Page 9 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

But I carry it anyway.

My gaze sweeps automatically across fences, posts, gates, the ground itself, taking in every detail without needing to think about it. Years of doing this have turned it into instinct, into something deeper than routine.

Nothing gets missed.

Not out here. Not by me.

The sky bleeds from orange into deep blue, shadows stretching long across the paddocks as the horses settle, the ranch winding down for the night. The scent of hay, pine, and dust hangs in the air.

Everything looks right.

Everything should be right.

And yet that feeling from earlier hasn’t gone anywhere. It sits low in my chest, insistent. Something just out of reach that refuses to be ignored.

I round the north barn, my eyes dropping briefly to the ground as they always do.

And that’s when I see it.

The tracks are subtle, pressed into the dirt just off the service path. The pattern is wrong. The spacing is wrong.

Not deep enough for heavy equipment, not wide enough for the standard trucks that come through here.

Different.

Recent.

I slow, then crouch, lowering myself without breaking focus, studying the marks more closely. The edges are still jagged, undisturbed by wind or traffic, which means they haven’t been here long.

They weren’t here this morning.

My fingers press lightly into the track, testing the depth, the angle, the direction of the movement, tracing the path without disturbing it more than necessary.

The vehicle came in close. Too close, then left the same way it came. No hesitation, no correction.

I straighten slowly, my gaze lifting to the barn itself, to the doors, the windows, the darkened edges where shadow clings a little too easily.

There’s no record of a vehicle coming through here today that should leave these marks, which means whoever it was didn’t go through the proper channels, didn’t check in, didn’t want to be seen.

My grip tightens around the glove, the worn leather calming in my hand as the low, persistent unease from earlier intensifies, becoming more focused, more precise.

Someone came onto my land, and made sure they weren’t noticed.

I take one last look at the tracks, committing the pattern to memory before stepping back. I’m already running through what needs to be checked, who needs to be questioned, what logs need to be pulled apart until something gives.

Because whoever did this crossed a line.

And I don’t let that stand.

CHAPTER THREE

Annie

By day four at Ironwood, I’ve learned three important things.

One: The coffee’s strong enough to bring a corpse back to life.

Two: Cody Harlan color-codes things very seriously.