Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
MAVERICK
Morning starts before dawn. Blankets folded, neatly piled on the couch. Pillows beside them.
I roll through surveillance footage from the perimeter, pore over camera hits.
A stray coyote, head tipping up curiously, ears wide for one moment before it drops its shoulders and scurries away. A badger on the south edge of the fence line, eyes glinting in grainy black-and-white. Two does, leisurely grazing the south pasture and taking advantage of the moonlit night.
But no sign of danger. No unexplained traffic.
Before I leave the cabin, I confirm the interior lights are operational and the doors locked. Then, I check the generator.
With thermos in hand, I drive the perimeter, jumping out and surveying blind spots between the cameras. I twist the cap, take a swig of the black, bitter liquid. No disturbed ground, no unaccounted for prints except those of two does, one of the badger in question, and another set of coyote.
All quiet. All clear.
A blonde-haired woman with eyes like soft moss slips into my mind.
I climb back in the truck, pushing thoughts of the curvy beauty from my mind.
Not professional, Holt. Not advisable.
Grayson answers on the first ring, voice gruff.
“Site secure. No anomalies. Static perimeter.”
“You get any sleep last night, Holt?”
“Sleep’s overrated.” Only the ache deep in my hip says otherwise. Stiffer than usual, trying to make me limp when I don’t want it to.
He grunts. I end the call.
Texas flies by the window. Stark and unforgiving. Like the look on Edwin’s face.
My stomach twists, mind nudging me back to the way they looked at her. Their reaction when she was safe. How Edwin glowered when she requested a break. Time alone.
Back at the cabin, I check the window locks, then the maps. Remind myself of possible access routes. Areas that might need extra surveillance or tightening. Not that I need to do any of this.
Grayson calls two hours later, confirming law enforcement received a confession.
Still, I plan. Because you never know.
Scrolling through lists, I sort information about Mia. Not sure what I’m looking for. My eyes rest on a YouTube video from eight years prior. I drop the volume on my laptop to a whisper, watching the footage of an awkward teen. Couldn’t be much more than Josie’s age. Funny how time alters life.
Eight years ago.
For me, that was the top of the world. But that’s not what I pull up.
Instead, it’s six months ago. My gut roils, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. The smell of cow manure, the shock waves of the bull moving beneath me. My hand slipping. And then—hooves and blood, mud and the unending spiral into oblivion.
Into this time and place. This fucking job … and Mia.
The last part feels like a whisper … because I can’t let it be more.
I rub my hip, remembering pain in waves of loss rather than palpable sensation.
Newspaper articles float across the screen like phantoms.
Devastating injuries. A career cut short. The end of Maverick Holt…
That about sums it up.
A rustle of fabric, the swish of curls against flannel, bare feet padding across wood floors. I look up.
Mia Love.
She looks smaller today. Saner. Normal.
A flash of green through the squint of her eyes, like they haven’t gotten the memo she’s awake. I stand, enjoying far too much the way she stretches in the sun.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.” It comes out like a growl.
I arch an eyebrow. “Not a morning person.”
“God, no,” she says, flopping onto a stool and burying her head in her arms atop the counter. She’s positioned away from the glass. Good.
Her golden locks frame her head like a halo, the smell of plums and roses wafting through the air.
“And you?” she asks, sheepishly raising her head. Her eyes descend to the neat stack of blankets and pillows, face glowing with guilt.
“Better than you.”
She laughs. “Are you always this funny, Mav?”
The sarcastic question catches me so off guard the corners of my mouth turn up before I can stop them.
“A smile?” she asks with a wicked grin. “Am I finally getting through to you?”
I furrow my brow and tighten my face.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
She’s starting to understand me. How I communicate. It lodges a weird warm spot behind my ribs.
But then, her cell phone buzzes again. She opens her screen, face falling.
“Crowe again?”
She sighs heavily, nodding. “Too early for this.”
I want to state the obvious. That she should put the phone away. Go a day without charging it. But it’s not my place.
Instead, I push the mug of coffee toward her.
She pockets the phone, fingers trembling. Like she has to keep the instrument of psychological torture close, sharp. Her shoulders stay tense even after the phone disappears.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Nope. Princess is fine,” she says without missing a beat.
I freeze.
She winks.
I frown. “Black, then.”
“Actually, two tablespoons of creamer, no sugar. Keto style because my manager says I’m fat.”
I lean back on my heels, words coming before I can stop myself. “Not fat.”
“Not fat?” She looks down, pinching her waist through the yellow and black flannel shirt she wears. Mine. Don’t know when she snagged it. But it’s got me thinking thoughts I shouldn’t.
“Curvy,” I correct.
I return to my spot behind the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
She swirls her coffee in the mug. “Curvy. Is that bad or good?”
“None of my business.”
She snorts, looks away. “That answer shouldn’t surprise me.”
I shift my weight.
“But would it surprise you if I admitted something?”
I don’t answer.
“If I admitted I want it to be your business?”
I take a swig of my coffee, trying to ignore the question.
“Still nothing to say?”
Mia lets out a defeated sigh. “You’re no fun at all.” Then, she stares into her coffee like it’ll grow legs and run away.
“Never said I was.”
“Never said much of anything.” Mia’s eyes narrow.
My cell phone vibrates in my pants pocket. I pull it out, see it’s from Grayson. “Better take this outside.”
Mia nods, eyes dropping back to her mug.