Every small noise carried. The soft squeak of snow under my boots. The low whine of the porch hinge. Even the steady hum of the generator behind the barn seemed louder than it should have been. The world around me had been stripped clean, left raw and silver under the weight of moonlight. Every fencepost threw a shadow across the yard, long and cold. Nothing moved.
Kristin’s words echoed through my head. Someone’s out there.
I shifted my grip on the rifle, keeping it low but ready, the wood worn smooth against my palm. My heartbeat settled into that quiet, controlled rhythm that only came when things could go wrong fast. Every nerve in me was awake, but I kept my breathing steady. Panic made people sloppy. I’d seen it a hundred times before. Men who charged instead of thinking.Men who got themselves or someone else killed because they moved too fast.
Not tonight. Not here.
The snow was fresh, clean, and untouched except for the tracks that cut across it. The snow told the truth before anything else did.
Boot prints led from the fence line toward the porch. Large. Deep. Heavy treads. I swept my flashlight across them, the beam low and narrow. Whoever it was had moved quietly, carefully, like they knew how to make themselves small. The tracks stopped ten feet from the steps, turned back toward the trees, and vanished into the dark.
They had stood there long enough to watch the house.
I crouched and ran a gloved hand along the edge of a print. The snow crumbled under my fingers, still soft, still holding shape. Fresh. Maybe an hour old. Maybe less.
My stomach tightened.
Behind me, the glow from the kitchen window spilled onto the snow. The light looked fragile against the dark. Kristin was upstairs now. I pictured her peeking through the curtain even though I’d told her not to, her breath fogging the glass, her fingers pressed against it like she could will me back inside.
I wanted to go back in. Lock the doors. Keep her safe where nothing could reach her.
But that wasn’t how we handled things. Not here. Not ever.
I clicked the small radio in my coat pocket, the one I hadn’t used in months. The static buzzed sharply in the cold. “Kipp, you up?”
A pause, then a yawn. “Not anymore. What’s wrong?”
“Need you to call the boys. No lights, no noise. Bring flash and sidearms. Someone’s been on the property.”
The line went quiet for a beat, that kind of silence where you could feel the air tighten. “Copy that,” Kipp said finally, his voice all business now. “We’ll meet at your gate in ten.”
I shut the radio off, the small click sounding too loud in the stillness. I turned back toward the trees. My breath misted again, slow and steady. Somewhere out there, someone was watching my house. Watching her.
I scanned the tree line one more time before heading down the drive. The snow crunched beneath each step. Every movement echoed. When I reached the end of the lane, I crouched behind the old fence post and waited.
Ten minutes in that cold could feel like an hour. The world stayed silent. Then, faint and low, headlights flickered once from the main road before cutting out. Kipp’s truck rolled in first, dark paint blending into the night. Griff followed, his engine running smooth as ever. Nash was right behind him, steady as always. Ryder came last, his blacked-out Chevy creeping in like a shadow.
They stepped out one by one, boots crunching, breath rising in white clouds. No words at first. Just the kind of silence that only comes from men who know what they’re walking into.
Kipp came up beside me, his heavy parka zipped to his chin. He scanned the yard before he spoke. “Tracks?”
“North fence,” I said quietly. “Came close to the porch, turned back.”
He nodded, eyes sweeping the distance between the house and the trees. “You wake Kristin?”
“She saw him. I sent her upstairs.”
“Good. Do you think she’ll stay there?” Kipp’s tone was short, and I nodded. I didn’t really think she’d want to tangle with this fucker again.
Nash swung a flashlight under his arm, beam cutting through the shadows. “Could be a drifter.”
Ryder’s voice came low, but sharp. “Or it could be the same son of a bitch who’s been calling her phone from blocked numbers for three weeks.”
I shot him a look. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”
“She told Lexie,” he said with a shrug. “Lexie told me. Don’t look so shocked. Women talk.”
Griff joined us, his breath clouding in the air. “Are we checking fences or following tracks?”
