Mornings came early on the ranch, but Callan had never minded. He liked the quiet of it, the way the world stretched out before the sun had fully decided to show itself. The crisp bite of the morning air.

  Cold nipped at his skin as he stepped onto the porch, coffee steaming in his hands. Somewhere out in the dark, the cattle were waking, lowing softly, waiting for their morning feed.

  He leaned against the railing, taking a slow sip. Today would be different.

  Different was welcome—in small doses.

  The girls were still inside, probably awake but moving slow. That was fine. They had a busy day ahead.

  The yard sloped down toward the barn, past the long stretch of fencing that corralled the herd. Beyond that, the land rolled out wide, endless. White-tipped mountains framed the horizon, but between here and there, nothing but open land and trees.

  It wasn’t the dusty frontier of Arizona he'd imagined from books, but it felt like Montana. Maybe Colorado. Cal didn’t really know, having never been to any of those places. But he was happy here, and that was enough.

  The porch creaked behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

  “Morning, V,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  Savannah sidled up next to him, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Morning,” she muttered.

  She wasn’t a coffee drinker yet, but she held a mug of something hot—probably tea, maybe cocoa.

  “Cecil up?” he asked.

  Savannah snorted into her mug. “No.”

  Callan smirked and let it be. Cecil would show up soon enough. The chance for an adventure would get her up, if hunger didn’t.

  The horses were awake, at least. Vesper stood near the fence, watching the house with that quiet, patient look she always had. Nugget was already at the trough, stomping his hooves, impatient as ever.

  Savannah followed Cal’s gaze. “That horse was made for Cecil,” she muttered.

  Callan laughed at the absolute truth of that statement. “Hard not to love them.”

  Savannah made a noncommittal sound into her drink. Callan grinned and let the silence linger until the sun was up enough to see the herd clearly.

  "Alright then," he groaned as he straightened his back and stretched, "get your sister moving. Lots to do today."

  Savannah sighed but pushed off the railing, heading inside. The warmth of the house hit her first, then the light cacophony that told her Cecil was rummaging for food in the kitchen.

  Sure enough, Savannah found Cecil perched at the counter, devouring large bites of a biscuit coated with honey.

  Cecil barely looked up. "You let Nugget boss you around yet?" she asked between bites.

  "He's your horse; you deal with him. Uncle Cal says to get ready."

  Callan had followed Savannah and was now standing in the doorway. "Eat fast," he added with a nod, "We're saddling up as soon as the animals are fed. Bring Tracer and Junk. And don't forget to take down the cat litter from the porch—I'm not having it sit there all day."

  Sierra rolled her eyes but shoved the last bite into her mouth, swallowing it down with a sip of cocoa. "You think the tracks will even still be there?"

  "Depends how much wind we got overnight, there wasn't much fresh snow," Callan answered, crossing to the coat rack and pulling on his heavier jacket. "But if it was as big as it seemed we should be able to track the brush damage either way."

  Savannah was lacing up her boots, movements quick and practiced. "It was big enough to break branches, we'll see something."

  Callan nodded. "If there's nothing obvious, we'll fan out and check for prints. Call the dogs."

  Sierra had already fished a small piece of metal, attached to a chain around her neck, out of her shirt; now she blew sharply into it.

  While the whistle was inaudible to them, the response from the dogs was immediate.

  A blue and white Border Collie came flying in from the side door, all wiry energy, sharp eyes, and lolling pink tongue. Struggling for traction on the wooden floor, she finally came to a skidding stop just short of Sierra, who reached down and ruffled her fur. "Good girl, Tracer."

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  Junkrat, an enormous Rottweiler with the characteristic black and tan colors, followed more deliberately. After pausing mid-journey for a stretch, he eventually made his way to Cal's side, dropping into a heavy 'sit'. Junkrat radiated the patient confidence of a working dog, one who doesn't care if you like him or not.

  Callan evaluated his little family and nodded, a slight smile momentarily tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  "Weapons too girls. Loaded, safeties on." he turned as he spoke and removed his scattergun from above the front door for the second time in as many days. He checked the safety and then stuck his finger into the back of the tube below the barrel, verifying that the magazine was full. Satisfied, he headed back out into the morning light, Junkrat following dutifully.

  Savannah silently wrinkled her nose in protest as she turned to fetch her rifle from her bedroom.

  Sierra already had her gun on.

  ***

  It took just under an hour to get the animals fed and saddle their horses.

  Nugget and Sierra had been bonded since the geldings' birth. She had even given him his name that day: "Is it a boy? Do you see nuggets?"

  A three-year-old now, Nugget had been a spring colt and Sierra's first assist on a delivery.

