I pulled out of the lot, tires hissing over damp pavement, and aimed the truck toward Lucky Ranch. The phone buzzed in the cup holder. Bruce.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“Got a favor,” he said, voice easy but carrying that edge that meant trouble. “I have a couple of reports of elk carcasses out near the ridge. Poachers, most likely. You feel like doing some recon?”
I eased back in the seat, one hand on the wheel. “Thought you had a whole department for that.”
“Sure. None of ’em can track like you and your Navy SEAL eyes.” A pause, then the bait: “Steak at Roper’s. Whiskey’s on me. You know the drill.”
I smirked. “Man offers me food instead of a paycheck because he knows I’ll take it.”
“Damn right. You’re a millionaire now, Sawyer. What the hell else am I gonna bribe you with?”
“Steak’s fine.” I ended the call, tossed the phone back into the cup holder, and let the miles unspool under my tires.
The highway stretched ahead, ditches running high with meltwater. Patches of snow clung stubbornly in the shadows of the pines, but the meadows were starting to green, fresh shoots pushing through the mud.
Early spring. The in-between season. Not winter anymore, not summer yet. Just a restless waiting.
Seemed about right.
I passed Joe’s feed store and finally the old grain silos that marked the edge of town. From there, it was open country, fencelines running long, cattle nosing at the grass where it dared to grow. The kind of view that should’ve settled me. Usually did.
Not today.
My thoughts kept sliding back toBloom & Vine. To Lilly’s voice gone careful, her eyes gone distant. She acted like I’d nevertouched her. Like I hadn’t carried the memory of her mouth, her skin, her laugh every damn day since.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, forced myself to breathe. Work now. Bruce needed me sharp, not chewing on something I couldn’t fix.
Lucky Ranch came into view over the rise, its painted fences cutting clean lines across the land. Our place. Our ground. Four houses, the barns, the pastures, the horses—all belonging to me and my three Powerball compadres, Colt, Rhett, and Easton.
I turned up the drive and felt my shoulders drop a fraction. Bruce wanted surveillance. I could give him that.
The barn smelled of hay and horse sweat, a grounding mix that cut through the storm still pressing at the edges of my mind. Grace poked her head over the stall door the second I stepped inside, blowing a warm breath against my neck.
“Hey, girl,” I murmured, running my palm down her sleek neck. She was all patience and steadiness, the one constant that never flinched when I reached for her. Pulling down her worn saddle, I worked the leather straps with practiced ease, the ritual as steadying as prayer.
Behind me came the footfalls of boots on wooden planks. Bruce had arrived, lugging a pack full of binoculars, radios, and trail cameras. He tossed it by the tack bench and gave me that easy grin he wore like armor.
His job with Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks kept him chasing down everything from lost hikers to meth-head poachers, but he always looked like the kind of man who’d been born in the saddle. Tonight was no different as he started throwing gear onto King’s back, the gelding stamping but standing his ground.
Grace flicked an ear at the sound of the other horse, then leaned her warm shoulder against me. Noble. Solid. She carried me when the storm in my head tried to drag me under. Lilly? Shewas the opposite. She didn’t quiet the storm—she stirred it, lit it up, made me want something more.
And that was the problem.
By the time we reached the ridge Bruce had picked out, the light was gone. Spring twilight didn’t linger the way summer’s did. One minute, the sky was pink and gold; the next, it was swallowed whole, leaving us with nothing but a wash of gray and the slow crawl of stars.
We tied the horses in the trees. Grace was flicking her ears but standing patiently, as if she understood this was part of the job. I gave her neck a final rub before climbing into the tree stand we’d rigged. Bruce headed off to the opposite slope with a muttered, “Call if you see anything,” his voice fading into the timbers.
I settled in, night-vision goggles snug against my face, and scanned the stretch of federal land below. Nothing moved but the sway of branches, the occasional white flash of a deer’s tail, the green-glow shapes of elk drifting through the timber.
No poachers. No traps. No private drones buzzing overhead.
The stillness should’ve calmed me. This was the kind of quiet that used to settle my nerves, the kind of work my therapist swore would keep me steady—watching, waiting, letting discipline take the wheel. Out here, there were rules. Out here, patience mattered.
But my eyes kept straying west.
I caught sight of Lilly’s cabin through the goggles, past the line of dark pines, a mile or so off. A handful of windows glowed against the night, warm and steady, like beacons in a black sea. I told myself it was just situational awareness—keep track of everything in the field, that was SEAL 101.
