Chapter 7 #2
The gelding huffed, pawed, but finally settled. Ghost checked the back shoe, running his fingertips along the edge. It was loose and pinching, just like he thought. He’d have to have Anson pull and reset it.
He brushed Coyote, working the bristles down the line of muscle and watching the horse’s ears for any sign he’d try something.
Coyote tested him twice—a side-eye, a deliberate tail flick—but Ghost was faster.
He kept his palm flat, the brush steady, never letting up on the pressure.
Predictable. That’s why he liked horses better than people.
You could count on them to always act like themselves.
He tried to keep his mind on the task, but it kept circling back to Naomi and the way she’d challenged him in the parking lot outside The Outreach, like she thought she could go toe to toe with him and come out ahead.
She probably could, if she wanted it badly enough.
He’d told her to wait. But he knew, down in his bones, that she’d already made up her mind about how this would go. She’d go after her leads, no matter what anyone said.
He respected it. Hell, he admired it, even as it pissed him off.
He finished the morning chores, checked the time, and realized he was running behind. It wasn’t like him, but today had a drag to it.
He headed back to the Hub, Cinder at his heels. The dog watched him, silent and intense. No doubt she had her own opinions about all this and was just waiting for him to get on board.
He checked security feeds again, dealt with a malfunctioning camera at the east gate, and installed a new one to cover a blind spot by the main entrance.
By the time he was done, he was starving and made his way to the bunkhouse for lunch.
He generally preferred to grab something quick and retreat to the silence of the Hub, but today he didn’t have time for that.
He’d have to endure the chaos of lunch with his bunkmates.
The place was vibrating with noise. X had the radio on too loud and was singing along as he and Jonah shot pool at the battered table in the common room.
Bear was yelling at his beast of a dog, King, who kept trying to steal the loaf of bread off the counter, and River was working the stove, flipping what looked like a doomed grilled cheese with a spatula that had seen better days.
Ghost poured himself a cup of coffee from the battered pot on the counter, ignoring the side-eye River gave him.
“When are you going to retire that poor, abused mug?” River asked. “Or, I don’t know, maybe just give it a thorough cleaning. You ever notice the inside’s permanently stained?”
Ghost took a sip and said nothing. The coffee was burnt and barely drinkable. Jax must have made it. How the man could live with Nessie—a baking goddess whose bakery had the best coffee in town, and yet still butcher a drip coffee so badly—was an enduring mystery.
Although he usually preferred his coffee black, it needed something else, so he pulled open the fridge and searched for the half-and-half. “Who let Jax near the coffee pot again?”
“It’s not that bad,” Jax called from where he sat on the beat-up leather couch in the common room. His dog, Echo, lay with her head resting on his lap, her tail beating against the back of the couch rhythmically as she stared up at him with love radiating from her mismatched eyes.
Amazing to think that dog had been a terrified, cowering mess just six months ago.
Ghost looked down at Cinder, who sat patiently beside him. There wasn’t love in her eyes, but respect, and that worked for them both.
“It smells like burnt tires!” River exclaimed.
Jax took a drink as if to prove his point, and couldn’t quite hide his wince. “It’s…” He coughed. “It’s fine.”
River pointed the spatula at him. “Nessie would be so ashamed.”
“Believe me, she is,” Jax said, his voice going warm the way it did whenever he spoke of Nessie or her son, Oliver. “I’ve been banned from the coffee pot at home.”
“Good idea,” Anson said and got up from the kitchen table to grab the pot and dump it. The man didn’t say much, but when he did, everyone listened. “You’re officially banned from it here, too, Throne.”
“A-fucking-men,” X called over the music.
As Anson started a fresh pot, Ghost cut straight to it. “Coyote’s back shoe is loose,” he said, ignoring the swirl of noise around them. “If you get a second, can you reset it?”
Anson glanced up, eyes narrowing in focus. “He giving you attitude again, or just acting sore?”
“Both,” Ghost replied. “The shoe’s pinching, but he’s milking it for drama.”
That got a grunt out of Anson and the barest flicker of a smile. “I’ll get him sorted this afternoon.”
Ghost nodded once. Anson was always direct, no fuss. Of all the men at the Ridge, He found Anson Sutter the least annoying.
River slapped a pile of scorched sandwiches on a plate and set them on the table. “Lunch is served.”
“We should ban River from cooking,” Bear grumbled, wrestling King away as the dog made another lunge, this time for the block of cheese. The dog whined and gave Ghost a hopeful look, but he ignored it. Discipline mattered. Otherwise, you ended up with a dog like King. No boundaries, no rules.
At least Cinder never begged.
“You want to take on the extra kitchen duty, big guy?” X asked.
“We could give Jax the extra shift,” Jonah suggested.
Jax held up his hands. “Hey, no, I don’t live in the bunkhouse anymore. I’m retired from kitchen duty.”
“Traitor,” X said, but it was good-natured. “Taking away your culinary skills and leaving us with this.” He held up a grilled cheese that could double as a hockey puck. “Riv, you trying to kill us, or just lower our expectations for tomorrow?”
“Both,” River said, unrepentant. “If you set the bar low, nobody’s disappointed. It’s called managing morale, X. Look it up.”
Bear grunted. “Bullshit. It’s called being lazy.”
“Oh, like you can talk, Bear. Seriously, have you ever heard of spices? Or is salt still too advanced for your caveman palate?”
“Salt’s the only spice he knows,” Anson muttered.
Ghost let the noise ricochet around him, barely registering the words. He snagged a sandwich off the plate, biting through the char with no hesitation. The burnt taste jolted him more awake than the coffee ever could.
He ate standing at the counter, eyes scanning the room, watching the way the others interacted, the easy way they slid in and out of each other’s space. Found family, Walker called it, but even after three years, it still felt alien to him.
He was checking the feed logs when Walker Nash himself appeared in the Hub doorway. Most people didn’t notice the boss coming until he cleared his throat or called out a name, but Ghost had already clocked him by the shift in Cinder’s posture and the nearly imperceptible change in the air.
“Got a minute?” Walker asked.
Ghost nodded, spun his chair around. “Something wrong?”
Walker shuffled inside, eyes scanning the screens out of old habit. The man had a worn look about him today, like he’d been in the saddle too long and didn’t trust the ground. “Not exactly. I wanted to check in about the Outreach meeting last night.”
Of course. Word traveled fast on the Ridge.
Ghost kept his face blank. “Went as expected. Lefthand made her case. I backed the pattern.”
Walker folded his arms, considering. “You believe her? About the hunting?”
He hesitated. “I believe the data. Four women gone in less than two years, all from the same area, all connected to the casino. Somebody’s taking them.”
Walker let out a long breath. “Sheriff’s office is pissed. Got a call from Hank Goodwin this morning. He says you’re stirring up trouble.”
Ghost didn’t care. “Hank’s not moving on the cases. Someone had to.”
A slow grin spread across Walker’s face, cracks in the stone. “I know. You did what you had to. Just… watch your back. Hank doesn’t forget slights.”
“I never give him the chance.”
Walker’s gaze softened just a hair. “And Booker? You don’t have to take it all on yourself. You got help here.”
Ghost looked away. The words hit somewhere he didn’t like, but he didn’t let it show. “That’s not how I work.”
Walker let it go. He always did. “Keep me posted. And let me know if you need support for the Padilla case.”
Ghost nodded, and just like that, Walker was gone—a shadow through the door, leaving only the faint trace of his aftershave and the warning about Hank echoing in the room.
He turned back to his screens, checked the time.
Almost 1500.
If he left now, he could set up cameras on Naomi’s road and still make the 1600 meet-up like he’d promised.