8. Cici
8
CICI
T he gunshots sent my heart into my throat. Porter and I raced across the frozen ground, our breath coming in white clouds in the frigid air. The pasture was shrouded in shadows, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Then I heard a groan that made my blood run cold.
“Oh my God!” I spotted Jack Shaw, who’d worked for our family for years, slumped against a fence, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Even in the dim light, I could see blood seeping between his fingers.
Porter reached him first, already shrugging out of his coat. “Let me see.” His voice was steady, authoritative. He pressed his wadded-up coat against the wound while I dropped to my knees beside them.
“Caught someone…messing with the fence,” Shaw managed through gritted teeth. “Couldn’t see their face. They fired twice and ran.”
“We need to get him to the hospital.” Porter’s eyes met mine. “My truck keys are hanging by the door in the bunkhouse. It’s closer, and it’s got four-wheel drive.”
I nodded and took off running. When I reached the bunkhouse, what I saw made me stumble to a halt. A piece of paper had been nailed to the wood in the few minutes we were with Shaw. My hands shook as I pulled it free.
“Leave now, or the next shot won’t miss,” it read in words that had been cut from magazines, just like the other notes and letters I’d received.
But this one was different—it targeted Porter specifically. My chest tightened. Someone had been watching us, had seen him becoming essential to the ranch’s recovery. Maybe even saw him becoming important to me in a way I’d never anticipated could happen again.
I grabbed the key fob and shoved the note in my pocket, trying to ignore how the thought of Porter leaving—by choice or by force—made my stomach twist. We needed him. The ranch needed him. I wasn’t ready to examine why that terrified me more than the threat itself.
When I returned, Porter had already helped Shaw to his feet. The wound was a graze, but there was enough blood to turn my stomach. I unlocked the vehicle and helped him get Shaw in the rear seat, then climbed in beside him.
“Keep pressure on it,” Porter instructed after I’d handed him the key fob and he started the engine. “Jack, you still with us?”
“Yeah, I’m still kickin’,” Shaw grunted. “Been better, but I’ve also been worse.”
I studied his face. Jack had taught me to drive a stick shift and, along with my father, helped Mav learn to rope. Now, here he was, bleeding because someone wanted to destroy everything our family had built.
“Who would do this?” I whispered, more to myself than anyone.
“Someone who knows the ranch,” Shaw said, his voice tight with pain. “They knew exactly where to wait. Knew my routines.”
Porter’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. I could see him processing this information, adding it to whatever mental catalog he was keeping of the ranch’s troubles. I should tell him about the other notes, I realized. About all the little things that hadn’t added up even before he arrived.
But not now. Not with Shaw bleeding in my arms and the sun shining on a ranch that felt more like a battlefield with each passing day.
At the hospital, Porter handled everything while I called Kaleb. The sheriff arrived as they were taking Shaw back for treatment. His expression was grim when I told him what happened.
“I’ll need statements from all of you,” he said, pulling out his notebook. “And I want to check those tracks before they get trampled.”
“I should get back,” I said, thinking of Mav. “My brother?—”
“I called Thorn,” Porter cut in. “He’s, err, keeping an eye on things. Let me handle this part, Cici. You stay with Shaw,” he added when I started to protest.
I shook my head, unable to process what he’d just said. Thorn? Someone was keeping an eye on things? Did he mean at our ranch?
Rather than hurl questions at him, I paused. There was no arrogance in what he’d said, no attempt to take control. Just genuine concern and a steadiness I desperately needed right now.
I waited while Shaw got stitched up, his usual easy smile strained but present. “Been noticing things. I know Juan showed you the shell casings, but there’s been more,” he admitted when I asked why he’d been checking the fence so early. “Tracks by the old barn before dawn. Equipment moved when it shouldn’t be. Didn’t want to worry you with everything else going on.”
The words hit hard. How many people had been keeping quiet about things they’d seen, trying to protect me? And how many secrets was I still keeping that might get someone else hurt?
“You should tell Porter,” I found myself saying. “About the tracks, everything. He needs to know.”
Shaw studied me for a long moment. “You’re starting to trust him again.”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
But that wasn’t quite true. The real truth was harder to face—I was starting to want to trust him. Starting to rely on his steady presence and his unwavering determination to help us. The thought of him leaving filled me with dread. I’d loved Porter Wheaton once. In fact, I thought the day would come when he might ask me to marry him. Instead, he broke my heart.
I shook my head a second time—harder—not wanting to relive that time of my life. My focus needed to be on things like the note in my pocket that felt like it would burn a hole through the fabric. Someone had watched us long enough to know targeting Porter would hurt the ranch. Might even hurt me.
When had that happened? When had Porter Wheaton gone from being the person I blamed for destroying my brother’s future to the man I relied on? More, wanted to rely on?
“Your father liked him. He was sad the two of you broke up but smart enough to know he had to stay out of it,” Shaw said quietly. “Porter handles things the same way Hank would’ve. The way he looks at you when you’re not watching.”
“That was a long time ago. A different life.” One when both my parents were alive and Maverick was turning into a promising bull rider. Porter had been at the ranch for a handful of days. Until then, and even after his arrival, I considered him an enemy. That I felt so vulnerable was the only reason my opinion had changed so drastically and so quickly. I wasn’t ready for that observation or its implications.
