I wished I could do the same for Jojo.
He was still on the couch, but he’d fallen asleep, chin tipped to his chest, hands cradling his belly in a gesture I don’t think he was even aware of. There was something so defenseless about it, so trusting, it made my throat go tight.
For the first time, I stopped thinking of it as land, or duty, or some point to be proven to a family that never wanted me. The house, the ranch, the perimeter—every inch of it was just an extension of what I had to protect.
It was family now. Mine.
I checked the Sig, racked the slide, and started at the top of the list: weaknesses, threats, countermeasures. Because if Hargrove wanted a war, he’d just declared it on something I’d burn the world down to defend.
By midmorning, the only evidence left was the sharp smell of bleach and the nagging hum under my skin. Jojo napped, curled in the afghan, features soft and slack.
The house had gone so quiet I could hear the low drone of a tractor in the next valley, and the distant pop of a shotgun—someone scaring off deer from the hayfields.
I locked myself in the office, sat down and pulled out my cell phone, staring at one name. Macon O’Reilly. The only person I’d ever trusted to watch my back when the world started to go sideways.
I punched the number. It rang twice.
“O’Reilly.”
“It’s Steele.”
Pause. “Heard you bought the farm.”
“Literally,” I said. “Could use a second set of eyes.”
He grunted. “You expecting company?”
“Already had some. Someone broke into the house last night, left a message. Slaughtered livestock.”
“Beta or alpha?”
“Beta. Hargrove. Thinks he owns the valley.”
“Copy.” Another pause, the sound of a saw starting and stopping in the background. “What’s the threat level?”
I surveyed the room as I spoke, picturing every possible breach point, every sightline from the road. “Elevated. Five thousand acres, three occupied structures, one omega and a potential hostile in town. And…one other complication.”
“Define complication.”
“He’s pregnant,” I said.
For the first time in a decade, Macon was silent for more than a beat. Then: “You knocked up an omega and let him get targeted by a psycho rancher?”
“It was not the mission plan,” I admitted.
Macon’s voice came through as cold as the Blackwater in March. “You want me on-site?”
“ASAP. The sheriff’s hands are tied. I need someone who’s not afraid to break a few eggs.”
He gave the little huff that meant he was amused, or maybe just awake. “I’ll drive straight through. What do you want me to bring?”
I thought about it. “Security cameras. Perimeter sensors. And a set of new locks for every door and window.”
“Roger. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I hesitated, then added, “Pick up half a dozen chicks on the way. Jojo lost his first batch.”
He made a low, incredulous sound. “Actual chicks. Not—never mind. What kind of domestic situation did you get yourself into, Steele?”
