Chapter 13 Jack
Jack
I found the first signs near the north fence line. Just past dawn, walking the perimeter the way I did every morning—routine work, the kind your body did on autopilot. Check the wire tension, scan for washout damage, note anything that looked wrong.
Something looked wrong.
The ground near the creek crossing had been torn up.
Not by cattle—cattle damage had a pattern to it, hooves and weight distributed evenly.
This was violent. Chaotic. Soil churned in deep gouges, vegetation ripped out by the roots, the earth turned inside out like something had been rooting hard and fast.
Feral hogs.
I crouched, studying the tracks. Multiple animals—at least three adults, based on the depth and spread of the prints. These weren't juveniles. Full-grown, probably two-fifty pounds or more, a sounder working the creek bed for food.
Sully pressed against my leg, hackles raised. He'd encountered hogs before, down in New Mexico. Neither of us had enjoyed it.
"Easy," I murmured. "Just tracks."
But fresh ones. Hours old, not days. The edges hadn't dried yet.
I followed the damage along the fence line.
Wire pushed through in two places — not cut, but bent and snapped by sheer force, a three-hundred-pound animal hitting it at a trot and not caring what gave way.
A post splintered at the base. Feed stations near the cattle pens were knocked over and scattered, bags of supplemental grain torn open, contents spread across the dirt.
Hit the same spots more than once — I could see overlapping tracks, older prints underneath fresh ones. That was the detail that mattered. Hogs passing through were a nuisance. Hogs coming back was a problem.
The horses confirmed it. When I reached the main paddocks, they were restless in a way that went beyond morning energy—ears swiveling, bodies taut, Dancer pacing the fence line, refusing to settle.
Weeks of progress with her, and one night of hog scent in the air had her wired like a colt.
Horses knew when something with tusks had been in their space. They didn't forget it.
I spent thirty minutes mapping the damage in my head, then headed for the main house.
I found them in the office. Owen behind the desk, Wyatt leaning against the wall, Maggie at the table with expansion timelines spread in front of her. Weekly operations meeting. All three looked up when I knocked.
"We've got hog sign along the north fence line," I said. "Fresh. Multiple adults, hitting the same spots. They've found the feed stations."
The shift in the room was immediate. Owen's jaw set. Wyatt straightened off the wall. Maggie went still—not frozen, but focused, her mind already three steps ahead.
"How many?" Owen asked.
"Three adults minimum, based on tracks. Could be more bedding in the brush. They're coming in along the creek."
"Damn." Owen leaned back. "We had a sounder four years ago. Took three weeks and a county trapper to clear them. Lost two calves and a section of fence before it was over, and Jimmy Reeves took a tusk to the thigh—twenty-three stitches."
"The county's seeing more of them," Maggie said, moving to the map on the wall. "Dave Martinez told me the Hendricks place got hit twice this year. Game warden said the population's exploded since that mild winter—sows throwing two litters a year, and nobody's keeping up with them."
"Where exactly?" Wyatt asked me.
I joined Maggie at the map and traced the path. "Here, here, and here. Creek crossing, north feed stations, and I found tracks heading northeast toward the back pastures."
"That's the calving herd," Wyatt said.
"And the broodmares," Maggie added. Her eyes met mine—a flicker, gone fast.
Owen studied the map. "First thing—I want trail cameras on those feed stations by tonight. We need to know how many we're dealing with and when they're moving."
"I've got two Stealth Cams in the equipment shed," Wyatt said. "I can pull another from the south gate."
"Good. Get them up before dark." Owen looked at me. "You said they're bedding in the creek brush?"
"That's my read. Thick cover along the south bank—good shade, water access, close to food. Classic setup."
"Then we ride the perimeter at first light tomorrow.
I want eyes on the full extent of the damage, and I want to know if they've gotten into the livestock areas.
" Owen held up a hand before anyone could volunteer.
"Small group. Me, Wyatt, Jack, and Hunter if he's free.
We go armed—.30-06 and .308 minimum. A boar that size, you don't want to be under-gunned.”
"I'm going," Maggie said. Not a request.
Owen looked at her. The pause was brief. "Alright. But we stay within sight of each other, and nobody plays hero. If we find the sounder, we observe and back off. The goal tomorrow is information, not a firefight."
