veronica as a little girl, her hair wild and tangled, playing in the yard with Judas when he was still just a boy himself.
She remembered the day Judas's parents said it was time for them to leave. Veronica had clung to him fiercely, refusing to let go. When they tried to pull him away, she'd lashed out—biting, scratching, fists flying with the fury only a child could hold. Thomas had to grab her, carrying her kicking and screaming into the house. She'd sulked for days, her anger bright as a flame.
Margaret's lips curved at the memory, her eyes soft.
Veronica caught her expression. "You'd think a man would grow up after all these years."
Margaret laughed, light and genuine. "Yes, you would."
The two women stood side by side at the basin, hands working, their laughter mingling with the quiet clatter of dishes. Outside, the world felt still, but in their hearts, change was already stirring.
---
The woods were quiet in the late afternoon, save for the rustle of leaves overhead and the faint chatter of cicadas clinging to the bark. Judas moved carefully between the trees, his .22 rifle cradled against his chest, boots padding the ground as light as he could make them. Hunting wasn't just about pulling a trigger — it was about patience, silence, and learning how the woods breathed. His father used to say you had to let the forest forget you were there, and Judas had taken that lesson to heart.
He paused near a cluster of oaks, squinting upward, eyes scanning the branches for the twitch of a tail or the quick hop of claws across bark. A squirrel's meal could feed a family, if you caught enough of them. He thought about bringing back three, maybe four, and stretching them into a stew. "That'd be a feast by our standards," he muttered under his breath, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "Veronica'll probably wrinkle her nose, but she'll eat it anyway."
A sudden snap of a twig made him freeze. He cocked his head, listening. There — a limb shifted, and high above him, a gray squirrel leapt from one tree to the next. Judas grinned. "Got you." In a fluid motion, he raised the rifle, thumbed the hammer back, and sighted the tiny body mid-hop. The rifle cracked, echoing sharp through the stillness. The squirrel jerked, tumbled, and hit the ground with a soft thud.
"Dead clean," Judas said proudly as he strode over, kneeling down to scoop the limp animal into his hand. He admired the shot for a moment — right through the chest — then slid the squirrel into the burlap sack tied at his waist. The sack swung lightly against his hip as he tied it shut again, satisfied.
He straightened, dusting his palms on his trousers, and listened again to the trees. Another squirrel, maybe two more, and they'd have enough for supper. He took a few steps forward, rifle held loosely but ready, when a low sound drifted through the brush ahead.
It wasn't the rustle of small feet or the chatter of another squirrel. It was deeper. Longer. Almost a groan — but not quite human. Judas froze, eyes narrowing, and slowly crouched to peer through the brush.
The noise came again, strange and uneven, like the air rattling through something that shouldn't be alive. His pulse quickened, though curiosity pulled harder than fear. With careful movements, he pushed aside a curtain of leaves and crept forward.
Before he reached the source, a sudden explosion of wings erupted. A dozen buzzards lifted from the ground, black feathers whipping the air around him as they scattered into the canopy. Judas flinched, throwing his arm over his head as the birds beat past him, cawing loud and sharp.
"Damn near gave me a heart attack," he hissed, watching them vanish above the treetops. He blew out a shaky laugh, but when he lowered his arm and looked forward, the humor drained out of him.
Lying in the clearing was a deer. Or what was left of one.
Its body was splayed awkwardly, legs stiff, eyes glassed over. Its stomach — or where the stomach had been — was a hollow, ragged cavity. Flesh torn wide, ribs gleaming pale through what little meat clung to them. The smell hit Judas a second later, sour and metallic, sharp enough to wrinkle his nose.
He approached carefully, boots crunching against leaves, rifle ready though there was nothing left to shoot. He crouched beside the carcass, eyes narrowing as he studied it.
Two hours, maybe less, since death — the meat was still warm to the touch. The buzzards couldn't have stripped it this fast. Not in these woods, where shadows covered half the forest floor and kept them from spotting prey right away. He knew these woods too well to believe that.
Something else had gotten to it first. Something with teeth and claws enough to rip the belly open in one sweep.
He pressed his lips together, uneasy. "No bear. Not here," he whispered. He'd hunted this land enough to know that much. If a bear had wandered this far, he would've known long before now.
Still, what else could do this?
Judas leaned back on his heels, staring at the carcass, his playful expression replaced with sharp concentration. His mind worked through possibilities — wolves, maybe? But he'd never seen a wolf leave a kill like this, untouched save for the belly. And the buzzards… they'd found it almost instantly, like they'd been waiting.
A shiver crawled up his arms despite the warm air. He didn't like the thought of something strange stalking the woods his family called safe.
He stood quickly, brushing dirt from his hands. "Ain't my job to figure it out today," he muttered, though his eyes lingered on the hollowed deer longer than he wanted them to. His voice tried to sound light, but it cracked at the edges.
Adjusting the sack at his hip, he turned back into the trees, rifle slung and eyes alert, though he forced his mind back to squirrels. One more shot, maybe two, then back home. He'd give Veronica her stew, keep her fussing over how he cooked it, and maybe never tell her what he'd seen.
As he disappeared into the woods again, the buzzards circled above, dark shapes wheeling against the fading sun.