Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
It’s Getting Personal
Jace
The note is still in my hand, the edge of the paper digging into my fingers where I’ve been gripping it too tight, the crease running deep from how many times I’ve folded and unfolded it.
I've read it four times now, maybe five, and the words haven't changed. They're not going to. But I keep reading them anyway, like something's going to shift if I look long enough, like the meaning is going to rearrange itself into something less pointed than what it is.
Back off. Last warning.
Three words. Four if you count it generously.
Simple enough that it could mean anything.
Specific enough that it means exactly one thing.
Riley is quiet behind me, dressed again, her arms crossed over her chest in that way she has when she's holding herself together by sheer force of will, and I catch the shift in her the second I really look.
Whatever heat was there a few minutes ago has cooled into something tighter, her shoulders set, her breath measured, like she’s bracing instead of leaning in. She hasn't asked again what it says. She doesn't have to.
She can read it in the set of my shoulders, in the way I haven't put it down, in the fact that I'm standing here in the dark of my own trailer trying to think instead of react.
Reacting is what I want to do.
I fold the note once, carefully, and set it on the narrow counter.
I hesitate for half a second, my mind wanting to shove this aside and deal with it later, deal with it easier, but I force it down and push through anyway.
Then I start moving through it from the beginning, the way I should have done days ago instead of letting it sit at the edge of my attention like something I could afford to ignore.
The evidence on the Miller land.
Buried deeper than it should’ve been, the dirt packed hard and damp with a sour, metallic smell the moment we broke through.
I remember the weight of it in my hands when we pulled it up.
Metal dulled and pitted, edges worn, something that had no business being there unless it was put there on purpose.
Buried deep enough that it wasn't meant to be found, wasn't meant to surface, but it did.
Old enough to predate anything I could account for. Tied to the circuit in ways that are impossible to miss if you know what you're looking at. Gear. Records. Things that don't belong on a working ranch unless someone put them there on purpose.
The truck, parked at the same angle, same distance, same window of time, two nights running now. Not a coincidence. Not someone passing through. Someone watching, tracking, staying close enough to know when to move and when to wait, and the sabotage ties into it.
The gate that stuck, the rope that slipped. Small things, targeted things, things that only make sense if you know the mechanics of it well enough to break them without looking like you did.
That takes more than bad intent.
That takes knowledge.
Circuit knowledge.
I press my thumb against the edge of the counter and let the pieces line up the way they've been trying to for days, the way I kept stopping them from doing because I didn't want to land where they were pointing.
Someone from the rodeo world who knows how the equipment works.
Someone who knew I was coming back to rodeo again.
My jaw tightens.
Because it's not just about the sabotage anymore. It wasn't just about the rides, or the other riders getting hurt, or the warning left in my trailer like a message slipped under a door.
It's connected. All of it.
The land. The rodeo. The buried evidence. The watching.
Someone is trying to shut this down before it goes any further, before whatever got buried out there finds its way into the light. And they're not being subtle about it anymore.
Which means they're scared.
Scared people make mistakes.
But scared people also make things worse before they make mistakes.
I turn that over, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest, heavy and certain in a way that doesn't leave room for doubt.
This stopped being random the second that note appeared.
Now it’s about Riley too… and whatever’s buried on that land.
And whoever left it…
Already knows exactly where to find me.
I find Lane first.
He's where he usually is after a night like this, around the back of the stock pens, checking on his bulls with the kind of quiet attention most people save for things that can talk back.
Lane Carter has always been like that. Steady. Observant. The kind of man who notices everything and says about half of it.
Right now, I need both.
"Figured you'd find me eventually," he says, without looking up.
I lean against the rail beside him, letting the silence sit for a second before I get into it. "The gate that stuck tonight. The rope last week. You see any of it up close?"
He's quiet for a moment, his hands moving over the latch on the nearest pen with practiced ease. "Saw enough."
"And?"
He finally looks at me. "That rope didn't slip on its own, Jace."
I nod, because that's what I needed confirmed out loud by someone who knows the difference. "Anything else?"
