Page 17 of Coyote

I locked my jaw.

Then John caught my eye across the table and crooked one finger at me. I went over and sat next to him. He caught the back of my shirt and pulled me against his side, keeping me there while Cruz asked whether he'd ever hit his head on a ceiling fan. The sour thing settled.

Cruz pulled his phone out. "Can I get a picture? For scale."

"No," I said.

John drank his coffee. "I'd listen to him."

Mateo laughed hard enough to choke.

Sierra pointed the spatula toward the door. "Both of you out. There are posts waiting."

Cruz and Mateo dragged themselves up, complaining about injustice and pancake favoritism.

When John finished, Sierra took the empty plate.

"Anything else?"

"A shower and somewhere flat to sleep would be nice."

"There's a bathhouse past the kitchen garden. We built it around one of the springs. Coyote will show you. After that, take any empty bunk in the bunkhouse."

John thanked him, but Sierra waved it off and started stacking another plate.

I took John down the path toward the trees. The ground softened near the spring, green where the rest of the land stayed red. The cicadas had already started up in the heat. Somewhere by the barn, Cruz was still complaining loudly about fence posts.

John walked beside me with one hand close to his ribs.

"You good, big man?"

"Good enough."

"You heard Rafe. You get to stay."

"I heard him."

"You still look worried."

He glanced down at me. "I walked into a ranch full of strangers with four dead men behind me and a biker gang somewhere down the road. I'm allowed to think about it."

"I'll keep you safe."

"I believe you."

The bathhouse sat where the spring came out of the ground. The cedar walls had weathered gray, and steam leaked out under the roofline.

I opened the door, and warm air rolled over us. The air was wet, and it smelled like a hot spring. Rocks, iron, a little rot.

Empty, like Sierra promised.

John ducked under the frame. I followed and shut the door behind us, settling Nimue on the dry bench, away from the water. She coiled on the cedar and lifted her head to watch.

John caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

He filled the room, all broad shoulders and thick muscle. He had a pucker high on one shoulder blade and another low on his back. Both old, older than the fresh gauze wrapped under his ribs. Combat scars. I'd seen enough of them to know.

When he turned, gray ran through the hair on his chest and narrowed into a line that disappeared into his jeans.