Chapter Fourteen
The afternoon sun streamed through the living room windows as Willow spread a blanket on the floor for Navy’s tea party. The toddler had insisted on setting up all her stuffed animals in a circle, each one getting a tiny plastic cup and saucer.
The little girl held out her teddy bear.
“Decker, Mr. Bear would like more tea.” Willow held out the cup.
Decker, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his large frame looking comically out of place among the tiny dishes, dutifully mimed pouring from the plastic teapot. “There you go, Mr. Bear. Careful, it’s hot.”
He took the bear and pretended it was blowing on the imaginary drink, and Willow’s heart melted watching them together. This was what happiness looked like—the man she loved completely unselfconscious about sitting on the floor having an imaginary tea party.
Willow brought her own cup to her lips in a pretend sip. Navy did the same, then looked disappointed to find it empty.
Willow chuckled at the expression on her niece’s face, but it was cut short by the buzz of her phone. She glanced at the screen.
“Feed store,” she said to Decker and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Miss Malone? This is Cal from Willowbrook Feed and Seed. I’m calling about your order.”
“Is it ready for delivery?” She’d been expecting the ranch’s usual pallets of horse feed.
“That’s the thing—we’re really short-staffed today. Lost two guys to the flu. Any way you could come get it? I hate to ask, but we’re swamped.”
She glanced at Decker, who was watching her with those observant, steady brown eyes. “Hold on a second.” She muted the call. “Feed store can’t deliver. They’re asking if we can pick it up.”
Decker nodded without hesitation. “We can do that.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He stood, scooping Navy up in one smooth motion that made her squeal with delight. “Right, Navy? Wanna go for a ride?”
Twenty minutes later, they were pulling into the feed store parking lot, Navy secured in her car seat in the back seat of the truck, babbling the entire way. Willow was behind the wheel with Decker playing peekaboo with Navy whenever she whined.
A man emerged from the loading area as they parked, and Willow recognized Cal immediately. He moved with the distinctive gait of someone adjusting to a prosthetic, his face tight with either pain or frustration—probably both.
“Thanks for coming out,” Cal called, already moving toward the pallets of feed. “I’ll get you loaded up quick.”
For a beat, Decker stared at the side mirror, and Willow noticed his posture shift subtly—more alert, more focused.
With surprise, she realized he was assessing Cal. Reading him the way he’d been trained to read potential threats.
“He’s agitated,” Decker said under his breath.
“He’s an amputee.” Willow kept her voice low. “A veteran. His leg’s probably bothering him today—prosthetics aren’t easy.”
“He should be in the program.” It wasn’t a question.
“He tried to get in and couldn’t get government funding. He doesn’t have benefits.” She saw understanding dawn in Decker’s eyes. It was something she’d thought about whenever she saw Cal. A veteran without benefits meant only one thing—dishonorable discharge.
She thought back to a few days before, when she missed that phone call from a vet in need. It made her ache to think of turning away vets, whether due to financial reasons or space limitations.
The Black Heart really needed to expand the program. And there must be some way to help vets who needed treatment but couldn’t afford it.
“You seem to know a lot about him.” He kept watch in the mirror as Cal moved toward the pallets and placed a hand on the door handle, ready to jump out and pitch in.
Willow rushed to explain. “When he found out he couldn’t get into the program, he asked for a job on the ranch. But you know we don’t hire outside workers for security reasons—it’s too much of a risk. So I gave him a list of places that might be hiring. That’s how he got this job.”
Decker climbed out. “Can I give you a hand?” he called out to Cal.
Willow rolled down her window to hear the conversation.
Cal swung around in an awkward arc and waved at Decker. “I got it, thanks.”
Decker backed off, probably sensing that offering help to Cal when he didn’t want any would be an insult. He slipped into the passenger seat again but kept the truck door cracked.
After several painstaking trips from the pallet to the back of the truck, Cal limped over to Willow’s door.
“All loaded.” He wiped sweat from his forehead despite the cool air.
“Thanks, Cal. We appreciate it.”
