Page 181 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

The morning air hits like a slap the second we step outside. Cold. Smelling of dirt and panic.

Men move across the ranch in fast, controlled lines. Horses are agitated in the paddocks, stamping and snorting. One ranch hand is trying to calm a gelding that keeps jerking against the lead rope hard enough to bruise itself.

And in the center of all of it, Silas.

He looks lethal.

His dark hair is damp like he dragged a hand through it too many times already. His shoulders are rigid beneath a thermal henley, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking from ten feet away.

A ranch hand is talking to him rapidly.

“The latch wasn’t broken,” the guy says nervously. “It was opened.”

Silas goes terrifyingly still. “You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

Then Silas turns, eyes scanning the property with the kind of focus predators probably use before they kill.

“Check every gate on the north side,” he orders coldly. “Every lock. Every chain. I want eyes on all the horses until further notice.”

Nobody argues. Nobody hesitates. They move instantly.

Cody appears beside him a second later. His expression is somehow worse than Silas’s.

Ice cold.

“What time was the gate found?” Cody asks.

“Five twenty-three,” the ranch hand answers.

“Who opened the paddocks last night?”

“Benji locked them after evening feed.”

Cody’s gaze pierces, like he’s slotting puzzle pieces into place whether he wants to or not.

Then his eyes land on me, and there’s a flicker. Suddenly I understand. This isn’t about property damage anymore.

Someone could’ve gotten hurt. A horse breaks a leg in a panic, a rider gets thrown, a ranch hand gets crushed against fencing in the dark.

Accidents happen fast out here.

This is escalating.

They’re not trying to scare me anymore. They’re destabilizing the ranch.

Silas stalks toward the open gate himself, boots cutting through mud with purpose. I follow before anyone can stop me.

The latch hangs loose against the fencing.

A shiver crawls over my skin.

Silas crouches near the post, gloved hand brushing over the metal.

“Boot prints,” I say.

His eyes flick toward me.