Cole Maddox set his snare before sunrise, running on habit more than hope. The ranch was barely hanging on, coyotes were hitting his calves, and fresh meat had become a memory. A deer would’ve been a blessing. He checked the knots, secured the anchors, and headed back toward camp as pale light crept over the ridge.
The morning was quiet—too quiet. Cottonwoods stirred overhead while Cole poured black coffee and tried not to calculate his debts. Then the sun broke the horizon, and a scream tore through the stillness. It wasn’t an animal. It was human. Raw. Panicked.
Cole grabbed his rifle and ran.
Brush snapped as he pushed forward, dust rising behind him. Something thrashed ahead, caught and fighting hard. He expected a buck or maybe a mountain cat. Instead, he stopped cold.
A woman hung tangled in the snare between two pin oaks, one leg trapped, rope biting deep. She fought the cords with fierce determination despite the pain. Apache—he recognized it instantly from her clothing and the defiance in her eyes.
Her stare cut straight through him. “Go on,” she said sharply. “Do what men like you always do.”
The words hit harder than the scream.
“That’s not me,” Cole said, lowering his rifle. He set it down and raised his hands before stepping closer, slow and careful.
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