Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
His voice has the worn edge of a man who’d rather blame himself than say sabotage aloud. He’s always been like that—take the hit first, ask questions later. The accident two nights ago took out a corner of the new corral and spooked half the geldings through the south fence. We spent dawn pulling cactus from fetlocks and evening tallying the bill. We’re already behind on feed. The vet will want a check we don’t have.
Grayson Calhoun studies the map without blinking. He’s big-shouldered in a way that makes rooms look smaller, dark hair clipped close, Lone Star Security badge tucked on his belt like it grew there. He doesn’t carry himself like a cop. Instead, he carries himself like someone who knows cops will show up after he’s handled the problem. A day’s worth of dust clings to his boots and there’s a marker streak on his forearm—pink—like his daughter, Josie, tagged him on the way out the door.
“You had other incidents?” Gray asks, voice even. He uses his first name in town, but people say it like a title. Valor Springs has a funny way of knighting the men who stand in front when things get ugly.
Daddy nods at the corner of the map, where the creek slices through the pasture. “Two weeks ago—somebody cut wire along the north boundary. Looked like a calf got tangled, but the cut was clean. Too clean. Then the grain order showed light. Buck said clerk swears it’s what we signed for, but… we didn’t.”
I fold my arms. In the glossy glass of the feed-room cabinet, my city reflection looks like an imposter—the blazer tossed on a tack trunk because the summer heat doesn’t care about my old office habits, mascara smudged from sweat, a line of dust where I dragged my hand across my cheek earlier. I left Saint Pierce in a rush, kissed my best friends goodbye, promised I’d keep my heels and my sanity, and came home to a ranch that needs a miracle and a daughter who can be the adult if my parents can’t.
“I’ve got sponsors calling about Rodeo Days,” I say, throat tight. “If that arena fence is down, we’re sunk. They’ll pull the checks, and the scholarship fund goes with them.”
Daddy’s mouth does that little twist—half pride, half apology. “I shouldn’t have put that on you.”
“You didn’t.” I push a stray piece of hay off the cabinet with the back of my wrist. “I put it on me when I left. Somebody had to make something of this place while I went off to make something of myself.”
Gray’s gaze slips from the map to me, steady as a hand on the small of your back. “You’re already doing something. You called me.”
He says it like a compliment. It feels like a bruise.
“It was either you or a priest,” I say, because humor is cheaper than therapy. “And Father Miguel charges in chilaquiles, which we can’t spare.”
A corner of Gray’s mouth lifts, quick. “Good choice. Priests bless. I fix.”
Daddy sighs, and the sound has twenty years of weather in it. “We don’t need a full task force, Grayson. Just… tell me where the rot is.”
Gray taps the map with a knuckle. “Rot gets worse in the dark.” He traces a triangle between the barn, the creek crossing, and the south gate. “If someone wants to choke you out, they’ll hit you where you can’t afford to breathe. Feed, fence, livestock. The ‘accident’ with the tractor was clumsy. The cut wire wasn’t. You’re lookin’ at the difference between a thug and a planner. Which means you’re not dealing with one guy.” He turns to me. “You have anyone new on payroll? New vendors? A developer sniffing around your north pasture?”
“Two new hands this spring,” I say. “Penny vouched for one. The other came recommended by the feed store. Vendors are the same except the grain supplier’s got a new delivery driver. And developers sniff around every year, but Daddy tells them what they can do with their condos and it usually involves barbed wire.”
“Doesn’t stop them,” Daddy mutters. Gray doesn’t smile this time.
“Alright,” he says. “We start basic. Cameras on every choke point. Motion alerts. I want eyes on the south fence repair by nightfall. We’ll audit your orders and call in markers at the co-op. And we’ll put a body between you and trouble.” He looks at me last, which makes it hit first. “Delaney, do you have a place you’re sleepin’ that locks? And a plan if someone tries to spook you into making bad choices in a hurry?”
“Yes,” I say. “And also no.”
The truth is I fell asleep on my childhood bed last night with a box of old ribbons at my feet and woke up in the predawn to Daddy’s boots in the hall and the word tractor spoken into a phone like it was a curse. The truth is I have a plan for everything except for the hollow spot under my ribs that gets bigger when I stand in this barn and smell what I love and think about the ways it can leave.