5. Porter
5
PORTER
T he numbers didn’t add up.
I sat at the rickety table in the bunkhouse, surrounded by years of Morris Ranch’s financial records I’d “borrowed” from the office in the barn before someone set it on fire. Most likely, Cici didn’t even remember leaving them there.
My burns throbbed, but I ignored them, focusing instead on the pattern emerging from the scattered papers. Equipment failures, lost contracts, mysterious accidents—this was personal. I felt it in my bones.
The wind howled outside, rattling the loose windowpane I’d tried to seal earlier. February in Colorado was always brutal, but tonight, the cold seemed to have an extra bite to it, like nature itself was trying to warn me about what I was uncovering. I pulled my jacket tighter and reached for the thermos of coffee I’d been nursing all morning. The liquid had gone cold hours ago, but I barely noticed. I was too caught up in the story the documents were telling—a story that made my gut twist with every new detail I unveiled.
Four years ago, a promising young bronc threw a shoe during a major competition, leading to a career-ending injury. The timing? Just as the animal was gaining interest for more than bucking. The farrier’s report noted unusual wear on the shoe, almost like it had been deliberately weakened. I remembered that horse—a stunning bay stallion named Storm Warning that Hank was particularly proud of. He’d called to tell me about the animal before he placed a bid, explaining the bloodlines that made him a perfect combination of power and control.
“This one’s going to change everything,” Hank had said. “Bring Morris Ranch to the top of broncs, where it belongs.”
While the horse would recover, he wouldn’t be able to compete again. And while he could still be bred, he hadn’t been on the circuit long, which meant he hadn’t yet gained much of a reputation. The traction Hank had hoped for wasn’t meant to be. The loss had hit him hard, both financially and personally.
I’d happened to be at the event when the accident took place, watching the color drain from his face as he spoke to the vet. Now, I’d bet anything someone had gotten to that horse before the competition.
Then, three years ago, a trailer axle had snapped on the way to Fort Worth, forcing Hank to default on a contract that would have helped put them in the national spotlight. The maintenance logs showed regular inspections, so the failure made no sense, given the relatively new equipment.
And now, the fire just as I was pushing for the Houston bid. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. Someone was making sure Morris Ranch stayed down, and they were getting bolder with each attack.
I took a break when I got a message from Thorn saying he was about to arrive and that Bullet, Stetson, and three other hands who had been brought on to help at the Roaring Fork after Cord had to leave were right behind him.
“Hey, guys. Thanks for being here,” I said, meeting them near the ranch house when they pulled in and parked. I’d hoped to introduce them to Cici, but I didn’t see her truck where it usually sat out front.
“What’ve you got for us?” Thorn asked, looking over the barn that had suffered enough damage in the fire that it would probably be cheaper and easier to build a new one.
Before that could be done, an arson investigation would have to be completed, which meant a delay with any insurance settlement. There was room in the south barn for now, but for Morris Ranch to make a go of roughstocking, they were going to have to add more bulls and broncs, which there now wouldn’t be enough space for.
“Come with me, and I’ll go over it with you.” I motioned for all the guys to follow me into the north bunkhouse. “This place is pretty rough, so cleaning it up would be on the list if any of you plan to stay on here.”
“I talked to Martinez, who said the southern bunkhouse is in better shape, and there’d be room for us there,” said Bullet.
“Good decision,” I said, chuckling.
“You might want to consider relocating too,” said Stetson as his gaze took in the interior of the building that should probably be replaced when the barn was. To do that, though, would take money Cici didn’t have.
My reasons for staying in this one were, first and foremost, because it was where Cici wanted me to stay. Second was its close proximity to the ranch house. There was no way I’d move anywhere where I couldn’t see it from one of the windows.
“The list is long and nowhere near complete,” I said, handing it to Thorn. “We’ll start with getting the fences repaired since it’s vital and also inexpensive. As far as any capital for improvements, we’ll have to take those on a case-by-case basis.”
“Understood.” He set the list on the table, making notes, then assigning teams to get started.
“I can’t thank you enough for this,” I said, turning to each of the men and extending my hand when Thorn indicated they were ready to head out.
“Happy to help out,” Stetson muttered, shifting on his feet.
I chuckled, figuring he was anxious to get outside in the fresh air. “Go on, now, and get to work.”
However, when the others filed through the door, he didn’t.
“What’s up, Stet?” I asked.
“Listen, Mr. Wheaton, there’s something you need to know. Your brother didn’t think it would be a problem, but…”
“Go on.”
“It was years ago—hell, Cici and I were babies—but apparently, my pa and Mr. Morris had a falling out.”
“Over?”
“Based on what I’ve been able to piece together from stories the older ranch hands have told, they were roughstocking partners in the late nineties, when rodeo really started to explode in popularity. My pa knew a lot more about horses, and Mr. Morris was better with the bulls.”
“With you so far.”
“Some say Morris got heavy-handed, wanting everything done his way. Which made sense because then it was the bulls getting all the attention. But you knew my father. He wanted to be in charge, saying the horses brought in more money historically.”
