Chapter 14
BLAINE
I was grinning like an idiot the whole drive back to the ranch.
Couldn't help it. Every time I tried to school my expression into something reasonable, I'd remember Caitlin on that kitchen counter, or the sound she made when she came, or the way she'd looked at me like I was something she wanted to keep.
I was in deep. Deeper than I'd ever been. And I didn't care.
Jake was on the porch when I pulled up, coffee in hand, watching me with barely concealed amusement.
"Walk of shame?" he asked.
"Walk of pride." I climbed out of the truck, still grinning. "Very different energy."
"I can see that." He took a sip of coffee. "You're glowing. Men aren't supposed to glow."
"I'm not glowing."
"You're definitely glowing. Tre!" he called over his shoulder. "Come look at this. Blaine's glowing."
Tre appeared in the doorway, took one look at me, and burst out laughing. "Oh man. You've got it bad."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're wearing the same shirt as yesterday."
I looked down. He was right. "I was in a hurry this morning."
"I bet you were." Tre waggled his eyebrows. "Good night?"
"None of your business."
"That's a yes." He clapped me on the shoulder as I passed. "Good for you, man. You deserve it."
I paused in the doorway. "Thanks."
"Now go shower. You smell like sex and happiness. It's unsettling."
I laughed and headed inside.
The good mood lasted until about noon.
I was in the office, going through breeding contracts and trying to wrap my head around stud fees and mare care agreements, when Jake knocked on the door frame.
"Got a minute?"
"Please. Save me from paperwork."
He didn't smile. That was my first warning.
"The PI called," he said. "She found something."
I pushed back from the desk. "What?"
Jake sat down across from me, his expression grim. "The guy in the footage? His name is Tyler Vance. Twenty-eight years old. Works as a ranch hand for Cole."
"So we were right. Cole's behind it."
"It's worse than that." Jake pulled out his phone, scrolled to something, and handed it to me. "Tyler Vance has a record. Assault charges three years ago—pled down to a misdemeanor. And before he worked for Cole, he worked for a guy named Marcus Webb."
"Who's Marcus Webb?"
"Private security contractor. The kind who doesn't ask questions about what he's securing." Jake leaned forward. "Blaine, this isn't just some ranch hand cutting fences for extra cash. This guy's a professional. Cole hired muscle."
I stared at the phone, the mugshot of Tyler Vance staring back at me. Young face, hard eyes. The kind of guy who'd do whatever he was paid to do.
"What do we do?"
"The PI's digging deeper. She thinks there might be a paper trail—payments from Cole to Webb, something we can use. But it's going to take time."
"Time we might not have." I stood up, pacing to the window. "If Cole's escalating, hiring guys like this... what's next? The generator was ten grand. The fences are fixable. But what happens when he decides to go after the horses?"
Jake was quiet for a moment. "We increase security. Real security—not just cameras. I've got a buddy who runs a private firm. Veterans, mostly. Discrete. They can have guys here by tomorrow."
"How much?"
"Enough that you'll feel it." He shrugged. "But cheaper than losing a horse. Or worse."
I thought about Sovereign Sun. About Starlight and Sunrise. About the legacy my grandfather had built over sixty years, now threatened by a man who thought he could take whatever he wanted.
"Do it," I said. "Whatever it costs."
"Already made the call. Just needed your okay."
"You've got it."
Jake nodded and stood. "There's one more thing."
"Of course there is."
"The PI found something else. Cole's been having financial trouble. His last two land deals fell through—the Henderson property went to a conservation trust, and the Morrison family decided not to sell after all. Word is, he's overextended. Took out loans expecting those deals to close."
"So he's desperate."
"Desperate men do desperate things." Jake met my eyes. "Watch your back, Blaine. This isn't just business for Cole anymore. It's survival."
The security team arrived the next morning.
Four guys, all ex-military, all built like they could bench-press a truck. Their leader was a woman named Sarah Chen—five foot four, quiet voice, eyes that missed nothing. She showed up in a black SUV at 7 AM sharp, shook my hand with a grip that meant business, and got straight to work.
"Walk me through the property," she said. It wasn't a request.
So I did. We spent two hours covering every inch of Sierra Sol—the main house, the barns, the equipment shed, the paddocks, the fence lines.
Sarah took notes on a tablet, asked questions I wouldn't have thought to consider.
