His eyes narrow, wary. He takes my hand—firm grip, no surprise there—but says nothing.
Behind him, Sawyer shifts, still watching. His arms stay crossed.
I nod his way. “You must be Sawyer.”
He gives one short nod. “You are?”
“Boone Wilding.”
Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe tension—but it’s quick, gone before it settles.
“Right,” he says, the word clipped.
He stiffens, just slightly, but it’s enough. I expected some resistance. History between our families runs long, and most of it isn’t pretty.
I’ve been in tighter spots than this—different stakes, sure, but the same rules apply. You learn real fast in the military how to read a room, how to take the measure of people without them knowing. You learn how to ask the right questions, get the answers you need, and if things start to go sideways—how to diffuse. Stay calm, stay sharp, stay two steps ahead.
I glance back at Vaughn, then at Sawyer, whose blue eyes are still locked on me, narrowed and unblinking.
I keep my voice easy. “Vaughn, you mind if we have a word?”
He nods slowly, eyes cautious but not closed off. “Let’s step into my office.”
I barely get a breath before Sawyer’s deep voice cuts in—cool, curious. “Color me intrigued. Mind if I come along?”
Shit.
I school my face, keep it even. “Fine by me.”
Vaughn watches the exchange for a beat, then nods again. “Alright then.”
He turns, starts up the wide staircase, boots solid against the wood. I fall in behind him, Sawyer on my heels. The upstairs is just as polished as the first floor—everything sleek and curated, but still western at the bones. There’s a second sitting area at the top of the stairs, a big sectional facing a massive flat-screen mounted on the wall. Feels more like a lounge than a living room—open space, tall windows, a pool table off to the side that looks custom-made,.
Vaughn leads us down a hallway, passing more family photos, frames lining the wall like a museum of Harts. He stops at a door at the end, pushes it open, and steps inside.
The office is big—damn near the size of two rooms put together. Heavy wooden desk in the center, dark and carved, stacked with papers but still neat. A leather chair behind it, and two matching chairs in front. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line one wall, filled with old western novels, framed photos, what looks like a signed rodeo buckle display. The windows stretch tall, letting in light that floods the entire room.
“Nice setup,” I say, meaning it.
Vaughn doesn’t look up right away, just walks around the desk with that unhurried gait of his. He grabs a toothpick from a cup on the corner of his desk—full of them, of course—and sticks it between his teeth before finally lifting his eyes to mine.
“Let’s not waste the daylight,” he says, voice low and rough like he’s been chewing gravel since birth. “A Wilding knockin’ on my door means one of two things—you’re here to start somethin’, or you’ve got somethin’ worth hearin’. So which is it?”
Sawyer lowers himself into one of the chairs without a word, legs stretched out in front of him like he’s already settled in for the show. His arms cross over his chest again, eyes still locked on me.
I don’t blink. Don’t shift. I pull out the other chair, the leather creaking under me, and sit like I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m not about to give them the satisfaction of thinking I’m nervous, or worse, scared.
They want to size me up? Let ‘em. I’ve been measured up before—by men with more on the line than a patch of land and a name.
I lean back slightly in the chair, elbows resting on the arms, voice even. “Heard from a little bird you’ve been sniffin’ around the Bluebell. Digging into permits.”
Vaughn doesn’t flinch, just shifts the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, eyes on mine.
He tilts his head. “That so? Who’s this little bird?”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s true,” I reply. “Is it?”
He pauses, fiddles with the toothpick, rolls it slow between his fingers before sticking it back between his teeth. “Partially.”