"And after tomorrow?" Maggie asked.
"We set corral traps along the creek bed," Owen said. "Bait them with corn and let the cameras tell us when the sounder's comfortable going in and out. Once they're committed to the pattern, we drop the gate."
"That worked last time," Wyatt agreed. "Took a week for them to trust the enclosure, but we got five in one night."
"And anything that doesn't trap, we hunt." Owen's voice was matter-of-fact. "I'll call Roy Bassett—he's still running hounds, and he owes me a favor from that fence dispute. Between traps, dogs, and rifles, we'll clear them."
"I'll coordinate the hands on extra patrols in the meantime," Maggie said. "Full cattle count today, someone checking the horse pastures every few hours, and I want the night feeders pulled entirely—no point ringing the dinner bell."
"Pull them," Owen confirmed. "Wyatt, get the trail cameras up. Jack, you and Hunter walk that creek brush before dark if you can—I want to know how deep the bedding area goes. Don't push in. Just get a read on the edges."
“Yes, sir."
"Alright." Owen stood. "Nobody goes near those back pastures alone until this is handled. That's not a suggestion."
Hunter found me near the equipment shed an hour later.
"Wyatt said you found sign of hogs."
I nodded once, sharp. “North fence line. Fresh."
He nodded slowly. Hunter processed information the way he did everything — quietly, thoroughly.
"I know that brush along the creek. You can't see ten feet in any direction once you're past the tree line."
"That's what I figured."
"I'll come tomorrow. And I'll walk the creek edge with you tonight." A pause. "I know where the brush thins out. There's a game trail on the east side they'd be using."
"Appreciate it."
He turned to go, then stopped. "How's Maggie handling it?"
The question caught me off guard. Not the words—the way he asked them. Like he was measuring something.
"She's sharp," I said carefully. "Already coordinating patrols and pulling feeders."
"That's not what I asked."
I held his gaze. Hunter Blackwood saw more than he let on—I'd known that since the first day we met. He reminded me of my buddy Emmett in that way. Quiet, assessing, not missing a single thing.
"She's handling it fine," I said.
Hunter looked at me for a long beat. Then nodded once and walked away.
I stood there for a moment, recalibrating. That had been either a warning or a blessing, and I genuinely couldn't tell which.
Maggie found me at the horse barn as the light was going.
She didn't speak at first. Just stood beside me at the paddock rail, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, watching the last gold drain out of the sky. Dancer had finally settled, dozing in the far corner.
"You're going to worry about me tomorrow," she said. Not a question.
“Probably." Definitely, but I didn’t want her to read into that response.
“Well, don’t." If only it were that simple.
"That's not how it works."
She turned to face me. In the half-light, with the barn shadow cutting across her jaw, she looked like someone who'd been making hard decisions since before she was old enough to vote.
"I was there four years ago when the last ones came through. I watched my dad drop a boar mid-charge from forty yards. I saw what the tusks did to Jimmy's thigh before he could get the shot off." Her voice was even. "I don't need you between me and the hogs, Jack."
"I know you don't."
"Then focus on the job. Not on me."
"I can do both.” I’d have to.
The ghost of a smile. "Cocky."
"Accurate."
We stood there in the gathering dark. I wanted to reach for her—curve my hand around the back of her neck, pull her forehead against mine, tell her that the thought of anything getting within fifty yards of her made something in my chest go feral. But we were in the open. And she had rules.
"Get some sleep, beautiful,” I said, treading the line of her rules. No one was around, or I wouldn’t have called her that. But I couldn’t not remind her how stunning she was when the warm glow of sunset warmed her features.
Her eyes softened. "You too."
She started to turn, then paused. Looked back over her shoulder with an expression I couldn't quite read—somewhere between tender and fierce.
"Be careful out there," she said.
Then she was walking toward her cabin, boots crunching on gravel, and I was watching her go the way I always did—like a man who'd found something worth protecting and didn't yet have the right to say so.
I turned back to the hills. Somewhere in the creek brush, a sounder was bedding down, fat on stolen grain and comfortable enough to keep coming back. Tomorrow, we'd get a look at what we were dealing with.
Tonight, I had a creek edge to walk with Hunter and trail cameras to mount before dark. I whistled for Sully and headed for the equipment shed.
Work to do.