Chapter 23
MASON
The mare watches me like I'm the threat.
She's a three-year-old bay Emma brought over from the Circle H over a month ago—one of the horses her father neglected in the years before his death.
Skittish doesn't begin to cover it. She flinches at sudden movements, shies from raised voices, and keeps her distance from anything male.
Emma said her father's ranch hands weren't gentle. I believe it. She doesn’t even have a name.
I stand ten feet back from the fence line, one hand extended, palm up. Empty. Non-threatening. The mare's ears flick forward, then pin back. She takes two steps closer, then retreats.
Patience.
That's what this requires. Not force, not dominance—just the slow, grinding work of proving I'm not the man who hurt her before.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I spent half the night watching Lily through the gaps in her coverage—watching her walk through her house, make dinner, put on a movie, strip down in the bright light of her room like she was shedding armor. I saw the tension in her shoulders that never fully released even when she was alone.
She doesn't trust easily either. Can't blame her for that.
I didn’t stay to watch anything that might have happened after she stripped down. I sure fucking imagined it though.
The mare takes another step forward. Her nostrils flare, testing my scent. I don't move. Don't speak. Just let her decide.
“You planning to stand there all morning, or are you actually going to touch the horse?”
Luke's voice carries across the corral. I don't turn around—sudden movement will spook her, and I’m not going to lose the ground I’ve gained—but I hear the gate creak open and two sets of boots on packed dirt.
“She'll come when she's ready,” I say quietly.
“That's what you said an hour ago.” Jake's tone is dry but not unkind. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him lean against the fence rail to my left, careful to keep his distance from the horse. Luke mirrors him on the right.
The mare's ears swivel toward the new voices. She takes three steps back.
Fuck. Frustration bites at me, but I know it’s not only from the mare. I exhale slowly and lower my hand. “Emma left for the Circle H?”
“About twenty minutes ago,” Jake confirms. “Said she needed to go over some things with her foreman. She still hasn't decided what she wants to do with the place.”
“Hard to let go of your father's legacy,” Luke says. “Even when the legacy's complicated.”
Especially then, I think. The things we inherit aren't always the things we want.
The mare watches us from the far side of the corral now, her body angled toward the gate. Flight position. She's calculating whether we're worth the risk of staying.
“Fortunately, the insurance money for the ranch house is going to take some time to come through, even though it’s undisputedly arson,” Jake continues. “So she has time.”
Luke snorts, the wooden rail he’s stepping on creaking. “She’s making a baby. She has all the time in the world for everything else.”
I don’t need to glance at Jake to know how satisfied he looks. He’s had that expression since he got Emma back. It looks good on him.
“Kelly's still at Turner's place,” Jake says, shifting gears. His voice drops into operational mode—the tone that means we're not just talking anymore, we're briefing. “Surveillance confirmed he was there this morning. Went out to the north pasture around oh six hundred, came back an hour later.”
“Turner?” I ask softly, my eyes on the mare.
“Still no sign of him,” Luke answers. “But there's movement. More vehicles coming and going than there have been the past six weeks. Supply runs that don't match normal ranch operations. They’re ramping up.”
I feel the shift in my gut—the operational instinct that says a storm's building just over the horizon. Turner's smart. He doesn't move without reason, and he doesn't increase activity unless he's preparing for something. “Timeline?”
“Unknown.” Jake sounds tight. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But it feels close.”
The mare takes a tentative step forward again. Her eyes are locked on me. I stay perfectly still.
“Hendricks called again,” Luke says. “He suggested meeting next week about contracting our services.”
“That makes it, what? Three times he’s called in as many weeks?” Jake asks.
“He’s got a job he says requires our particular skills.”
“What kind of job?” Jake sounds more suspicious than interested.
“The kind that pays well and doesn't ask questions.” Luke's tone is carefully neutral. “He didn't give details over the phone, but he mentioned it's time-sensitive.”
I process that. Hendricks is former CIA, now private sector. The work he offers isn't the kind that shows up on tax returns, and the clients he represents don't exist on paper. It's the type of contract that could fund Blackthorn's operations for months.
It's also the type of contract that requires full commitment. No distractions. No divided attention.
I frown. The idea of not seeing Lily doesn’t sit well. “When's the meeting?”
“Tuesday. Fourteen hundred hours.”
Three days from now.
Three days to decide if I'm all-in on Hendricks's job, or if I put my focus on Lily.
The mare is five feet away now. Close enough that I can see the white star on her forehead, the old scars on her flanks where someone used spurs too hard. She stretches her neck toward my hand, nostrils flaring.
