Chapter 2 — Shadows at Dusk

Clara Dawson

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long, slanted shadows across the ranch. Clara stood at the edge of the porch, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, surveying the expanse of land that stretched beyond the house. The golden light softened the rough edges of the landscape, but it couldn’t disguise the air of wear and neglect. The fences sagged like forgotten memories, the barn’s once-bright paint peeled and flaked, and brittle patches of grass whispered of drought and struggle.

The weight of the journal she had found earlier in her father’s study pressed heavily in her jacket pocket. Its cryptic warnings and unsettling imagery lingered in her thoughts, their presence like a too-loud whisper in the quiet. Her great-grandfather’s words painted a picture of unearthed secrets, strange phenomena, and dangers never fully explained. As she scanned the ranch, she felt the journal’s weight shift in her mind, urging her to see the land through the lens of its warnings.

Something moved in the distance—a shadow that shouldn’t have stretched that long or flickered that way. Clara blinked. It was just a trick of the light, surely. But the unsettled feeling persisted.

The faint clatter of hooves against dirt jolted her from her thoughts. She turned to see Miri leading a chestnut mare toward the stables, her movements brisk and efficient. The sight was grounding, tethering her to the mundane rhythms of ranch life.

“Hey, Miri,” Clara called, descending the steps of the porch. Gravel crunched under her boots as she approached.

Miri glanced over her shoulder, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her glove. Her brown eyes, so often sharp and focused, softened briefly in greeting. “What’s up, Clara?”

Clara hesitated, her fingers brushing against the edge of her jeans pocket. She had brought the journal out with her, thinking she might ask Miri about it. But now, the words felt stuck in her throat. The rational part of her resisted appearing superstitious or paranoid—especially to Miri, her father’s long-time ally, who had always valued practicality over conjecture.

“Nothing,” Clara said instead, nodding toward the mare. “Need help?”

“Not unless you’ve suddenly gotten good with temperamental horses,” Miri replied, her voice tinged with dry humor. She tugged the reins firmly but not unkindly, guiding the skittish horse along. “This one’s been spooked all week. It’s like she’s seeing ghosts every time the wind blows wrong.”

Clara frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah. And she’s not the only one,” Miri added, glancing toward the distant cattle pens. “Cattle’ve been restless too. Can’t put my finger on what’s got them riled up, but it ain’t just the heat. They’re acting… off.”

Miri’s words settled into Clara’s chest like stones, heavy and immovable. She thought of the journal, of the strange, vivid dreams she’d had the past few nights. Images of glowing objects and unearthed shadows flickered in her mind, blurring the line between memory and imagination.

“Maybe it’s the weather,” Clara suggested, though she didn’t believe it herself.

“Could be,” Miri said with a shrug, though her furrowed brow suggested otherwise. “Or maybe this place just knows it’s in trouble.”

Miri led the mare into the stables, disappearing from view, while Clara stood rooted to the spot. Her arms wrapped around her middle as a faint chill crept up her spine, defying the warmth of the sun.

Her gaze drifted across the horizon, where the light was beginning to dim. The figure of James Hale caught her attention again, his tall, lean silhouette moving along the pasture’s edge. He seemed to glide rather than walk, his steps unnaturally smooth as he checked the perimeter fence. There was a precision to his movements, a quiet grace that seemed out of place against the rugged, untamed backdrop of the ranch.

Clara didn’t trust him—not yet. There was a distance in his demeanor, a coldness that made her uneasy even as it stirred her curiosity. But there was something else, too—something harder to pin down. An intensity, a weight, that seemed to follow him like a shadow.

Her feet carried her forward before she could second-guess herself, following the well-worn path toward the pasture. She wasn’t entirely sure what she intended to say—if anything—but the growing list of unanswered questions surrounding the ranch was pushing her toward him. The journal’s warnings, Miri’s cryptic remarks, the restlessness of the animals—it was all circling back to James.

He didn’t seem surprised when she approached, though he didn’t look at her immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the fence line, where wooden posts leaned at precarious angles.

“Miss Dawson,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. There was no trace of warmth in his tone, but it wasn’t unfriendly either—just… measured.

“James,” Clara replied, stopping a few feet away. She shoved her hands into her pockets, her fingers brushing against the journal as if to remind herself why she was here.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His expression was calm, detached, but his piercing gray eyes seemed to look right through her.

Clara hesitated, searching for the right words. “I wanted to thank you for keeping an eye on the place,” she said finally. “Miri told me you’ve been here a while.”

“A few years,” he replied simply.

“And… why is that?” she pressed. “Why stay?” She let the question hang, her tone light but probing, testing his willingness to give a straight answer.

The corner of his mouth twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Your father needed someone reliable,” he said. “I prefer quiet places. It suited me.”

It was a reasonable answer, but it didn’t satisfy her. There was something in his tone—in the careful, deliberate way he spoke—that felt like he was holding back.

“Must be lonely out here,” Clara said, her voice dipping into suggestion.

James shrugged. “Loneliness is relative.”

Before Clara could respond, a sudden movement in the pasture drew her attention. A large bull, its dark coat gleaming in the fading light, pawed aggressively at the ground. Its nostrils flared as it let out a deep, guttural bellow that seemed to vibrate through the air.

Clara froze. “James,” she said, her voice tight with alarm.

The bull charged, its massive body barreling forward with alarming speed.

James stepped forward, his movements preternaturally smooth. He raised a hand, palm outward, as if commanding the animal to stop.

To Clara’s astonishment, the bull skidded to a halt just before the fence, its hooves kicking up a cloud of dust. Its head lowered, and it let out a snort, its wild energy suddenly subdued.

James stood perfectly still, his hand still raised, his posture radiating calm authority. The air between him and the bull seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, and Clara felt it too—a subtle, electric pull that made her skin prickle.

The bull snorted again, then turned and trotted away, its aggression completely dissipated.

Clara’s heart pounded in her chest. “What… what the hell was that?”

James turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Experience,” he said evenly. “Animals respond to confidence.”

“That wasn’t confidence,” Clara retorted, her voice sharper than she intended. “That was… something else.”

James’s gray eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something flicker in their depths—something ancient and unknowable. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Good evening, Miss Dawson,” he said quietly, tipping his head in a subtle nod before walking away.

Clara stood rooted to the spot, her mind racing. Whatever she had just witnessed, it wasn’t normal. And James Hale was definitely not just a caretaker.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the ranch in dusky twilight, Clara felt the weight of the journal in her pocket. Its faded words echoed in her mind, intertwining with the image of James’s unmoving figure and the bull’s sudden submission.

“They unearthed it today… I fear what we’ve brought to light.”

Clara drew in a shaky breath, her gaze lingering on James’s retreating form. She didn’t know what she was up against yet, but she was certain of one thing: the answers she sought wouldn’t come easily.

Turning back toward the house, Clara felt the shadows lengthen around her, their presence heavy with the weight of something unseen.