I take a sip of coffee and lean against the porch railing to his left, angling myself where I can see his profile and his hands. His fingers work a cleaning rod through the barrel with smooth, unhurried strokes, and the morning light catches the scars on his knuckles and the backs of his hands, pale white lines crisscrossing tanned skin. His forearms are bare where the henley's sleeves are pushed up, and I can see the corded muscle beneath, the tendons shifting with each movement.
They are strong hands, competent and scarred and certain of their purpose.
"What is that? The Barrett?"
"No. That generally stays in the armory." Jesse pulls the cleaning rod free and sets it aside, then runs an oiled cloth along the receiver with deliberate care. "This is a Remington 700. Lighter and better for fieldwork when I don't need to punch through armor."
"Is that what you used at the Pritchard ranch?"
"Yeah." He reassembles the bolt with a series of precise clicks, his fingers finding each component without looking. The rifle comes together in his hands like it was built to live there.
I watch the motion, the sureness of it, and something tightens low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear. His hands are big and rough-knuckled, and they move with a control that suggests he does everything this way. Measured and thorough.
The thought of those hands on me sends heat crawling up my neck, and I take another sip of coffee to cover it.
"You're staring." Jesse's voice carries a trace of something that might be amusement.
"I'm assessing." The correction comes out sharper than I intend. "There's a difference."
"If you say so." He sets the rifle across the workbench and turns on the stool to face me. The morning light catches his jaw, the scar that runs along the bone and disappears beneath his collar. His eyes find mine and hold, and the weight of his attention settles over me like a physical touch.
The silence between us isn't hostile. It is careful, like two people standing at the edge of deep water trying to decide whether to wade in.
"Can I ask you something?" The words leave my mouth before I've fully decided to say them.
"You can ask." His tone implies he reserves the right not to answer.
"All those years in Shadowland." I grip the mug tighter. "Did you ever think about me?"
The question hangs in the morning air between us. Jesse's hands go still on his knees. The patience in his posture shifts into something rawer, something that looks like it costs him to hold steady.
"Every single day." Three words that carry no deflection, no qualifier, no attempt to soften the admission or dress it up as duty or obligation. Just the bare, rough truth delivered in a voice that has dropped half an octave.
My breath catches. The coffee mug is suddenly the only thing keeping my hands from shaking, and I grip it hard enough that the ceramic bites into my palms. I've spent a third of my life hating this man, building walls against every other thought and convincing myself that Jesse Hollister was nothing but a ghostfrom the worst night of my life. And he just dismantled all of it with three words and a look that makes me feel like I'm standing beside an inferno fighting the urge to throw myself into the flames.
I don't trust my voice, so I don't speak. Jesse holds my gaze for another long moment, then turns back to the workbench and picks up the rifle. He runs the oiled cloth over the stock one final time. The shift in his attention isn't cold. It's mercy, giving me space to recover, to reassemble the composure he just shattered without even raising his voice.
The distant sound of Jesse's phone ringing inside the cabin breaks the spell. He rises, sets the Remington in its case, and moves toward the door. His arm brushes mine as he passes, and the contact sends a current through my skin that I feel all the way to my spine.
I stay on the porch, breathing in fresh air and staring at the hills until my pulse returns to something resembling normal.
By the time I follow him inside, Jesse is standing at the kitchen island with his phone on speaker. Knox's voice fills the room, clipped and efficient.
"Security cameras at Devil's Acre show nothing. No cartel activity at the ranch and no unfamiliar vehicles on the access roads. Beckett ran thermal sweeps of the perimeter this morning before we headed out, and everything came up clean."
Jesse leans against the counter with his arms crossed. "They haven't connected my truck to the property."
"Not yet. The evacuation was precautionary, but it looks like we're clear for now." Knox pauses. "Beckett and I are heading back to the ranch. We'll keep routines normal and stay visible, but the cabin stays as the fallback position if things go sideways."
"Agreed. Keep me updated on any movement."
"Copy." Knox's voice shifts, and I can hear the change in register, the way the tactical briefing gives way to somethingmore personal. "One more thing. Preacher King came by Devil's Acre this morning, before the sweeps."
Jesse's posture changes. The casual lean against the counter tightens into something rigid. "What did he want?"
"Same thing he always wants. Asking if we've heard anything." Knox's tone drops, and the rawness beneath it surprises me. "His daughter Delilah has been missing for a year now. He's desperate, Jesse. The man looks like he hasn't slept in months."
Jesse's gaze flicks to me, then away. "What did you tell him?"
