Chapter Eight #3
Then his eyes found me—standing between him and the farmhouse, hands loose at my sides, posture neutral in a way that spoke of practice rather than calm—and he recalibrated, just slightly. The adjustment of a man who’d expected one kind of opposition and was now recognizing another.
“Decker,” he said, the name coming out flat and rehearsed. “I’m here to collect what belongs to me.”
The statement landed between us with the wrongness of one person deciding another was property rather than a human being.
I’d heard it before—not these exact words, but the entitlement behind them, the absolute certainty that another person’s body was a thing to be claimed rather than a life to be respected.
But hearing it applied to Jasper—to the man who’d fallen asleep against my side with his hand open on my ribs, who’d asked what he could do rather than whether he should leave—landed with a weight that was almost physical.
“Jasper isn’t yours,” I said, voice level, not performing calm but offering the thing itself. “You’re not welcome on this property. You need to get back in your vehicle and leave.”
Gerald’s expression shifted—the polish stayed, but something uglier moved underneath it. The look of a man who had not been told no by anyone with the standing to make it stick and was deciding how seriously to take this one.
“I don’t think you understand the situation,” he said, voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone who was used to being the most reasonable person in the room.
“Jasper and I have an understanding. He’s been confused lately—the job loss, the move back to Nebraska, the stress of his grandfather’s illness.
But we’ve worked through these things before.
He just needs to come home so we can talk it through properly. ”
The lie was so smooth, so practiced, that for a second I almost believed it. He had told the same story enough times that he’d started to believe it himself.
“Jasper made it clear he doesn’t want to see you,” I said, keeping it factual. “He’s asked for protection. He’s getting it. This conversation is over.”
Gerald’s face went still for a moment. “This isn’t your concern,” he said finally, each word precise. “Jasper is confused. He’s not thinking clearly. When he’s had time to consider what he’s doing—the people he’s involving, the resources being wasted—he’ll come to his senses. He always does.”
The statement landed with more weight than its words should have been able to carry. Not just the wrongness of what Gerald was claiming, but the clear implication that he’d done this before—had pushed, had pressured, had waited out resistance until compliance became the easier option.
“He’s not confused,” I said, voice even. “He’s making a choice. And it’s not you.”
Something moved behind Gerald’s eyes—not quite anger, but adjacent to it. The taller of his men shifted his weight slightly, hand moving a fraction closer to his hip.
I didn’t look at him directly, but kept him in my peripheral vision—the awareness of a threat that didn’t need to be acknowledged to be tracked.
The standoff held: Rawley on the farmhouse porch, one hand resting near his hip, eyes doing a constant scan of the yard; Burke visible at the barn entrance, posture casual but attention fixed; the ranch hands positioned without theater across the property, tools still in hand, but bodies angled toward the SUV.
And me, standing in the gravel with my hands loose at my sides and the stillness of a man who had been in this exact kind of moment before and knew that the person who moved first out of anger lost.
Gerald had money and two men and the absolute certainty that he was owed something. I had the ground, the people, the angles, and all the patience in the world.
The difference between us wasn’t just resources or training or even willingness.
It was the understanding that had come from watching Jasper with the O’Reilly baby, with Burke’s cut, with the carefulness of a man who was learning that his body could be his own again.
It was the weight of what had happened between us in the dark—not a transaction or a performance, but a choice freely made.
Gerald was still talking—something about misunderstandings and resources and the wrongness of involving people who didn’t understand the situation—but I’d stopped hearing the words.
My attention was on the movement behind him: the taller man’s hand, now clearly resting on what I was certain was a weapon; the shorter one’s careful positioning, angled to cover Gerald’s back while keeping the farmhouse in sight; the quality of men who were waiting for an order rather than making a decision.
Gerald’s voice had taken on an edge—the sharpness of a man who was used to being listened to and was realizing it wasn’t happening. “—don’t think you understand who you’re dealing with,” he was saying, each word precise. “I’m not some random—“
“I know exactly who you are,” I said, cutting him off.
“Gerald Hughs, forty-seven, Omaha-based. Real estate development, family money, connections that don’t show up in public records.
You’ve got a hospital board member in your pocket.
You had Jasper fired when he turned down your dinner invitation.
You sent men to Nebraska to bring him back or make sure no one else could have him.
” I paused, then added: “You’re not as careful as you think you are. ”
The statement landed between us with the weight of a physical thing. Gerald went perfectly still, something moving behind his eyes—recalculation, reassessment, the adjustment of a man who’d thought he was dealing with one kind of problem and was now recognizing another.
“This is a mistake,” he said finally, voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone who was working very hard not to show what he was feeling. “You’re involving yourself in something you don’t understand. Jasper is not—“
“He’s exactly what I think he is,” I said, keeping it simple. “A person making a choice. And that choice isn’t you.”
The standoff held: Gerald with his money and his certainty and the absolute conviction that he was owed something; me with the ground, the people, the angles, and the patience that came from knowing exactly what I was protecting and why it mattered.
Gerald stared across the yard at me, something moving behind his expression—the calculation of a man deciding how much of himself to show.
For a second—just a second—the polish slipped, revealing something harder and uglier underneath. Then it was back, the careful performance of reason restored.
“This isn’t over,” he said, voice level. “Jasper will realize he’s made a mistake. He always does. And when he does, I’ll be waiting.” He turned toward the SUV, then paused, looking back at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You should know that I don’t give up on what’s mine.”
The words hung in the air between us—not quite a threat, but carrying its weight. I didn’t respond, just held his gaze with the stillness that came from knowing exactly what I was willing to do and how far I was willing to go.
Gerald got into the SUV without another word. His men followed, moving with the same motion they’d shown arriving—nothing wasted, just the competence of people who’d done this before and knew exactly what came next.
The engine started with a quiet hum. The SUV backed slowly down the gravel drive, then turned toward the highway, moving at the same deliberate pace it had arrived with.
I stood in the yard and watched it go, not moving until it had disappeared around the bend in the road.
Only when it was out of sight did I turn back toward the farmhouse, where Jasper was visible at the kitchen window—one hand pressed to the glass, eyes on the retreating vehicle, face set in lines I couldn’t quite read from this distance.
Whatever came next—whatever Gerald brought with him when he returned—we would face it together. Not as a problem to be solved or a situation to be managed, but as people who had chosen each other, who had built something worth protecting.