"Somebody's been in the equipment area after hours." He says it flat, like a fact he's been sitting on. "Twice that I know of. Could be more."
"You tell anyone?"
"I'm telling you."
That lands the way he means it to. Lane doesn't waste words, and he doesn't point fingers without reason. If he's telling me instead of the rodeo director, there's a reason for that too.
"You have a name?" I ask.
He looks back at the pen. "Not yet. But I've got a direction."
I let that sit. With Lane, pushing gets you less than waiting.
"Watch Colt," he says, and my jaw tightens, breath catching for half a second before I lock it down finally, quiet enough that it almost gets lost in the noise from the arena. "He's been around the equipment more than he needs to be. Man's a champion. He doesn't need to check gear that isn't his."
I don't react to that. Not outwardly.
But something in my chest locks in tight.
I thank him and move on before the conversation draws attention, cutting back through the far side of the grounds until I spot Dusty Rhodes leaning against a fence post near the far end of the lot. A coffee cup in one hand and the look of a man who hasn't slept right in about a decade.
Dusty's been around the circuit longer than most people remember, shoulders slouched like gravity finally got the better of him, eyes sharp under the brim of his hat. Missing nothing even when he looks half asleep. He sees things. Knows things. And unlike Lane, he'll say them without being asked.
"You look like you got something on your mind, kid," he says as I approach.
"You hear anything tonight? Anything off?"
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "Depends on what you mean by off." His eyes cut sideways. "Or who you're asking about."
"Colt Ramirez."
Dusty doesn't flinch. Doesn't hesitate.
But something shifts behind his eyes, something old and careful, like a door he hasn't opened in a long time just got knocked on.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
"I know some things about Colt Ramirez."
I don't rush him.
With Dusty, rushing gets you nothing but a closed door and a man who suddenly can't remember what he was about to say. So I lean against the fence beside him, let him take another slow pull of his coffee, and wait for him to decide how much he's willing to give.
It doesn't take as long as I expect.
"You remember the Caldwell circuit?" he asks.
I go still for a beat, a tight pull low in my gut before I push it down. "About four, maybe five years back?"
I do. Barely. I was twenty-two, still new enough to the rodeo world that everything felt like opportunity and nothing felt like consequence. "I remember pieces of it."
"There was money moving through that circuit that had nothing to do with prize purses." Dusty's voice stays low, even, like he's recounting something he rehearsed a long time ago and never got to say. "Betting. Not the legal kind. The kind where the outcome gets decided before the gate opens."
My stomach tightens.
"Fixed rides," I say, and the words land heavier than I expect. A cold weight settling in my gut as everything Dusty’s been saying locks into something real.
"Fixed rides. Fixed draws. Bulls paired with riders in ways that weren't random.
" He turns the coffee cup in his hands slowly.
"Somebody was running it quiet, keeping it clean enough that it didn't look like anything from the outside.
Just looked like some riders were having good nights and some were having bad ones. "
"How long did it run?"
"Long enough to make somebody very comfortable," Dusty says. "And then it stopped. Clean. Like it never happened."
"Because someone shut it down?"
He looks at me for the first time since he started talking. "Because someone got smart enough to bury it before it could surface."
The Miller land.
The thought hits before I can stop it.
Buried evidence. Old gear.
Records that don't belong on a working ranch. Someone who needed a place to put things that couldn't be found, things that tied back to money and fixed rides and a circuit that went quiet four years ago without explanation.
Someone who knew that land wasn't being watched.
"Colt was part of it," I say. It isn't a question.
Dusty doesn't confirm it directly. He doesn't have to. The way he looks back out at the lot instead of at me says enough.
"There were a few names attached to it," he says carefully. "Most of them moved on. Stayed quiet. Built clean reputations on top of whatever they'd done." He pauses. "One of them built a very clean reputation."
Colt Ramirez.
Champion bull rider. Golden boy of the circuit. The kind of man people pointed to as an example. Respected, trusted, given the benefit of every doubt because his record was spotless and his smile was easy.
Because he'd made sure of it.
Because he'd buried everything that said otherwise.
On land that I just broke ground on.