His smile froze on his face as he glanced at Decker, then at the back seat. “Oh, just a minute. One more thing.”
He disappeared back into the store, and Willow felt Decker’s hand settle on her thigh.
Cal returned with a clipboard and a lollipop, holding both out toward Willow. “For your daughter.”
“Niece,” Willow corrected automatically, though something about the assumption made her uncomfortable. She climbed out to accept the clipboard with the invoice to sign and the lollipop.
“Thank you.”
Decker circled the vehicle to stand next to Willow, and she noted how carefully he was watching Cal’s face, reading micro-expressions she couldn’t begin to interpret.
“Sorry if I’m a bit cranky.” Cal rubbed at his thigh. “Leg’s hurting today. Weather change always gets me.”
“Prosthetics aren’t the easiest to fit.” Decker’s tone was neutral but not unfriendly. “I’ve heard it can be rough.”
He extended his hand for a shake, and something in Cal’s expression shifted—recognition maybe, or respect.
“You’re a vet? What branch were you in?” Decker asked.
“Marine Corps. Started out with a rifle platoon, 2/8 down at Lejeune.” Cal’s face brightened slightly. “Spent more time cleaning sand out of my boots than anything else.”
Decker’s mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. “Sounds about right.”
“You?”
“My first platoon was with 1/7 Bravo. Good men. Some of the best.” His voice dropped. “Not all of us made it back.”
The shared understanding between them was palpable, and Willow felt like an outsider witnessing something she couldn’t fully grasp. The brotherhood of service, the weight of losses that civilians would never understand.
Cal directed his attention to Willow. “We don’t have that specialty feed you ordered. Should be in soon. We’ll give you a call when it comes in.”
“Sounds good.” Willow moved to climb into the truck. “Thanks for getting this ready for us.”
They were pulling out of the parking lot when Decker’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Stop right here.”
She hit the brakes, confused. “What?”
“Back up a little. Slowly.”
She did as he asked, watching him lean forward to look at something. “What are you looking at?”
“License plates.”
“What for?”
His jaw was tight, his eyes tracking over every vehicle in the lot. “It’s my job.”
The words sent a chill down her spine. This wasn’t casual observation. This was Decker in full protection mode. Cataloging details.
Looking for threats.
She glanced in the rearview to see Cal standing there, staring at the truck.
* * * * *
Decker sat at the desk in the security office, three monitors glowing in front of him while he flipped over every stone he could find on the guy from the feed store.
Willow had dropped Navy off with Juliette for the next babysitting shift so she could work with Crew on horse therapy—leaving Decker free to chase the nagging feeling that had been chewing at him ever since they’d left Willowbrook Feed and Seed.
But finding information on “Cal” was proving harder than it should be.
The guy had looked at Willow a certain way—not overtly threatening. Not even inappropriate by most standards. But something about it had set off every alarm bell Decker’s sixth sense possessed.
It was the kind of look that lingered a beat too long, that held too much familiarity for someone who should have been a casual acquaintance at best.
He pulled up the Willowbrook Feed and Seed website first. After flipping through pages of products, the hours of operation and a basic map of the store, he hit a dead end.
There was no employee directory or staff photos that would help him identify who Cal actually was beyond a name tag that could have said anything. After all, it wasn’t unheard of for employees to go by nicknames.
The window rattled, and he glanced up. The wind had kicked up since they returned to the ranch, blowing in a front that would surely cover the ranch in a foot of snow.
On a notepad, he scribbled the license plate numbers he’d memorized. Most were local Wyoming plates with a few from neighboring states—probably travelers passing through.
He ran each one through the database Denver had set up, cross-referencing registrations with known associates of the feed store as well as criminal records and even traffic violations. Anything that might pop.
The fourth plate gave him what he needed. A 2015 Ford F-150, registered to Calder Hensley.
Decker sat up straighter.
Calder. Cal for short.
Now he had a full name to work with.
Decker dove deeper, pulling up military records first. The database was restricted, but he had enough clearance from his own service to access basic information.
