1
Wyatt “Wolf” Maddox
The town of Eagle River didn’t look like salvation.
It looked like dust, peeling paint, and a second chance I wasn’t sure I deserved.
I stood on the cracked sidewalk with my duffel over my shoulder, staring up at the building my old Colonel had left us.The Last Stand Tavern.The sign hung crooked, like even the wood had given up years ago. A few empty beer bottles rested on the steps. One rolled lazily in the wind, tapping my boot like it expected me to pick it up.
Behind me, my team filtered out of their vehicles one by one—Trigger stretching like he’d slept on a rock (he had), Havoc scowling like someone had personally offended him (someone probably had), and Saint carrying three of the guys’ bags because he didn’t know how to stop helping people.
We were a mess.
We werehome,apparently.
“You sure this is the place?” Trigger asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Looks like it failed the health code inspection… in 1984.”
I grunted. “Welcome to Eagle River.”
He whistled low. “Small town charm is really hitting in the face.”
Small town chaos, more like.
A dog barked somewhere down the street.
A screen door slammed.
Wind chimes sang an eerie little tune even though the air was dead still.
And then—
“BOYS!”
The shout cracked like a whip.
We all turned as three older women in pastel cardigans and orthopedic shoes marched toward us, wielding pie tins like weapons. They moved in formation—frighteningly good formation. Trigger actually flinched.
“Oh hell,” Havoc muttered. “Incoming.”
“That’s them!” one of the women cried. “The Rangers! The new owners!”
Before any of us could react, they descended—hugging, patting, pinching cheeks, handing out baked goods. Trigger got kissed on both cheeks. Saint was offered a quilt. Havoc stood frozen as one of them lectured him about posture.
I was trying to disappear into the sidewalk when the smallest woman—white hair in a tight bun, eyes sharper than a sniper scope—zeroed in on me.
“You,” she said, pointing a pie at my chest. “You must be Wyatt Maddox.”
I stiffened. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
“Oh, he’s polite!” she crowed. “Girls, this one’s mine.”
Trigger snorted. Havoc elbowed me. Saint looked like he was trying not to cry-laugh.
The Magnolia Ladies—apparently their official title—fussed, flapped, advised, and then swept away as fast as they came.
Silence settled.
And that’s when I saw her.