Bert Johnson, who roomed with Shaw in the south bunkhouse, picked the two of us up from the hospital. I’d offered to let Jack recover at the ranch house, but he’d refused, saying he’d be more comfortable in his “own” space. Rather than have them drop me off there, I rode along to help Shaw get settled.
When Bert and I helped him inside, the first thing I noticed was how different it appeared from the north version. I’d known the south one was in much better shape, but seeing it now, after being in the other with Porter earlier, shamed me. I’d sent the man who was helping us, seemingly out of the goodness of his heart after promising my father he would, to stay in a structure on the verge of being uninhabitable. It was something I intended to rectify as soon as I saw him.
When Johnson took me home, I saw Porter’s truck parked in front of that rundown bunkhouse, then spotted him talking to Kaleb by the fence where Martinez had found tracks and shell casings.
I pulled the note from my pocket, staring at the crude letters. I should show it to Porter. Should tell him about the others. About all the strange things that had been happening even before he arrived.
But first, I needed to understand why the thought of him leaving felt like losing a piece of myself I’d only just discovered had returned.
I found him back at the bunkhouse later that afternoon, hunched over documents spread across the rickety table. They looked like the same ones he’d gathered and taken into the other room earlier. When I rapped on the partially open door, he looked up with an expression that was best described as neutral. The burns on his arms from the fire were still visible, a reminder of how much he’d already risked for us.
“Shaw settled in?” he asked.
I nodded, lingering in the doorway. “Porter, about you staying here?—”
“If you mean in this bunkhouse, don’t worry about it. I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That’s not the point.” I stepped inside, picking up one of the papers he’d been studying. “You shouldn’t have to. There’s plenty of room in the ranch house.”
His head snapped up, and his eyes were wide. “Cici?—”
“Please.” I met his gaze steadily. “With everything that’s happening…I’d feel safer if you were closer.”
I watched as his internal struggle played out in his expression—his instinct to maintain a distance warring with his need to protect. When he finally nodded, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” I set the sheet of paper down. “What are you working on?”
He hesitated only a moment before spreading out several documents. “Looking for patterns. The shooter knew Shaw’s schedule, knew exactly where to wait. That kind of knowledge takes time to acquire.”
The conversation was interrupted by Kaleb’s arrival.
“Found something you both need to see,” he said after Porter invited him in.
We followed him out to where Shaw had been shot. The sheriff crouched down to where the fence had been tampered with. “Professional-grade wire cutters. Not to mention, the water lines have been compromised.”
“The water lines?”
“They’re trying to separate the north pasture from the rest,” said Porter. “Cut off the water access.”
I felt sick. Without that water source, we’d have to move the entire herd. The cost would be astronomical.
“There’s more.” Kaleb stood, brushing off his hands. “The shell casings match the ones Martinez found last week. Same shooter.”
“Last week?” Porter’s voice was sharp. “There were other shots fired?”
This was news to me too. The first I’d heard about were the ones he found last night.
Porter paced in the dirt, his jaw tight with barely contained anger. Not at me, I realized, but at the situation. At the growing web of threats and secrets that seemed to be swirling around us.
“There’s more I should’ve told you,” I finally said.
He stopped pacing. “Like what?”
“Other notes I’ve received.”
He studied me but didn’t speak right away, perhaps in an effort to control his temper. “Yes, you should’ve,” he finally said, looking from me to the sheriff, then back again. “Have you told Kaleb?”
“No.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s go inside.” He motioned for Kaleb and me to follow him.
By the time we reached the bunkhouse’s table, I’d pulled the note from my pocket and unfolded it. “I found this earlier when you told me to get your keys.”
“Where?” he asked as I handed it to him.
“Nailed to the door.”
He looked at it, then handed it to the other man.
“Leave now, or the next shot won’t miss,” Kaleb read out loud. “Do you think this was for Porter?”
“Why else would it have been nailed to the door of this place?”
Porter walked over to the window, his shoulders tense. “We need to start being honest with each other, Cici. All of us. Before someone gets killed instead of just wounded.”
The truth of his words stung, but I agreed. We were all keeping secrets, and like land mines, they were waiting to explode.
“I have the other notes,” I admitted. “Ones that came before today’s. They’re in Dad’s desk. I think…I think you need to see them.”
Porter turned back to me, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go,” he said, heading to the door, with Kaleb and me following.
The walk to the house felt longer than usual. Each step was a choice—to trust, to let someone else in, to face possibilities I’d been avoiding. When we reached Dad’s office, I pulled out the key I kept on a chain around my neck—the one that opened the bottom drawer, where I’d been collecting evidence of everything that had gone wrong since my parents died.
As I reached for the handle, I realized my hands were shaking. Showing Porter these notes meant letting him see how deep the trouble really went. It meant trusting him with more than just the ranch’s future.
If he turned his back on me because of the threats, I wasn’t sure what I would do.
“Cici…” he prompted, his eyes boring into mine.
I pulled everything out and set it on the table in front of him and the sheriff, then shut my eyes and prayed.