He didn’t ask what had happened or who the men were or whether they’d be back. Just worked through the steps of making coffee with the careful precision that meant he was filing his questions rather than ignoring them.
I watched him from my position by the counter—the stiff set of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself, the methodical attention he brought to even the smallest task.
Four months along, and he still moved like the SEAL he’d been—no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes, just the kind of economy that came from knowing exactly how much energy any given action was worth.
“You want cream this time?” he asked, not turning around.
“Black,” I said. “Two sugars.”
He nodded once, reaching for the sugar bowl without being told where to find it. Another detail filed—one of a hundred I’d noticed since moving in, things other people missed.
The coffee finished brewing. Jackson poured two mugs—mine black with two sugars, his with the amount of cream that turned it from coffee-colored to something closer to tan—then set them on the counter with careful attention.
We stood there for a moment, neither of us speaking, the coffee steaming between us. Outside, the sky had gone fully light—dawn breaking across the eastern ridge, turning the valley from black to deep purple to the green-brown that meant full morning wasn’t far off.
“You want to tell me what happened?” Jackson asked finally, his voice level.
I took a sip of coffee—hot, strong, exactly the right amount of sweet—and looked at him across the counter. “Petersonloyalists,” I said. “Four of them. Moving on the house from the eastern tree line. Wade and Morales took one. I got the other three.”
Jackson nodded once, processing. “The same ones from the intelligence brief?”
“Different cell,” I said. “These were runners, not planners. The kind they send when they want something done fast, not when they want it done right.”
Something moved across Jackson’s face—not quite fear, not quite anger, but something adjacent to both that made my chest tight for a second. “They knew I was here,” he said, not quite a question.
“They knew the farmhouse was a target,” I corrected. “Whether they knew you specifically were inside is still TBD. Morales is running IDs now. We’ll know more when Sterling gets here.”
Jackson absorbed that without visible reaction—just the tightening around his eyes that meant he was running scenarios, calculating risks, making the kind of assessments that had kept him alive through ten years of active duty.
“I should call Rawley,” he said finally. “Let him know what happened.”
“I already did,” I said. “Wade’s handling it. Rawley’s moving the ranch to condition three until we know what we’re dealing with.”
Jackson nodded, reaching for his coffee with careful attention. “And us?” he asked, the question coming out more clipped than he’d probably intended.
“We stay put,” I said. “House is secure. Team’s running the perimeter. Nothing’s getting through that door without someone noticing.”
Something in Jackson’s posture eased slightly—not a full release of tension, but the loosening that came with moving fromone kind of difficult to another. “You want breakfast?” he asked, already turning toward the refrigerator.
The question landed somewhere behind my sternum—not quite a physical thing, but present enough that I had to look down at my coffee to hide whatever had just happened to my face.
Not “you should go” or “what’s the plan” or any of the things people said when the world went sideways. Just “you want breakfast,” like gunfire at 5 a.m. was something that happened regularly, like men breaking down doors was just another Tuesday in a life that had plenty of them.
“I’m good,” I said, watching him over the rim of my mug. “Coffee’s enough for now.”
Jackson nodded, already moving toward the pantry. “I’m making eggs,” he said, not quite an order but close enough that I felt my spine straighten in automatic response. “You can eat them or not, but they’re happening either way.”
I set my mug down with careful attention, making sure it was exactly where I wanted it. “Scrambled,” I said. “With cheese. And toast. The kind from the bakery, not the stuff in the plastic bag.”
Something that was almost a smile crossed Jackson’s face—just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth, the kind that came with genuine surprise rather than performance. “Bossy,” he said, but he was already reaching for the eggs.
I moved to the window while he worked, watching the yard below. Wade and Morales had the coordinator secured by the eastern tree line—hands zip-tied behind his back, ankles bound, a tactical hood over his head to limit his visibility. Standard procedure for high-value captures, the kind of containment that kept men alive long enough to answer questions.
Beyond them, the valley spread out in all directions—mountains to the east, pasture to the west, the main ranch house visible as a cluster of buildings half a mile distant.
In another hour, the place would be crawling with ranch hands and team members and whatever security Rawley had decided was necessary. For now, though, it was just us—Jackson at the stove, me at the window, and the quiet that came after things had gone sideways but before anyone had decided what happened next.
“You know this changes things,” Jackson said suddenly, his back still to me, one hand reaching for the spatula hanging by the stove. “The farmhouse. It’s not secure anymore. They know where it is. They know who’s here.”
