The wind had already turned sharp when you left the ranch. November in Montana didn’t care that the sun still shone — it cut through denim and flannel like it had teeth. You’d debated for a good half hour whether to drive into town at all, but the pantry was running low and John had mentioned craving meatloaf. Potatoes, breadcrumbs, eggs, onion — all things that couldn’t wait.

Bear had insisted on bringing his toy horse, of course. The old plastic thing was missing one leg and smelled faintly of hay from being dragged through the barn, but it was his treasure. Now it thumped rhythmically against his car seat as you drove the winding road into town, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching back to replace his dropped sippy cup.

“Hold on tight, cowboy,” you teased when the truck hit a bump.

“I’m holding!” he said, giggling. His curls bounced under his hat.

Melanie, only a few weeks old, slept through it all. Her tiny breaths were soft in the mirror, her face tucked beneath a knitted cap Beth had brought over last week — soft cream wool with little ears on top. Beth had joked she looked like a baby lamb.

The drive into Livingston was quiet — frost on the fence lines, the occasional passing truck kicking up dust from the shoulder. When you finally pulled into the grocery store’s lot, the place was nearly empty. A few pickups, a rancher’s trailer, and one sedan that looked out of place — shiny, tinted, city plate. You thought nothing of it. The baby had to eat. Dinner wasn’t going to make itself.

Inside, the air was too warm, thick with the scent of citrus cleaner and the hum of freezer fans. You grabbed a basket cart, steered it with one hand — Bear perched in the seat, Melanie’s carrier tucked securely in the basket. You stopped by the produce first, weighing onions, checking the firmness of russets. You were halfway through your list when you felt it — that quiet, animal prickle at the back of your neck.

You looked once. Nothing out of place. A woman bagging apples, an older man comparing loaves of bread.

Then you looked again.

He was standing near the end of the aisle, pretending to read a can label. Broad-shouldered. Ball cap. Jacket zipped too high, collar shadowing his jaw. He wasn’t shopping. You knew the difference between a man looking for soup and a man watching.

You moved on. Slowly, carefully.

Bear tugged at your sleeve. “Mama, can I have cookies?”

You forced a smile. “Maybe later, baby.”

You turned down the frozen section. Dairy. The glass reflected everything — your pale face, Bear’s swinging legs, and behind you, a figure a few paces back. When you moved to another aisle, he followed. When you stopped to check your list, he pretended to study cereal boxes.

Your heart began to drum against your ribs.

You told yourself it could be nothing. Small town. Maybe he recognized you — John Dutton’s wife wasn’t a name people forgot. Still, there was something about his stance. Predatory patience. The way he kept his head slightly angled down but his eyes forward.

Bear started humming to himself, oblivious. Melanie fussed faintly. You rocked the cart gently, trying to soothe her — and yourself.

Another turn. Household goods. Detergent, paper towels. The man’s footsteps again — deliberate, too close.

You quickened your pace.

“Excuse me,” you murmured as you passed a young clerk restocking shelves, forcing your voice to stay even. You didn’t stop long enough to draw attention, but you wanted at least one witness to remember seeing you — and him.

By the end of the aisle your hands were trembling so badly you nearly dropped your phone when you pulled it from your coat pocket. You glanced around — two older women chatting near baking supplies, a teenager by the soda display. No sign of the man now.

Which somehow felt worse.