Chapter Thirteen #2
“There’s no forced entry,” Dan said, closing the last bag. “No prints I could see. Whoever did this, they wanted you to find it this way.”
“I figured,” I said.
He took out a business card, wrote his cell number on the back, and slid it across the counter. “Anything else happens, you call me. You see Hargrove, you call me. You shoot Hargrove, you definitely call me.”
I couldn’t help the thin smile that cracked my face. “You always this accommodating?”
He shrugged, the motion making his badge glint in the light. “This town is small. We don’t need another Scudder County Incident.”
I didn’t know what that was, but he said it like it should mean something, so I nodded. “Give me a minute before you leave.”
We both glanced toward the second floor when we heard noise.
Sheriff Calloway nodded. “I’ll be outside.”
He put his sunglasses back on and made for the door. Just before he left, he paused in the entryway, hand on the frame. “Take care of your omega,” he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. “They’re rare out here.”
The words landed like a stone in a bucket of cold water.
By then, Jojo padding barefoot to the top of the stairs. He watched me, eyes swollen with sleep and the aftermath of fever, hair wild.
“What happened?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“Just a mess,” I said, too gentle. “You should go back to bed.”
“I wanted to be with you.”
I couldn’t say I didn’t want the same thing.
I gestured to him. “Come here.”
Jojo padded down the stairs. When he reached me, I tucked him into my chest, keeping myself between him and the kitchen. “You can lay down in the living room.”
He pressed his face into my shirt, breathing deep.
And in that moment, I knew exactly what I was fighting for.
After Jojo was settled on the couch with his eyes closed—blissfully unaware of the carnage in the kitchen—I went out back, found Dan crouched by the burn barrel, cigarette stub glowing like a firefly between his fingers.
He looked up at my approach. “You bury them?”
I hefted the shoebox, already heavy with blood and guilt. “Thought maybe you’d want to take them for evidence.”
Dan sighed, took the box, and set it in the trunk of his cruiser. “Not sure I’ll get much from them. But it’s the right thing to do. Especially with Victor.”
I let the name hang.
“He’s connected, Steele. In ways you can’t imagine.” Dan ground out the cigarette, not meeting my eyes. “Local council, bank, hell, his wife’s related to the state water board.”
“I’m not worried about politics,” I said. “I’m worried about escalation.”
Dan’s jaw flexed. “You ever get tired of it? Always having to out-move the other guy?”
“No,” I said. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
He nodded, like that was the answer he expected. “That omega inside. You in it for the long haul?”
I looked at him, and for once I didn’t hedge or joke. “He’s carrying my child. It doesn’t get more serious.”
Dan’s posture shifted, the edges of his authority softening just a hair. “Congratulations,” he said, and meant it. “But you know what this looks like to Hargrove? Not just a rival rancher. A permanent stake in the ground.”
I grinned, all teeth. “Good. Maybe he’ll think twice before fucking with me again.”
Dan gave a soft snort, then looked me over, slow and appraising. “You sure you don’t want backup?”
“I’ll call if I need it.”
He slapped the side of the truck, then climbed in. Before he closed the door, he leaned out and said, “Don’t let him see you coming. And don’t let him near the kid.”
He meant Jojo, but also the one inside him.
When he was gone, and the dust of his cruiser had faded back into the white static of morning, I stood alone by the barrel and stared at the kitchen window. My own reflection looked like a stranger, something warped by the old glass.
I went inside and started to clean.
First, the mop and bleach. Then rags, then a toothbrush for the seams. Every drop of blood, every fleck of tissue, every ghost trace. I worked it methodically, just like clearing a jammed rifle or packing a wound.
The kitchen floor was pitted, old hardwood full of scars, but I made it shine. I spent a solid hour on my knees, feeling the ache in my busted leg and letting it fuel me instead of slow me down.
As I scrubbed, my brain mapped out every possible avenue of attack, every vulnerability.
The ground floor windows—too easy to jimmy open.