Calder Hensley, enlisted Marines, 2/8 rifle platoon just like he’d said.
Deployment to Afghanistan, honorable service for three years, then… nothing.
The record went dark after his injury. Decker didn’t have access to discharge papers or any follow-up documentation.
He tried a regular internet search next.
Sometimes the civilian world held information the military databases didn’t.
But “Calder Hensley” returned almost nothing—no social media, no digital footprint at all.
In this day and age, that kind of anonymity was itself suspicious. Everyone left traces online.
Unless they were actively trying not to.
Decker leaned back in his chair, thinking about what Willow had told him. Hensley had contacted the ranch months ago, trying to get into the therapy program. She told him he didn’t have benefits to cover the cost. When he was turned away, he’d asked for a job at the Black Heart instead.
And Willow—being Willow—had tried to help him. Of course she had. She probably felt terrible turning him away from the program, so she’d given him leads on jobs in town, tried to set him up with something that would get him back on his feet.
He’d ended up at the feed store. The same feed store where Willow ordered supplies regularly.
Were her brothers aware of the situation? They wouldn’t want their sister around someone who was dishonorably discharged. It was possible she never told them about Hensley.
Decker took a moment to shoot the information to Carson.
Then he ran the license plate information again, looking for anything that might indicate a history of violence, including stalking behavior or restraining orders.
Nothing came up. He cross-referenced Hensley’s name with local police reports, court records, anything that might show a pattern of concerning behavior.
Clean. The guy was completely clean.
If Hensley was a serious threat, there would be some red flag, but there was nothing glaringly obvious about his military history that Decker could access. He didn’t have a criminal record and no mental health crises were documented.
Decker wanted to believe his instincts were off, that he was being paranoid because he loved Willow and revolted at the thought of anyone looking at her the wrong way.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
He made notes in the case file they’d started on Willow’s stalker—if that’s what this even was. He thoroughly documented the encounter, including Hensley’s behavior, even the odd familiarity in how he’d produced that lollipop for Navy after noticing her in the truck.
The office door opened, and Carson walked in, his expression grim. “We’ve got a situation.”
Decker looked up from his screens. “What kind of situation?”
“Gray needs backup in Colorado. Client’s ex-husband violated the restraining order, showed up at the house armed. Gray’s handling it, but he’s asking for reinforcement.”
“How many do you need?”
“All of us.” Carson’s jaw was tight. “Gray doesn’t want to take chances.”
Decker’s gut clenched. “When?”
“Now. We’re wheels up in twenty minutes.”
Wheels up. Fuck.
He glanced back at his monitors, at the sparse information on Calder Hensley spread across three screens. It wasn’t enough. He needed more time to dig deeper.
“What about Willow?” The question came out sharper than he’d intended.
“Standard protocol applies whenever the team is away. No one leaves the ranch while we’re gone. The ladies know the drill—they stay put, they stay together, and no one that we haven’t cleared gets through those gates.”
It should have been reassuring. The ranch was secure, Willow would be surrounded by capable women who knew how to handle themselves—and she was the most capable of them all.
But Decker couldn’t shake the image of Hensley’s face when he’d handed over that lollipop. The overfriendliness in his eyes.
Decker’s jaw flexed. “I don’t like leaving her.”
“I know. But Gray needs backup, and we don’t have a choice.” Carson’s hand landed on his shoulder. “She’ll be fine. It’s one night, maybe less. We should be back by lunch tomorrow at the latest.”
Carson was already heading for the door. “Willow’s going to ask about the storm. She doesn’t like when we travel in bad weather. Tell her we have to go anyway. This can’t wait. Grab your go bag and meet me outside.”
Decker gave him a brisk nod. Everything in him screamed to stay, to keep digging, to not let Willow out of his sight until he knew for certain whether this guy was a threat.
But Gray needed them. And a brother in danger beat a hunch about a guy who might be nothing more than a down-on-his-luck veteran trying to survive.
Carson was right—Willow was safe on the ranch. Nothing could get her here.
But leaving Willow behind felt like leaving his heart unguarded.