“Turn here.” Mack pointed toward a gravel road marked by a wooden sign: Jenkins Ranch - Est. 1952.
Hammer stifled the growl in his chest. Whatever. He turned onto the drive, noting immediately how different this property looked from the struggling ranches they’d passed. New fencing stretched in perfect lines across manicured pastures where expensive quarter horses grazed on grass so green it looked artificially enhanced. Equipment sheds held tractors and implements that caught the last rays of fading sunlight, their red and silver surfaces gleaming in the golden hour.
The ranch house dominated the landscape like a monument to prosperity—a sprawling log construction with soaring gables and multiple dormers silhouetted against the deepening sky. Light spilled from the windows, casting rectangular pools of yellow onto the wraparound deck supported by massive timber posts. Professional landscaping surrounded the foundation with native stone planters and manicured shrubs that probably cost more than most ranchers made in a year.
The air here smelled different too—less like cattle and hay, more like money and ambition. Even the gravel driveway was perfectly graded, crunching under their tires with a sound that whispered expense. Wind chimes hung from the porch eaves, their sound eerily clear in the still evening air.
It felt more like a movie set than a working ranch—the kind of place built to impress visitors rather than raise livestock. The house lights made it look warm and inviting, but Hammer knew better.
“Looks like your father’s done well for himself.”
“Mayor’s salary probably helps. Plus whatever he makes from the ranch operation.” Mack was studying the house like he was memorizing details, his voice carrying a note of pride that made Hammer’s stomach turn. “He always said hard work and smart decisions would pay off eventually.”
Hard work. Hammer tasted bile at the back of his throat. This wasn’t hard work. This was kickback and corruption, political connections and the kind of moral flexibility that let a man sleep at night despite his sins.
Hammer parked near the front porch, noting the security lights that flooded the yard with harsh white illumination. Motion sensors, probably. Multiple cameras mounted under the eaves. Either Mayor Jenkins had enemies, or he had something worth protecting.
“You coming in?” Mack asked as he opened his door.
“I’ll wait here.”
“He’d want to see you. I know things were complicated when we were kids, but?—”
“Complicated?” He shook his head. “I’ll wait here, Mack. Text me when you’re ready to go.”
“Listen. I get it. Just go. But I’m sticking around.” Mack gave him a grim smile, understanding passing between them. Some wounds were too deep for time to heal, some relationships too broken for politics or politeness to repair.
Not that there was a relationship to be fixed.
Mack grabbed his duffel out of the back.
The front door opened before Mack reached the porch steps. Mayor Alden Jenkins stepped into the light—taller than Hammer remembered, broader through the shoulders, but carrying the same intimidating presence that had terrorized one young boy while charming everyone else. His dark hair was now streaked with silver, swept back from a face that had aged into the kind of gravitas voters mistakenly found reassuring. Deep lines etched around dark eyes that had learned to project sincerity on command, while his mouth held the practiced smile of a man who’d spent decades convincing people he was worthy of their trust.
The monster, in the flesh.
“Mack.” Alden’s voice carried syrupy pleasure. “Look at you. All grown up.”
He hugged Mack, but Alden’s gaze found Hammer through the truck’s windshield.
Hammer bristled. “Let’s go,” he said as Mack went into the house.
“You okay?” Saxon. He looked over from the passenger seat.
“Yep.”
Saxon sort of grunted, then looked out the window.
Of course, the drive back toward the motel, with a small detour, took him past the Blackwood ranch.
Whatever.
And sure, okay, he found himself slowing as the property came into view.
The contrast with the Jenkins spread was immediate and painful. Where Jenkins’s ranch spoke of prosperity and careful management, the Blackwood place showed the strain of recent losses and deferred maintenance.
Fence posts leaned at odd angles along the gravel drive that led to a house that had once been magnificent. The two-story structure rose from a foundation of native stone, its cedar-shingle siding weathered to a soft gray that spoke of decades facing Colorado winters. Three distinctive gables crowned the roofline along with a welcoming, if saggy, front porch.
A few brave mums still bloomed in clay pots by the front steps, Sierra’s attempt to maintain some beauty despite everything else falling apart, maybe. The porch swing hung slightly crooked, and several of the cedar shingles curled at the edges, waiting for repairs that might never come.
