Rawley’s mouth tightened. “I’ll handle it,” he said. “With Danny. He knows that section better than anyone.”
I didn’t ask why Danny—who spent most of his time organizing just about everything—would know the eastern tree line better than the man who owned the property.
Some questions didn’t need answers.
“I’ll photograph the map,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Check the angles, make sure we’re covering all the approaches.”
Rawley nodded, stepping back to give me room. I took three photos—one of the full map, one close-up of the eastern boundary, one of the house and immediate surroundings—then tucked the phone back in my pocket.
“We’re meeting at six,” Rawley said. “My place. Everyone’s bringing what they found. Macon’s running the briefing.”
I nodded, finishing my coffee in one swallow. “I’ll be there.”
We moved to the door without further discussion—no need to hash out details that were already clear. At the porch, Rawley paused, his hand on the doorknob.
“Thanks,” he said, the word coming out rough, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “For riding out. For not asking questions.”
I nodded once. “Anytime.”
He held my eyes for a long moment, something passing between us—acknowledgment, maybe, or understanding—then pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch.
I followed, closing the door behind me. The morning had fully arrived now, the sun high enough to burn the frost from the grass and turn the puddles in the drive to mirrors. In the distance, Black Butte Mountain stood sentinel over the valley, its snow-capped peak catching the light.
I mounted the mare with a single motion, gathering the reins with practiced ease. Rawley was already moving, his gelding picking its way down the drive toward the stable. I turned the mare toward the eastern pasture, giving her her head as we broke into a ground-eating trot.
The ride back to my place took twenty minutes—fifteen if I pushed the mare, which I didn’t. She’d already done her share for the day, carrying me along the tree line while I looked for threats. I let her set her own pace, my mind already working through the implications of what we’d found.
By the time I reached my farmhouse, I had a list of priorities: check the property boundaries, reinforce the locks on the doors and windows, move the emergency gear from the barn to the house. Basic security measures, the kind I’d implemented a dozen times in a dozen different places.
None of which addressed the real problem: someone had been watching the ranch. Someone with training, with patience, with a clear target in mind. And Eleanor Peterson, for all her money and connections, was still in jail, which meant either she had help on the outside or someone else had picked up where she’d left off.
Either way, we had a problem.
I unsaddled the mare in the small shed behind the house, rubbing her down with a rough towel before turning her out intothe paddock. She headed straight for the water trough, drinking deeply before moving to the hay I’d set out that morning.
Inside, the house was quiet—just the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the foundation settling. I moved through the rooms on autopilot, checking locks, testing windows, making mental notes of sightlines and blind spots. The kind of security sweep I’d done a thousand times before, in places a lot more dangerous than a ten-acre farm in Montana.
When I’d covered the house, I went out to the porch and sat on the top step, the valley spread out in front of me. From here, I could see most of the eastern approach—the tree line where we’d found the camera, the creek crossing where the boot prints had been, the ridge beyond that offered a clear view of the entire property.
Someone had stood on that ridge, watching. Had cut the fence, placed the camera, retreated the same way. Had planned it all with the kind of care that spoke of training and experience.
My phone was in my hand before I’d made the conscious decision to reach for it, Cruz’s contact already pulled up on the screen. I stared at it for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the call button, then moved to messages instead.
I typed:“Peterson situation is more organized than Rawley thought. Someone ran proper surveillance on the property. Thought you should know.”
I stared at it, reading it three times to make sure it said what I meant—that there was a threat, that it was serious, that I was telling him because he should know, not because I wanted him to do anything about it.
I hit send and set the phone on the porch rail, then immediately picked it up again to make sure the message had gone through. It had—the little “delivered” notification appearing under the text, then changing to “read” a moment later.
Four minutes later, my phone rang. Not a text—a call, Cruz’s name flashing on the screen. I answered without thinking.
“Reyes.”
There was a pause—Cruz registering the use of my last name, the formal tone—then his voice, level and clipped in the way it got when something had his full attention. “The camera. Where exactly was it mounted relative to the post?”
“West side,” I said. “Six inches below the top crossbar. Zip-tied at two points.”
Another pause. “The boot prints. How deep were they?”