This was the first I’d heard about a partnership or a falling out. Both men had always been well-liked and respected in the rodeo industry as well as the local community.
“I’m surprised I never heard anything about it.”
Stetson shrugged. “Ancient history, I guess. Unless you’re a Hamilton or a Morris.”
“What came of it?” I asked.
“They decided to split up, and each developed their own roughstocking programs. When my dad started making inroads with the bulls, Morris accused him of taking credit for things that he came up with.”
“Stetson, you said yourself this is ancient history, so why bring it up now?”
“I can’t speak for how it was for Cici and Maverick, but we knew better than to ever mention Morris Ranch around my dad. I just don’t want anyone thinking that me or my family have anything to do with some of the stuff that’s been happening around here.”
“Let me ask you this. Do you have a personal beef with the Morris family?”
“No, sir.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to clear it with Cici before asking for help from the Roaring Fork, and maybe I should have. “We’ll talk it over, and if there’s an issue, I’ll let you know. I doubt there will be.”
After he thanked me and left, I sat down at the table and tried to make sense of the reports I was looking at when the sound of my phone buzzing broke my concentration. Another message from Cord. Any progress? he asked.
I typed back a quick response. Working on it.
Buck said there’s a crew from RF on their way.
Already here.
Sorry I can’t be of help, bro.
I didn’t respond. Telling him how much I needed him more than anyone else would only make him feel worse about a situation neither he nor I could control. Not to mention that, when he’d needed me, I sure as hell wasn’t there for him.
The worst of my suspicions didn’t have as much to do with what I now saw as the systematic destruction of what Hank Morris had built, as it did with the accident that took his life and Lillian’s. My gut was telling me it wasn’t a matter of fate that they were on that icy road that night. And that meant Cici might be in far worse straits than the bank threatening foreclosure. Her and Mav’s lives might be in danger.
I leaned against the chair, but sat up when it creaked as though it might break to pieces. Rubbing my eyes, I got back to work. Pulling out a fresh legal pad, I started organizing the incidents chronologically. The first signs of trouble had started in earnest a few years ago—small things at first that were easily dismissed. Two years before Hank and Lillian died, things began escalating.
The question that kept nagging at me was why? The land itself was valuable, sure, but there were easier ways to force a sale than this drawn-out campaign of destruction. This felt like whoever was behind it wanted to watch the ranch die slowly, wanted Mav and Cici’s mother, Lillian, to feel every loss.
Now, it was Cici they were toying with, letting her think each setback was her fault.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, thinking about Stetson saying his father and Hank had had a falling out. I couldn’t imagine Bronc Hamilton, as everyone had called him for so long I didn’t even know his first name, resorting to the kind of shit going on here. Plus, he’d died shortly after Hank and Lillian did. No way Stetson was behind any of this. That, I was certain of.
I closed my eyes, remembering the look on Cici’s face this morning when she’d signed the Houston contract—determination warring with defeat. She blamed herself for everything that had gone wrong since her parents’ death, and someone was counting on that self-doubt to break her.
My chest tightened at the thought. She’d already lost so much—her parents, her brother’s future, her trust in the world. And here I was, adding to her burden by my mere presence. But even if I could leave, I wouldn’t. Someone had to help her, and who better than a man who’d once loved her with his whole heart?
I shook my head and looked over toward the window. Who was I kidding? I’d never stopped loving Cici. I’d only accepted that, now, something that would utterly destroy her if she learned the truth stood between us. Worse, I couldn’t imagine what it would do to the seventeen-year-old kid whose secret I’d vowed to keep.
I flipped through more records, looking for anything that might point to who had the access and knowledge to pull this off.
Hours later, after the day got away from me, I realized the sun had set and I’d barely moved from where I sat.
My eyes burned from the strain, but the feeling of dread in my stomach hurt far worse. This wasn’t just about destroying the ranch—it was about isolating it. Each loss of a contract or a business relationship had pushed Morris Ranch further to the margins of the industry.
A sound outside pulled me from my thoughts. I got up and saw someone moving between the outbuildings, trying to stay in the shadows, where the bright moonlight wouldn’t shine on them. I killed the lamp, staying far enough away to not be seen in the window through which I’d first spotted them.
The figure was dressed in black, moving with purpose toward the equipment barn. Something metallic glinted in their hand—tools or maybe something worse.
Whoever it was navigated their way like they knew the layout by heart, avoiding the motion-sensor lights with practiced ease.
I grabbed my coat from the hook by the door, then my gun from the small kitchen cupboard where I kept it, checking the clip out of habit before tucking it into my waistband. Normally, I didn’t believe in mixing bullets and ranch work, but after the fire, I wasn’t taking chances. I slipped out the rear door rather than the front, using the skills I’d learned while tracking wild horses to move silently through the snow, keeping my distance as I followed him all the way to the south barn.