Where did deliveries come in? Who had keys to what?
Were there any blind spots in the existing camera coverage?
"Here," she said, stopping at the north pasture where we'd repaired the cut fence. "This is your weak point. Easy access from the road, minimal visibility from the house."
"That's where they cut the fence."
"I'm not surprised." She surveyed the tree line, the slight rise that blocked the view from the main buildings. "We'll put a camera here. Motion-activated lights. And I want one of my guys doing regular sweeps of this perimeter."
Back at the house, she spread a map of the property across the kitchen table while her team unloaded equipment from the SUV.
"We'll set up a perimeter watch," she said, marking positions on the map. "Two-man teams, rotating shifts. Cameras are good, but they're reactive. We need to be proactive."
"What about the horses?" I asked. "If Cole's going after the livestock?—"
"Barn security is priority one. Motion sensors, additional cameras, and one of my guys will be stationed there at night.
" She looked up at me. "Mr. Hartley, I've seen situations like this before.
Neighbor disputes that escalate. Usually, a show of force is enough to make them back off.
They're counting on you being soft. Being alone. "
"I'm not alone."
"No, you're not." She almost smiled. "That's why you'll win."
I watched her team work through the afternoon. They moved with quiet efficiency—installing cameras, testing sight lines, setting up a monitoring station in the small office off the kitchen. One of them, a guy named Marcus with a scar across his jaw, caught me watching.
"First time with private security?" he asked.
"That obvious?"
"You've got that look. Like you can't believe it's come to this.
" He adjusted a camera angle, checked the feed on his phone.
"For what it's worth, you're doing the right thing.
Guys like whoever's messing with you—they count on people being too proud or too cheap to protect themselves. You're not giving them that advantage."
"Thanks. I think."
"It's a compliment." He moved on to the next camera position.
I introduced Sarah to Hector that afternoon. They stood in the barn, sizing each other up—two people who'd spent their lives reading situations and assessing threats.
"You know horses?" Hector asked.
"Grew up on a ranch in Montana. Left for the Army at eighteen." Sarah met his gaze steadily. "I know enough not to spook them, if that's what you're asking."
Hector studied her for a long moment. Then he gave a curt nod—the kind of approval he didn't give easily.
"I'll show you around," he said. "Introduce you to the animals. They should know your scent."
They walked off together, and I watched them go—the gruff ranch manager and the ex-military security chief, finding common ground in their shared understanding of what it meant to protect something valuable.
"She knows her business," Hector said to me later, after Sarah had gone to brief her team.
"Good enough for you?"
"Good enough." He paused, looking out at the property—the land he'd worked for forty years, the horses he'd dedicated his life to. "Your grandfather would have done the same thing. Protecting what's yours isn't weakness. It's wisdom."
"Thanks, Hector."
He grunted and walked away. But I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
That Friday, Jake and Tre announced they were heading to San Francisco for the weekend.
"Concert," Tre said, waving his phone. "Band we used to see back in the day. They're doing a reunion tour."
"You'll survive without us," Jake added. "Sarah's team has everything covered. And you've got Hector."
"And Caitlin," Tre said with a grin. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves a lot of options," I said.
"Exactly." He clapped me on the shoulder and headed for Jake's car.
I watched them drive off, feeling something I hadn't expected: excitement. Not about them leaving, but about having the house to ourselves. A whole weekend with Caitlin, no friends wandering in and out, no group dinners. Just us.
I called her as soon as they were gone.
"Hey you," she answered. "Miss me already?"
"Always. Jake and Tre just left for San Francisco. Concert. They'll be gone all weekend."
"Is that so?" I could hear the smile in her voice.
"Come over. Bring an overnight bag."
"Hmm. I might be persuaded." A pause. "Actually, I have a better idea. Let's cook together. I'm tired of you always cooking for me. Or Jake cooking for everyone."
"You cook?"
"I'm not completely helpless." Another pause. "I can handle the basics. And I've been craving Mexican food. Tacos. Queso fundido. Margaritas."
"That sounds perfect."
"We'll need to go to the store. Together." She said it like it was a dare. "Think you can handle grocery shopping with me?"
"I think I can manage."
"Pick me up at four?"
"It's a date."
The grocery store was small—one of those family-owned places that had been around for decades, with hand-written sale signs and an owner who knew everyone by name.