Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
RAVEN
Something in this equation was seriously off.
Raven crouched on the banks of the large stock pond and ran her fingers along the wide tire tracks pressed deep into the mud.
And not just one set, either. This looked like a heavy caravan.
The Blue Fork Ranch ran three hundred head of cattle on the north pasture and occasionally drove trucks across their open range when they had fence to maintain or a sick cow to tend.
But these tracks told a different story.
Her best guess was loaded-down trailers, hauling a lot more than just a few cattle or random fencing supplies.
Probably drugs or guns. Worse yet, it could be part of the human trafficking trade.
She frowned. The cartels were crazy to move this close to populated areas.
Not to mention the proximity to the ranch house.
It was risky for those who sought not to be noticed or a great way to get shot by those stupid enough to get caught.
Whoever this was, they were fearlessly parading their intentions right beneath her uncle’s nose.
And for some reason, Uncle Martin was turning a blind eye to it.
Maybe the old man's instincts weren't what they used to be, or maybe he figured it wasn't worth the fight.
The knot in her gut told her that was wishful thinking.
Her uncle didn't miss things like this. He was an old-school Texas rancher who noticed when a fence post shifted an inch.
So either he was in on it or someone had him scared enough that he pretended not to notice.
She snapped a few photos of the clearest prints, angling to catch the afternoon light. At nineteen, Raven had already learned that adults lied more often than children, and that the best way to catch them was to pay attention to the things they assumed no one would notice.
This was just the latest in a string of incidents she'd been tracking. She’d documented two years' worth of evidence within the Fredericksburg area, crammed into a notebook that she kept hidden under her mattress.
And nearly all of it pointed toward the Hollisters.
They were powerful enough to run most of the county, and ruthless enough that people knew better than to ask questions.
The smart move would be to burn the notebook and forget what she'd seen.
Too bad she'd never been good at playing it safe.
With a sigh, she headed back toward the house, her mind circling a puzzle with too many missing pieces. And the one she did have—her uncle's silence—was the most troubling of all.
"Raven Mae, have you been out on the range?" her uncle called out as she drew near. "You know I don’t like you going out there by yourself. It’s dangerous."
Her uncle's anxious voice carried on the breeze. Worry seemed to follow him around now like a hungry dog, making him paranoid at times. She’d always been perfectly safe roaming their property, until recently.
Now that the Hollister family owned all the property surrounding their land, everyone on the ranch had been as jumpy as cats in a thunderstorm.
Uncle Martin stood on the porch of the two-story ranch house, his hand shading his eyes against the September sun. It seemed the last year had carved a decade into his face, pushing him well past fifty-two.
"I was checking the water levels." It wasn’t technically a lie. She had looked at them. She'd also found more proof that someone was using Blue Fork Ranch lands to move something under the cover of night. Something that required secrecy and potential bribery.
Raven mentally cataloged everything she'd noticed over the past few months.
Strange truck headlights out in the distance on ranch property after midnight and fresh tire tracks visible the next morning.
Conversations between Uncle Martin and the ranch hands that stopped abruptly whenever she approached.
Most telling of all was the money. Three weeks ago, Uncle Martin had recently paid off the mortgage on the ranch, a debt that should have taken another five years to clear.
When she'd asked about it, he'd mumbled something about a good cattle sale and changed the subject.
But Raven had been helping with the books since she was fourteen, and she knew exactly how much their cattle were worth.
There had been no cattle sales and the math didn't add up. She'd gone through the ledgers twice, then a third time, hoping she'd missed something. But the numbers remained stubbornly inconsistent. Money was flowing in from somewhere, and it wasn't from livestock.
This had the Hollisters written all over it. The question was why, and she intended to find out.
She'd been tailing the oldest son around town for days now, finding an unexpected thrill in remaining invisible.
He was a decorated military veteran, a special forces combat veteran no less—a credential his father weaponized at every opportunity—so shadowing him undetected felt like a genuine victory.
Jesse was easy enough to spot in a crowd, standing a half-a-head taller than most men, and nearly as broad as his father. She'd catalogued his routines, his haunts, the way he occasionally glanced over his shoulder, almost like he knew someone was watching.
A cold realization struck her: what if some of the ranch hands had been bought off by the Hollisters?
It wouldn’t be so surprising and it would explain the convenient gaps in patrol schedules or the nights when no one seemed to notice anything at all.
However disturbing that idea might be, it was easier to stomach than her uncle's potential involvement.
What no one could deny was the tension gripping Gillespie County. People were being tortured and sometimes killed, and ranches owned for generations were being signed over to a single buyer: the ever-expanding Devil’s Acre Ranch.
Bo Hollister would be coming for them soon. She could feel it.
"Lunch is ready." Uncle Martin held the screen door open as she climbed the porch steps. His smile was strained, the kind that people wore when they were trying too hard to appear normal. "Mrs. Garcia made that chicken salad you like."
Raven studied her uncle's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hands trembled when he thought she wasn't looking.
Martin Bishop had raised her since she was twelve, after her parents died in a car accident that left her orphaned and angry at a world that seemed determined to take away everyone she loved.
He'd taught her to shoot, to ride, to read the land like a book written in grass and stone. More importantly, he'd taught her to think for herself, to question everything, and to never accept easy answers to complicated questions.
Now something didn’t compute. He was lying to her, and they both knew it.
The kitchen smelled like comfort food and coffee, the kind of mouth-watering scents that made the ranch feel like home.
But today, even Mrs. Garcia seemed nervous, bustling around the stove and sliding full plates on the table with the aggressive efficiency of someone trying to stay busy enough to avoid conversation.
"The stock pond levels looking okay?" Uncle Martin asked, settling into his usual chair.
"Yeah, it’s fine," Raven said, taking a bite of chicken salad.
"There is something curious, though. It looks like a caravan moved through our open range last night. If I didn’t know any better, they were pulling full trailers.
Something heavy. My guess is they were avoiding the main roads and because of the overlapping tracks moving together in a line. "
Uncle Martin's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Probably just neighbors' using short cuts. You know how it is when they’re trying to track down strays." He had a point. On occasion, lost cattle or other livestock would show up on the ranch.
But that explanation did not fit the facts and certainly didn’t explain why they were tracking strays at night. Besides, there were no other neighbors any longer. Just Bo Hollister.
"Maybe we should report it to the sheriff," she suggested, watching her uncle's reaction carefully. "Or hunt the strays ourselves rather than letting parties unknown drive across our land."
"No." The word came out sharper than Uncle Martin's usual tone. He exhaled slowly and softened his expression. "No need to bother Sheriff Williams with something so minor. I'll talk to our neighbors."
Mrs. Garcia dropped a pot in the sink with a clatter that made everyone jump. When she turned around, her usually warm expression was tight with something that looked like fear. "I should get going," she said, untying her apron with quick, nervous movements. "My sister's expecting me in town."
Raven had never known Mrs. Garcia to have plans she hadn't mentioned at least three times beforehand.
The woman lived for sharing whether it be her schedule, offering updates on her sister's garden or the score of her nephew's baseball games.
This sudden departure, the look on her face, and both coming right after the mention of the sheriff, felt like an escape.
She'd never left this early before and now she couldn't get out the door fast enough, mumbling goodbyes and refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
Raven waited until the sound of Mrs. Garcia's truck faded down the drive before speaking.
"Uncle Martin, what's really going on?"
He stared out the kitchen window at the pasture beyond, where their cattle grazed in peaceful ignorance of whatever shadow business was being conducted on their land. When he finally looked at her, Raven saw something she'd never seen in his eyes before: fear.
"Some things are better left alone, Raven Mae."
"That's not an answer."