When he eased the alley door open just enough to slip inside, I did the same from the side entrance. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. The barn was full of shadows and blind spots, perfect places for someone to hide. I moved cautiously, staying close to the walls, where the floorboards were less likely to creak. A soft scraping sound came from the back corner, where the main stock trailer was kept. It was darker in that area, but my eyes adjusted at the same time the guy was about to duck behind a tractor. I lunged forward, but he was faster, knocking over a stack of empty barrels that crashed between us.
I heard a curse—definitely male, though the voice was too muffled to identify—and the sound of boots on concrete. The intruder knew exactly where the closest exit was, hitting it at full speed while I was still trying to navigate around the fallen barrels.
By the time I made it outside, he was gone, leaving only footprints in the snow. I followed them until they disappeared at the property line, where fresh tire tracks told their own story. Heavy-duty all-terrain tires, probably on a truck or SUV, but they were worn to the point where they should be replaced. The boots were square-toe, which were common. The only other clue, the professional-grade tools used, could very well belong to the ranch. The most important point of information was that this was someone with time to plan these attacks thoroughly.
I studied the impressions left in the mud, memorizing every detail in case the photos I took with my cell didn’t show them well enough.
The snow around the vehicle had melted, indicating the engine was probably left running. The man who did this had planned his escape route with a great deal of thought, choosing a spot hidden from both the house and the ranch’s security cameras. The ones Kaleb had said didn’t appear to be entirely functional anyway.
I returned to the barn and found what he’d been working on—the main hydraulic line on the stock trailer had been partially severed, weakened just enough to fail catastrophically once the trailer was loaded. The cut was precise, done by someone who knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum damage.
A thorough inspection revealed more sabotage—the brake lines had been nicked, the electrical system tampered with, and the hitch mechanism loosened just enough to create play in the connection. If I hadn’t interrupted the asshole, we would have lost more than just animals when that trailer failed. The image of Cici or Maverick being anywhere near it when it gave way made my blood run cold.
The discovery left me shaken in a way that had nothing to do with the frigid February night. Someone was willing to risk lives to achieve their goal. The question was, how far would they go? The fire had been bad enough, but this was attempted murder, plain and simple.
I pulled out my phone to document the sabotage, photographing every point of damage. My finger hovered over Kaleb’s number, but I stopped short of calling him before I was certain I had enough for him to investigate.
Instead, I spent the next hour checking every piece of equipment in the barn, documenting each instance of potential tampering I found. The pattern was clever, subtle. Small things that could be written off as normal wear and tear until you saw them all together. Whoever was doing this understood machinery, understood how to make accidents look natural, and also got that months could go by without the need for a certain tractor or hay baler. By compromising different things, the odds of injury—or worse—happening sooner multiplied.
The list of suspects would be short. Former employees, competitors, maybe someone from the rodeo circuit who had a grudge against the Morris family. But none of those explained the personal nature of the attacks or the timing that seemed designed to inflict the maximum damage.
Who in the hell would have it out to this extent for a young woman and her teenage brother, who’d lost their parents two years ago? It would take an evil far worse than what I’d seen in my life to destroy an entire family. I wondered if Cici would have any idea, or had whatever suspicion there might have been gotten buried when her parents were?
By the time I finished my inspection, it was close to seven-thirty. My body ached from hours of little sleep, followed by too much time spent in the cold barn, but my mind was racing too fast to rest. I gathered all the evidence I’d collected—photos, documents, notes—which, once I returned to the bunkhouse, I’d secure in the false bottom of my duffel bag.
Along the way, I thought over everything I’d learned. The sabotage, the financial manipulation, the escalating violence—it all pointed to someone with a deep understanding of both the ranch operations and the family itself. Someone patient enough to play a long game, smart enough to cover their tracks, and ruthless enough to risk lives to achieve their goal.
All of that added up to one thing—the kind of knowledge and access that only came from years of close contact.
Tomorrow, I’d see if I could get a list of everyone who’d worked the ranch in the past ten years. Ranch hands came and went, but the person or people behind this had to have been around longer. Someone whose loyalty to the Morris family had either been broken or bought.
I stopped and looked over at the house, where I wondered if Cici and Maverick were finished having dinner, unaware of just how much danger they were in.
The sun had long since set, but the moon’s glow bathed the snow in a soothing color that felt like a lie. Somewhere out there, someone was planning their next move. Someone who wouldn’t stop until Morris Ranch was destroyed and the family along with it.
God, I wanted a drink. Needed one.
Movement from the house caught my attention as I trekked to the bunkhouse. Cici’s bedroom light clicked on as she ended her day. I watched her shadow move across the window and made a silent promise to both her and her father that I would find who was behind this, no matter what it cost me personally.
Because the alternative was too much to imagine. I had to do this. Save the ranch and, by extension, her and Maverick. And that meant I couldn’t give in to the temptation of alcohol. I had to stay sober.
Kaleb was probably out with friends after a long shift, or on a date, or maybe he’d even called it a night and was sound asleep. I was about to stuff the phone in my pocket when I heard his voice in my head, telling me that whenever I felt like I couldn’t resist ending my sobriety, I should call him. That it didn’t matter what time, day or night. All that mattered was that I did not take that drink.
I dug out my phone and placed the call.