Chapter Two
Trace
When Andy first tells me about the new ranch, my instinct is to lie and tell him I’m going, while heading somewhere else entirely.
In my head, I picture taking off without a plan, driving until the road runs out, finding some nowhere town where nobody knows my name, and just…
fading out. That’s the place I’m in when this starts, not because I want to die; I’m just tired of living like this.
Tired of waking up already exhausted, tired of holding myself together with sheer will.
I’m tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m not, but most of all I’m tired of trying to force myself back into the man I used to be, or invent a new version that feels anything like him.
I pull up Copper Ridge’s website, scrolling without paying attention to the horses, pastures, therapy talk, smiling faces.
None of it really matters, until I stop on a picture of the woman who runs the place.
Delta Whitmore. There’s nothing special about the photo, but there’s something in her eyes that feels…
kindred somehow. And for that reason I can’t explain, it hits me harder than the brochures, the testimonials, or anything else about the ranch.
It’s just enough to make me think maybe I’ll try this before I disappear somewhere no one can find me.
Two weeks later and I am heading from South Dakota to Wyoming.
The trip isn’t long, most of the drive is along empty roads, with no signal, no music, and only static when I try to find a station.
The only thing that comes through is the kind of music that sounds like it’s been recorded in somebody’s barn, songs like “Three Teeth and a Banjo” by Harlan I finally have cell service again.
I grab my phone from the cup holder and see the signal jump to 4G, and I pull through the gate, easing off to the side where the gravel shoulder widens so I can figure out where the hell I’m going.
I scroll straight to my email and open the one from Copper Ridge, the map, the directions, Guest Cabin three assigned to me, Cash’s note telling me it’s normal to feel out of place and to just get here.
The gravel shifted under my boots as I stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind me.
The Wyoming morning was already warm, and the air carried the faint scent of hay mixed with dust. I stand for a moment, stretching the stiffness from my legs before walking to the back of the truck to grab my bag.
“Alright, let’s get this started,” I muttered, lifting the strap of my bag over my shoulder and taking a long look around.
I take a slow breath and start towards the bunkhouse, trying to shake the tension sitting low in my chest. I tell myself it was just a ranch, just another job, and just another stop along the way to figuring myself out.
Deep down, though, I knew that if this didn’t work, I was running out of chances to try again.
Delta
I closed the folder and set it on the desk with a muted thump. “Has Trace gotten here yet?”
“Not yet,” Paige said, lifting her mug that read Don’t Let the Pretty Face Fool You. “Cash is watching the main road. He said he’ll radio in as soon as he sees him.”
Lena was already working on her tablet, fingers moving fast without her eyes ever leaving the screen. “He’s supposed to be here by nine, right?”
“That’s what Andy said,” I replied, glancing toward the window. The morning light was steady across the pastures, and the horses were already out grazing. “I just want him to get here before the day gets moving. It’s easier to settle a new person before everything really gets busy.”
Paige tilted her head, studying me over her mug. “You nervous?”
“Not nervous,” I say after a beat. “His file’s got a lot going on, combat vet, PTSD. The fan incident…”
Paige flips the folder open, scanning the page like she’s reading celebrity gossip.
“You mean the one where he tackled that guy at the concert? Says here the fan made a move for the woman he was guarding, pulled a knife, and Trace put him on the floor before security even realized what was happening.”
“That’s the one,” I say. “He didn’t lose control, he was protecting somebody, the charges were dropped because the guy had a weapon, but Trace made it clear, if someone he cares about is in danger, he’ll take the hit himself before he lets them get hurt.”
Lena finally looks up, her tone practical. “So he’s not violent, he’s just reactive. Wrong target, wrong place, wrong time.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Andy says he’s disciplined, quiet, does the work, follows direction. But if someone he’s attached to is threatened, he goes straight into combat mode, and that’s what makes him unpredictable.”
There’s a thoughtful beat before Paige closes the folder and sits back in her chair. “Listen,” she says, “I’m just gonna say it, I love a protective man, honey.”
Lena holds up a hand in full agreement. “The way I would walk around and wish a bitch would at everyone.”
Paige gestures dramatically. “Like… have you seen my man? Do you know who my man is?”
They cackle, feeding off each other, and the whole mood in the office lifts. I can’t help it, a laugh slips out of me too. I shake my head at them, amused and resigned in equal measure.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” I tell them, though I’m smiling.
Lena takes a sip of her iced coffee, not remotely apologetic. “What? I’m just saying. If Copper Ridge is gonna get a new veteran, a little overprotective isn’t the worst trait on the menu.”
Paige points her pen. “As long as ‘overprotective’ doesn’t mean ‘punching Cash over a misplaced saddle blanket,’ we’re good.”
The laugh that escapes me this time is real and full.
I trust my team, their competence, their humor, and their willingness to say the thing everyone else is thinking, but underneath all of that is the quiet truth threading through my mind; it’s my responsibility to make sure Copper Ridge is safe… including Trace Buchanan.
Trace
Cash is waiting on the porch when I pull up, arms crossed, expression easy but sharp enough to clock every detail.
“You must be Trace,” he says, offering his hand. “Welcome to Copper Ridge.”
I shake it. “Thanks.”
He nods once toward the cabin. “Go ahead and get settled. When you’re ready, follow the fence line past the horse barn and keep going until you hit the red gate. I’ll meet you out there.”
That’s it. No small talk, no staring like he’s trying to read my whole life in my face. Just directions and space. I appreciate it more than I can say.
