Shadow movement before. Nothing concrete. Might be something if I enhance. I’ll keep digging.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and glance at Ace. “Camera went out. Twenty-two minutes.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s enough time to do a hell of a lot more than cut a fence.”
I nod. “Let’s assume whoever it was got through, then what?”
Ace folds his arms, eyes narrowing. “They were headed toward Broken Ridge.”
My mind flashes to Peyton. The girl doesn’t even know what kind of landmine she’s stepped onto by being here. She’sbeen here two days and already someone’s prowling near our boundaries like a wolf scenting weakness.
“Keep an eye on Broken Ridge,” I say. “I want eyes on the south trail too. If someone came in through their land, I want to know if they left the same way.”
“You think Denver knows?”
I meet his gaze. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Ace gives a low curse and nods. “I’ll get Sawyer to cross-check Denver’s camera logs.”
“Thanks.” My voice is harder than I mean for it to be, but I’m already thinking of contingencies. If someone’s stirring up trouble, if they’re sniffing around the Denver’s land, it’s either about the girl—or the people who want her.
And if that’s the case, someone’s going to bleed for it.
“Wanna tell me what else is on your mind?” Ace asks, brow cocked.
I hesitate, but only for a second.
“I think Peyton might’ve brought more than her grief with her.”
Ace swears again, lower this time. “Great.”
Yeah.
Great.
5
The sharp whoopsand hollers yank me from sleep. The second I crack my eyes open, a heavy sigh escapes me. Right. I’m not in Los Angeles anymore.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand—7 a.m. Too early for this much noise. Too early for anything, really. But there’s no chance of falling back to sleep now. I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the window.
Outside, the yard’s already buzzing with life. In the nearest corral, the man I met in L.A.—Colter or something—is putting on a damn rodeo. He’s got a cocky grin plastered across his face, gripping the saddle like a showman while the horse beneath him bucks like hell, clearly not thrilled about being ridden.
His little audience of cowboys is lined up along the fence, laughing, hooting, and cheering him on like it’s the best kind of entertainment.
It’s far too early for this level of energy. With a groan and zero motivation, I head downstairs. If I’m going to survive this morning, I’ll need coffee—lots of it.
After the other night’s awkward dinner, I’m not keen on seeing anyone, which is why it is refreshing to once again findthe house is as silent as it had been yesterday. Leaving me alone to wallow in my misery.
The kitchen is blissfully empty. A quiet that makes you wonder if you’re still dreaming. No clinking dishes, no forced small talk, no judgmental stares from the unwanted sperm donor across the table. There is only the low hum of the fridge and the occasional thud of hooves outside.
I make a beeline for the coffeemaker, praying to the caffeine gods to show me mercy. Thankfully, someone already brewed a pot—miracle of miracles—so I don’t have to fumble with buttons or pretend I know how to use this fancy-ass machine. I pour a mug, black and steaming, and take along, scalding sip. It doesn’t help my mood, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.
Leaning against the counter, I stare out the window above the sink. Colter is still out there, putting on a show like he owns the place—which technically, he kind of does. His shoulders roll as he reins the horse into submission, all grit and swagger like he knows exactly how good he looks doing it.
Annoying.
Worse than annoying. The way he smirks when he catches one of the female ranch hands attention. The way the other men feed off him, trying to one-up each other with louder cheers and rowdier jokes. This whole place runs on testosterone and bullshit.