The attic vent—large enough for a grown man if he knew how to squeeze.
The locks—ancient, purely decorative. The horses—predictable, all in the barn at the same time every day.
The river—could mask footsteps, cover a scent trail.
The list kept growing, like a tumor.
I went over the pantry twice, then rewiped the counter, and then stood back and surveyed the result. Clean, not just of blood, but of all the sticky reminders of failure. It was almost as if it had never happened.
I wished I could do the same for Jojo.
He was still on the couch, but he’d fallen asleep, chin tipped to his chest, hands cradling his belly in a gesture I don’t think he was even aware of. There was something so defenseless about it, so trusting, it made my throat go tight.
For the first time, I stopped thinking of it as land, or duty, or some point to be proven to a family that never wanted me. The house, the ranch, the perimeter—every inch of it was just an extension of what I had to protect.
It was family now. Mine.
I checked the Sig, racked the slide, and started at the top of the list: weaknesses, threats, countermeasures. Because if Hargrove wanted a war, he’d just declared it on something I’d burn the world down to defend.
By midmorning, the only evidence left was the sharp smell of bleach and the nagging hum under my skin. Jojo napped, curled in the afghan, features soft and slack.
The house had gone so quiet I could hear the low drone of a tractor in the next valley, and the distant pop of a shotgun—someone scaring off deer from the hayfields.
I locked myself in the office, sat down and pulled out my cell phone, staring at one name. Macon O’Reilly. The only person I’d ever trusted to watch my back when the world started to go sideways.
I punched the number. It rang twice.
“O’Reilly.”
“It’s Steele.”
Pause. “Heard you bought the farm.”
“Literally,” I said. “Could use a second set of eyes.”
He grunted. “You expecting company?”
“Already had some. Someone broke into the house last night, left a message. Slaughtered livestock.”
“Beta or alpha?”
“Beta. Hargrove. Thinks he owns the valley.”
“Copy.” Another pause, the sound of a saw starting and stopping in the background. “What’s the threat level?”
I surveyed the room as I spoke, picturing every possible breach point, every sightline from the road. “Elevated. Five thousand acres, three occupied structures, one omega and a potential hostile in town. And…one other complication.”
“Define complication.”
“He’s pregnant,” I said.
For the first time in a decade, Macon was silent for more than a beat. Then: “You knocked up an omega and let him get targeted by a psycho rancher?”
“It was not the mission plan,” I admitted.
Macon’s voice came through as cold as the Blackwater in March. “You want me on-site?”
“ASAP. The sheriff’s hands are tied. I need someone who’s not afraid to break a few eggs.”
He gave the little huff that meant he was amused, or maybe just awake. “I’ll drive straight through. What do you want me to bring?”
I thought about it. “Security cameras. Perimeter sensors. And a set of new locks for every door and window.”
“Roger. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I hesitated, then added, “Pick up half a dozen chicks on the way. Jojo lost his first batch.”
He made a low, incredulous sound. “Actual chicks. Not—never mind. What kind of domestic situation did you get yourself into, Steele?”
“Best kind,” I said, surprising even myself.
He grunted. “See you tomorrow.”
I hung up, and for the first time in a long while, felt the smallest whisper of relief. The kind you only get when you know someone else is holding the other end of the rope.
Afterward, I stood in the kitchen, elbows braced on the sill, and watched the sunlight crawl up over the ridgeline, painting the pastures gold. The horses grazed, oblivious to the tension. The barn, the silo, the pond—all quiet, all mine to protect.
In another life, maybe I’d have learned how to do this gently. How to be something besides a weapon waiting for the next order. But there was no SEAL team here, no command structure. Just me, and the thin blue line of a sheriff who probably had more secrets than I did.
And Jojo. Fragile and stubborn and impossibly brave, carrying the only piece of future I gave a damn about.
I pressed my palm flat to the glass, mapped the lines of the horizon, memorized every tree and shadow.
Let them come.
I’d be ready.