I don't move.
“Luke told me about Lily,” Jake says quietly. “About the tattoo.”
There it is. The conversation I knew was coming. “Yeah.”
“Turner's operation,” Jake says. It's not a question. “She was taken.”
My jaw is so tight it feels like it could snap. “Appears so.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Luke and Jake both know what that means. They've seen the aftermath of trafficking operations before—the broken bodies, the shattered minds, the survivors who carry the weight of what was done to them like a second skeleton.
“She’s not like them,” I say, wanting them to know.
Luke hums. “She doesn’t move like a victim, except for being skittish sometimes.”
“Doesn’t that make you wonder if she actually is a victim?” Jake asks objectively.
“He doesn’t think so,” Luke replies. “Do you, Ace?”
I shake my head.
“And you want to help her.” Jake's voice is careful, but there's an edge underneath. Not judgment—concern.
I turn around and meet his gaze, my arms folded across my chest. “She’s mine.”
“It can’t be a coincidence that she’s here in Iron Ridge, where Turner’s operation stems,” Luke points out. “You don’t get free and then hang around your prison.”
Agreeing, I nod. “I don’t know what she’s got in mind, but she's got backup.”
“Backup,” Luke repeats with a sly smirk. “That what we're calling it these days?”
I don't answer. I can't. The truth is more complicated than backup, more dangerous than operational support.
The truth is I watched her through a window last night and wanted to break down the door. Wanted to pull her into my arms and promise her she'd never have to be scared again. Wanted to hunt down every man who ever put a hand on her and make them pay in blood.
The truth is I'm compromised in ways that have nothing to do with mission parameters.
The mare's nose touches my neck. Soft. Tentative. Testing.
I hold perfectly still.
“If she did escape, and Turner doesn’t know,” Jake says quietly, “him seeing her tattoo—”
“He won't.” The words come out harder than I intend. “I'll make sure of it.”
“Mason.” Jake pushes off the fence, takes a step closer.
“I'm not questioning your judgment, but you need to be clear about what you're signing up for.
This isn't a protection detail. This is a woman probably on a vengeance mission, and vengeance doesn't follow rules.
It doesn't care about collateral damage or operational security.
It just burns until there's nothing left.”
I exhale, staying still so I don’t spook the mare. “I know what it is.”
“Do you?” Luke's voice is pointed. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're about to walk into a fire for a woman you barely know, who may not want you back.”
The mare presses forward again, tickling the nape of my neck. Her breath is warm against my skin. Slowly—so slowly it barely registers as movement—I lift my other hand and touch her muzzle.
She doesn't bolt.
“I know her well enough,” I say softly, leaning my head into the horse.
It's not entirely true. I don't know Lily's favorite color or how she takes her coffee or what she sounds like when she laughs. I don't know the small, ordinary things that make up a life.
But I know her in the ways that matter. I know the shape of her trauma and the way she moves through a room like she's expecting enemies. I know what it costs her to keep moving forward when every instinct screams to run.
“I have a hunch that Turner's escalating,” Jake says, bringing us back to operational reality.
“Kelly's presence confirms the network is active.
If Lily's hunting the same men we're surveilling, our missions are going to intersect.
We need to coordinate. Share intel. Make sure we're not working against each other.”
“Agreed.”
“Which means she needs to come in.” Luke's tone is firm. “No more lone-wolf operations. No more going dark. If she's part of this, she's part of the team.”
The mare leans into my touch. Her eyes half close, and some of the tension drains from her body. It's not trust—not yet—but it's the beginning of it. The first fragile thread of connection.
I sigh. “I'll talk to her.”
“Mason.” Jake's voice drops into that tone—the one that means he's about to say something I won't like. “Emma's pregnancy changes things. I can't risk—”
“I know.” I turn to face him fully. “I won't let it touch her, or the baby. You have my word.”
Jake holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. “Okay.”
The three of us stand there in the corral, the morning sun climbing higher, the mare's warmth solid against my palm. Somewhere north of here, Turner's operation is building toward something we can't see yet.
Somewhere across town, Lily's planning God knows what.
And somewhere in the space between those two forces, I'm trying to figure out how to keep everyone I care about safe.
The mare shifts her weight, pressing closer. Her muzzle brushes my shoulder—tentative, testing, but no longer afraid. She nickers softly and leans her full weight against me.
Small victories. I rest my hand on her neck and feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my palm.
Trust takes time, but it starts with moments like this—standing still, proving you're not the threat, waiting for the wounded thing to decide you're worth the risk.
I can do that.
For the mare.
For Lily.
For as long as it takes.