"Always."
Near the barn office, Stephanie stood close to Liam. He was on call with the Rangers today—couldn't ride out, and it was written all over his face how disappointed he was that he couldn’t help out.
"Radio check as soon as you're in position," he said. "Keep your rifle close."
"Yes, sir." I saluted, half-joking.
"Be safe, Mags." Not joking at all.
"I've got people watching my back." I glanced toward Jack without thinking.
Liam followed my gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly—that quiet read he did on everyone, the one that missed nothing.
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.
Jack had finished his prep and turned to Sully. The dog had been sitting at his side through everything, watchful and still. Now, as Jack crouched and murmured something low, Sully's body changed. He understood he was staying.
You could see it—the slight slump, the gaze that tracked Jack with worried intensity.
Too risky to bring a dog against hogs. Smart call.
But watching Jack say goodbye to his dog—watching that shepherd settle near the barn with resigned trust, believinghis person would come back—did something to me I wasn't prepared for.
Jack straightened, walked to his horse, and swung into the saddle.
I watched him for a moment I didn't mean to take. He sat a horse like he'd been born to it—spine straight, shoulders easy, hands natural on the reins.
I looked away.
When I glanced toward Stephanie, she was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Something soft and knowing, like she recognized what she was seeing because she'd felt it herself.
I turned away from that, too.
"Mount up!" Daddy's voice carried across the barn—forty years of authority in two words. "Let's move."
I walked to my bay mare. She nickered as I approached, bumping her nose against my shoulder. "Hey, girl. Ready?"
She tossed her head. Ready.
I checked my cinch, swung up. The creak of leather, the solid warmth beneath me, the weight of the rifle across my back.
The group assembled—Daddy in front, Wyatt to his right, Hunter and Jack flanking, two experienced hands bringing up the rear. I took the middle position. Not because Wyatt asked. Because it made tactical sense.
I wasn't reckless. I was practical.
Daddy raised his hand. We rode.
The ranch fell away behind us as we headed north, hooves drumming a rhythm against packed earth. The morning air was crisp—sage and cedar and the faint damp of overnight dew. Ahead, the tree line rose dark against the lightening sky.
The trail cameras had confirmed what Jack suspected. At least five adults were working the creek bed in a pattern that said they weren't passing through. They'd claimed territory.
We were going to take it back.
The first hour was methodical. We tracked the damage north along the fence line, documenting what the cameras confirmed. Owen and Wyatt read the land with an expertise I could never match—the way certain grasses bent, the angle of a broken fence post, the story written in mud and tracks.
Jack rode beside me for most of it—near enough to consult without crowding. Where Daddy saw damage, Jack saw patterns. Where Wyatt saw threat, Jack saw predictability.
"Creatures of habit," he said, studying a section of rooted earth near the second feed station. "Same path every night. Same spots. That makes them easier to trap, but it also means they're comfortable. Comfortable hogs don't flee."
