I'd known that before I followed her back here. Known it on the roadside the other night when she'd asked my name and filed it away like a starting point rather than a detail. Known it this morning when Dawson sent her in my direction. He was too careful to answer her himself and too smart not to notice her questions were landing close to something real.
And now I'd stood too close, said too much, and given her exactly what she'd come for. Confirmation that the gap between what the rodeo showed and what was happening behind it was worth her time.
I was already in this. Had been since I fixed her battery and let her see my face without looking away. The question wasn't whether Rachel Grable would find what she was looking for.
It was what I'd do when she did.
CHAPTER 6
RACHEL
The bell above the door rang as I left the Mercantile, and I stood on the sidewalk for a second, trying to shake off the feel of Roman standing too close. My pulse was still running too fast. Why?
Not from the conversation. From the way he’d looked at me in that hallway, like he wanted to say something and didn’t trust himself to say it. Then he’d pulled back before I could figure out whether he was warning me away from the story or from him.
His scar had pulled tight when he spoke. His jaw worked around words he didn't want to give me. And I'd stood there cataloging every shift in his expression like it was evidence. Because it was.
Roman Maddox knew what was wrong with the rodeo's supply chain, and he'd told me without meaning to. It was full of stretched finances, bad calls, and people standing too close when it came apart. He'd practically drawn me a map while telling me not to follow it.
I opened the journal right there on the sidewalk and wrote everything down: the missing vet documentation Dawson had confirmed for three horses, Jace’s clean deflection, the handler conversation about corners being cut, and Roman's quiet admission that pulling the mare meant admitting the supplier sent bad stock.
Once, I would’ve rushed straight for the hardest hitting version of the story. I would have wanted the headline, the angle, and the piece that made an editor look twice. But I’d learned the hard way that being right didn’t mean much if you left unnecessary damage behind.
I closed the journal, then tucked it back in my bag. He'd asked me to stop. Not demanded. Asked. And the way he'd said it, like he was trying to hold something fragile with his bare hands, told me more than any on-the-record quote ever could.
I wasn't going to stop. Not when I needed a story to get my name back out there.
A few days passed. I spent them the way I always spent the middle of an investigation. Moving through town like I belonged there, asking questions that sounded like conversation, paying attention to what people didn't say.
Tuesday morning I sat at the counter of the diner and listened to two ranchers argue about whether the rodeo would draw enough out-of-town money to justify the road closures. One of them mentioned stock arrivals being behind schedule, then changed the subject when a server came around to refill his coffee.
Wednesday afternoon I walked the rodeo grounds with my press badge clipped to my jacket. The arena was taking shape with fresh lumber, fresh paint, and the smell of sawdust and ambition. I counted fourteen horses in the holding area. The lineup Slade had shown me listed eighteen.
They were four short and less than two weeks out.
I found Jace near the medical tent, clipboard in hand, barking at a volunteer about ice cooler placement. I asked about the lineup numbers, and he gave me a smile.
“Stock rotates in and out during prep. It’s perfectly normal.”
“And the vet clearances for the ones already here?”
“On file.” He turned his back. “Talk to Slade if you need specifics.”
I didn't talk to Slade. Instead, I talked to the farrier, who was too young to have learned which questions to dodge. He told me two horses had shipped in from the same supplier as the clay-colored mare. Both had been pulled from morning evaluation and moved to a separate pen.
“Roman's working with them,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Same thing as before. They come in hot. He cools them down.”
“Hot how?”
He shrugged. “Flinchy. Head-shy. The gray one won't let anyone near its left flank.”
Head-shy. Flinchy. Won't let anyone near specific areas.
Those were the same behavioral markers Roman had identified in the mare. The same signs of rough handling, or worse, that any experienced horseperson would recognize. One problem animal was an anomaly. But three from the same supplier was a pattern.
Thursday, I sat on the tailgate of my truck in the rodeo parking lot with my notes spread across my lap. My journal was filling fast. Timelines, names, gaps where documentation should have been and wasn't. I'd called the southern supplier's listed business number twice. It was disconnected both times.
Across the lot, a trailer backed toward the holding pens.