When he drives off in the UTV, I stay there a moment longer, looking at the cabin before stepping inside and closing the door behind me.
For a while, I just stand there taking it all in before walking over to the bed and dropping my duffel bag on it.
I unzip it, pulling out all my worldly possessions, and try to figure out how the hell my life fits inside one bag.
I take my time going through the place, putting my clothes away, and getting a feel for the cabin.
The kitchen cabinets are stocked, and the fridge is full.
Towels are folded on the bathroom shelf, and there’s even a bar of unopened soap.
I open the fridge again just to be sure.
Milk, eggs, juice, water, cold cuts, fresh fruit.
Whoever set this up made sure everything is ready.
I place my books and journal on the nightstand, then reach back into the bag and pull out my Glock.
It’s the one thing that’s never let me down.
It doesn’t talk, doesn’t judge, doesn’t ask questions; it’s just there.
I slide it under the pillow and sit on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees.
For a few minutes I stay there, staring at the floor.
“Coward,” I mutter. Not about coming here — about sitting here hiding instead of trying.
Dragging a hand over my face, I let out a long breath. I’ve wasted enough time.
I grab the keys off the table, shove them in my pocket, step outside, lock the cabin door, and squint into the light. The sun is already climbing, and the dry Wyoming heat has settled in early, promising to stay all day.
Cash told me to follow the fence line, past the horse barn, and keep going until I get to the red gate, so that’s what I do. Gravel shifts under my boots with every step, and the breeze carries the smell of hay, dust, and something faintly floral from the fields.
Barns and outbuildings sit along the road, along with smaller cabins that look like housing for hands.
When the road opens again, a beautiful two-story house comes into view, with an inviting wraparound porch, several rocking chairs arranged neatly, and bright flowers lining the steps.
The place is clearly well cared for, just like everything else I have seen on the ranch so far, but there is no denying that it stood apart. This house is a home.
Movement on the porch pulls my attention.
An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair is trying to gather several grocery bags from the steps.
One bag has tipped over, and a bottle of juice is inches from rolling off the porch.
She mutters under her breath while reaching for another bag. I cross the path toward her.
“Ma’am, let me get that for you.”
She straightens and gives me a sharp look that doesn’t quite hide the humor in her eyes. “Do not call me ma’am. Makes me sound like I should be out to pasture.”
The automatic response slips out before I can stop it. “Yes, ma’am.”
She laughs. “See what I mean, it’s a hard habit to break. Go on and help then. Thank you, young man. I appreciate it.”
She holds the door open, and I follow her inside with the bags. The kitchen smells faintly of coffee and warm spices. I set the bags on the counter, and she immediately starts unpacking them.
“The name is Evangeline Whitmore,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Most people call me Miss Evie. Easier that way.”
For a moment, I pause, just long enough for the name to register. Whitmore. The ranch is Whitmore at Copper Ridge. She is the owner or connected to the owner, probably the matriarch of the family that built all of this. I file that away fast and keep my expression neutral.
“Trace,” I offer. “Good to meet you, Miss Evie.”
She nods toward the table. “Since you are here, you might as well sit a spell while I get some breakfast going. You look like you could use a good meal.”
“I can grab something later.”
She gives a short laugh. “You can, but you will not. Sit. You are in my kitchen now, and nobody leaves my kitchen hungry.”
There is no point in arguing, so I take a seat while she moves around the kitchen, setting out eggs, bacon, and a small bowl of grits.
“You eat bacon?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.” Then I catch myself. “Yes, Miss Evie.”
“That’s better,” she says, a faint smile forming. “Any allergies or special diets I should know about?”
“No, Miss Evie.”
“Good. Picky eaters never lasted long around here. My husband used to say if you work the land, you eat what the land gives you.”
Silence settles comfortably while she cooks, and I watch the steady confidence in her movements. There is nothing fragile or uncertain about her. Everything she reaches for, measures, or handles comes naturally.
“You are quiet,” she says as she plates the food. “Tell me about yourself.”
“It’s not much to tell, I’m a former Marine. I’m trying to find a therapy that works for me.”
She puts a plate in front of me. Eggs, grits, bacon, and a biscuit. “Eat. My daughter’s therapy program seems to be helping people, hopefully, it’ll be able to help you too”
The first bite nearly stops me in my tracks. “Thank you, Miss Evie. This is the best food I have had since leaving Silver Creek.”
“That is because I made it with love. People forget it makes a difference.”
We talk while I eat. She asks where I came from, are my parents still alive, where they live, etc. I give her the short versions, and she doesn’t push. She just listens, and somehow that makes it easier to talk than it had been for a long time. I’m almost done eating when the screen door opens.
“Miss Evie?” Cash calls from outside. “You or Miss Hattie seen the new guy?”
He comes to a stop when he spots me at the table, fork halfway to my mouth.
Miss Evie answers before I can speak. “He was walking past when I needed help with the groceries. You think I am going to let a polite young man walk by and not feed him?”
Cash chuckles. “I was just coming to find him. I thought we had someone assigned to help with your groceries, Miss Evie. You are not supposed to be carrying them anyway.”
She clicks her tongue and gives me a pointed look. “See what I mean, out to pasture.”
I finish the last bite and carry my plate to the sink to wash it. “Breakfast was incredible. Thank you, Miss Evie.”
“You are welcome, Trace, and do not run off so fast next time. Cash is not the boss of me, so what I say goes.”