Lena finally looks up, her tone practical. “So he’s not violent, he’s just reactive. Wrong target, wrong place, wrong time.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Andy says he’s disciplined, quiet, does the work, follows direction. But if someone he’s attached to is threatened, he goes straight into combat mode, and that’s what makes him unpredictable.”
There’s a thoughtful beat before Paige closes the folder and sits back in her chair. “Listen,” she says, “I’m just gonna say it, Ilovea protective man, honey.”
Lena holds up a hand in full agreement. “The way I would walk around andwish a bitch wouldat everyone.”
Paige gestures dramatically. “Like…have you seen my man? Do you know who my man is?”
They cackle, feeding off each other, and the whole mood in the office lifts. I can’t help it, a laugh slips out of me too. I shake my head at them, amused and resigned in equal measure.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” I tell them, though I’m smiling.
Lena takes a sip of her iced coffee, not remotely apologetic. “What? I’m just saying. If Copper Ridge is gonna get a new veteran, a little overprotective isn’t the worst trait on the menu.”
Paige points her pen. “As long as ‘overprotective’ doesn’t mean ‘punching Cash over a misplaced saddle blanket,’ we’re good.”
The laugh that escapes me this time is real and full. I trust my team, their competence, their humor, and their willingness to say the thing everyone else is thinking, but underneath all of that is the quiet truth threading through my mind; it’s my responsibility to make sure Copper Ridge is safe… including Trace Buchanan.
Trace
Cash is waiting on the porch when I pull up, arms crossed, expression easy but sharp enough to clock every detail.
“You must be Trace,” he says, offering his hand. “Welcome to Copper Ridge.”
I shake it. “Thanks.”
He nods once toward the cabin. “Go ahead and get settled. When you’re ready, follow the fence line past the horse barn and keep going until you hit the red gate. I’ll meet you out there.”
That’s it. No small talk, no staring like he’s trying to read my whole life in my face. Just directions and space. I appreciate it more than I can say.
When he drives off in the UTV, I stay there a moment longer, looking at the cabin before stepping inside and closing the door behind me. For a while, I just stand there taking it all in before walking over to the bed and dropping my duffel bag on it. I unzip it, pulling out all my worldly possessions, and try to figure out how the hell my life fits inside one bag.
I take my time going through the place, putting my clothes away, and getting a feel for the cabin. The kitchen cabinets are stocked, and the fridge is full. Towels are folded on the bathroom shelf, and there’s even a bar of unopened soap. I open the fridge again just to be sure. Milk, eggs, juice, water, cold cuts, fresh fruit. Whoever set this up made sure everything is ready.
I place my books and journal on the nightstand, then reach back into the bag and pull out my Glock. It’s the one thing that’s never let me down. It doesn’t talk, doesn’t judge, doesn’t ask questions; it’s just there. I slide it under the pillow and sit on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees.
For a few minutes I stay there, staring at the floor.
“Coward,” I mutter. Not about coming here — about sitting here hiding instead of trying.
Dragging a hand over my face, I let out a long breath. I’ve wasted enough time.
I grab the keys off the table, shove them in my pocket, step outside, lock the cabin door, and squint into the light. The sun isalready climbing, and the dry Wyoming heat has settled in early, promising to stay all day.
Cash told me to follow the fence line, past the horse barn, and keep going until I get to the red gate, so that’s what I do. Gravel shifts under my boots with every step, and the breeze carries the smell of hay, dust, and something faintly floral from the fields.
Barns and outbuildings sit along the road, along with smaller cabins that look like housing for hands. When the road opens again, a beautiful two-story house comes into view, with an inviting wraparound porch, several rocking chairs arranged neatly, and bright flowers lining the steps. The place is clearly well cared for, just like everything else I have seen on the ranch so far, but there is no denying that it stood apart. This house is a home.
Movement on the porch pulls my attention. An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair is trying to gather several grocery bags from the steps. One bag has tipped over, and a bottle of juice is inches from rolling off the porch. She mutters under her breath while reaching for another bag. I cross the path toward her.
“Ma’am, let me get that for you.”
She straightens and gives me a sharp look that doesn’t quite hide the humor in her eyes. “Do not call me ma’am. Makes me sound like I should be out to pasture.”
The automatic response slips out before I can stop it. “Yes, ma’am.”
She laughs. “See what I mean, it’s a hard habit to break. Go on and help then. Thank you, young man. I appreciate it.”
