Ezekiel’s throat felt tight. He pictured his empty pasture. His dead cattle. The cracked earth. Thirty days.
He pictured his father’s grave on the ridge and the shame of losing what had been built with blood and blistered hands.
“Why?” Ezekiel asked finally, voice low. “Why would you do that.”
Slade’s eyes cooled. “My Adelaide is… not popular. She’s twenty-six …
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