  Full of energy and mischief from the start, Nugget was forever escaping the confines of the barn to have the run of the yard, (he was still the only horse to figure out how to open his stable latch). Once free, he would bully the other animals for their treats and bait Tracer away from her work and into games of chase.

  He was small but didn’t seem to know it—or at least didn’t think it was a problem. Nugget’s coat was a deep chestnut, but his flaxen mane and tail were a pale gold. His mane was always just a little too wild, no matter how often it was brushed, and his tail remained perpetually unkempt. He had frequently made it clear he didn’t like anyone fiddling with it.

  A thin, broken stripe of white ran from between his dark eyes down to his nose, slightly off-center and uneven—like someone had colored him in too quickly and missed a spot.

  Sierra herself was also small. 4'9" at 14, she was noticeably below average for girls her age and she was thin and wiry too, which made her seem even smaller.

  Sierra was the more athletic of the sisters and she was deceptively strong for her size. Her Uncle would occasionally spot her doing pull-ups on the barn door; Sierra had never spoken to him about it, but her Uncle knew she took pride in her athleticism and dedicated at least some energy to working on it.

  Her pale skin was pink in the winter and her sister teased her by calling her transparent, but she darkened quickly in the summer sun. Her long dirty-blonde hair would also shift a shade browner with the seasons.

  Her face often carried an expression that could make even Callan second-guess if he'd pissed her off.

  She rarely talked back, rarely whined, rarely argued. When punished she just took the loss, ground out the consequences, and then let it go, usually.

  Stubborn and sharp, the kind of kid who didn't need to be told twice—mostly because she was already doing it her own way before you'd finished talking.

  Unless something shiny distracted her.

  As a pair, horse and rider, Sierra and Nugget made perfect sense.

  Savannah was equally well matched with her mare, Vesper. Maybe more so, but in less overt ways.

  Vesper was taller than Nugget by a fair margin, a deep bay with a sleek, almost polished coat. She caught the sun beautifully, highlighting her deep blacks and reddish browns. Her legs were strong, built for endurance rather than speed, and she carried herself with an easy grace that made her seem more deliberate than the average horse.

  She wasn't skittish, exactly, but she was sensitive, always aware of her surroundings, and quick to startle—but never quick to run. If something spooked her, she'd tense up, plant her hooves, and wait for a sign that it was okay to move again.

  That suited Savannah just fine. Steady, cautious, deliberate—she was all those things too. She wasn't flashy, wasn't reckless, and never leapt without knowing where she'd land.

  Two years older than her little sister, Savannah stood 5'3" at 16. Broader at the shoulder and hip and with a massive mane of curly hair, Callan often forgot that Savannah was also petite.

  The context of always seeing her next to her tiny sister left Callan thinking of Savannah as the size of a grown woman; it was only when they ventured into town that he was reminded she was also smaller than average.

  The girls shared a mother but had different fathers. This was reflected both inwardly and outwardly.

  Savannah's skin was a warm brown—caramel, she called herself after carefully matching her skin tone to one of her crayons at age 6—and her dark, coiled hair was usually pulled back into a bun or braids, practical and out of the way.

  V had an enviable work ethic, both on the ranch and in school. She tended toward shyness around new people but was boisterous and confident once she felt comfortable. When Savannah spoke, people who knew her listened—not because she was loud, though she often was, but because she was thoughtful and worth hearing.

  She was also, and by a fair margin, the gentlest and slowest to anger of the trio.

  Callan figured she must get it from the other side.

  He stepped out of the barn to find the girls mounted and waiting for him. He was leading a large mare he had bought recently after retiring his 20-something stallion, Big Ed, who was now limited to leisurely enrichment rides and easy herding duty. This new mare was 9, large and grey with a thick black mane and tail, she had been given the name Raulski somewhere along the line.

  Raulski suited Callan, she did what needed to be done, and understood urgency when it was required, but she wasn't anyone's pet.

  Raulski could be coaxed into short runs and the occasional sprint, but she preferred to move at her own pace. Push her too hard, and she'd turn her head and snap her enormous teeth together—a sharp clack, just to remind you who was actually in charge.

  Callan respected anyone who stood up for themselves; something it had taken him too many years to do.

  Callan swung himself up onto Raulski and made eye contact with the girls in turn,

  "Don't sweep your barrel over me, each other, or the animals. If it comes to it, know your target and what's behind it.”

  “People who stay calm, stay alive. People who panic, die."

  The girls nodded; this was not the first time they'd been given this speech.

  Callan returned the gesture and pivoted Raulski, leading the way toward the treeline.

  He whistled for the dogs to follow.