Chapter 4
Dana didn't expect the prospect to come back.
Two days of silence. Two days of watching the road, checking locks, sleeping in the barn with a shotgun across her knees because her horses needed her alive more than they needed her rested.
Strand's truck had passed her property three times since the meeting at the compound. Slow rolls, deliberate. Letting her know she was being watched. Letting her know that Saturday was coming and the deadline wasn't negotiable.
She was running on coffee and spite when the bikes appeared on the horizon.
Three of them. Turnbuckle in front, flanked by two brothers she didn't recognize. They pulled through her gate without asking permission, killed their engines in the yard, and swung off like they owned the place.
Dana set down the pitchfork she'd been using to muck stalls and crossed her arms.
"You could have called."
"Phone's not secure." Turnbuckle pulled off his helmet, and she noticed new tension in his shoulders. Two days of planning, probably. Two days of convincing his club that she was worth the trouble. "We're here to secure your facility before Saturday."
"I didn't agree to—"
"Yeah, you did." He walked toward her with that coiled energy she remembered, stopping close enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes. "You walked into our compound and asked for help. This is what help looks like."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she'd been handling things herself since she was eighteen, that accepting security meant admitting she couldn't protect her own horses, that every favor came with strings she couldn't afford.
But Duchess was pacing in her stall. Jackpot was refusing to eat.
Her horses knew something was wrong, even if she couldn't say it out loud.
"Fine." Dana stepped back, putting distance between them. "What's the plan?"
The plan was work.
Turnbuckle introduced the other brothers—Fathom, silent and watchful, and a prospect she'd learn was called Wrench—then immediately started cataloging vulnerabilities like he was reading a threat assessment.
"Stall doors are solid but the latches are garbage. Need reinforcement."
"The budget—"
"We brought materials." He was already walking toward the truck Wrench had pulled in behind the bikes. "Cameras go up today. Motion sensors on the perimeter. By tonight, anyone who comes onto this property without permission will regret it."
Dana followed him, frustration mixing with something she didn't want to name. "I didn't ask you to rebuild my entire facility."
"You asked us to keep your horses alive." He pulled a toolbox from the truck bed without looking at her. "This is how we do that."
"And what do you want in return?"
That made him stop. Turn. His eyes found hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"You already offered intel on Fogarty's operation. That's the price. Everything else—" He gestured at the equipment, the brothers already unloading supplies. "This is what we do. Protect people who can't protect themselves."
"I can protect myself."
"Against four men with baseball bats?"
The words hit like a slap. She felt her face heat—shame, fury, the memory of being held back while Marigold screamed.
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." His voice softened slightly. "But you don't have to do it alone. That's the point."
They worked through the afternoon.
Turnbuckle led the effort with a competence that surprised her. He wasn't giving orders like a boss—he was working alongside his brothers, hands dirty, sweat on his brow, treating the labor like something that needed doing rather than something beneath him.
She noticed the way he moved. Efficient. Powerful. The kind of physical awareness that came from years of hard work, not gym sessions. When he lifted a heavy gate without straining, she saw the muscles in his forearms cord and flex.
Dock worker, she remembered. Eight years on the Wilmington waterfront.
That explained the strength. It didn't explain why watching him use it made her chest tight.
"Hand me those hinges?"
Dana passed them over, their fingers brushing in the exchange. He didn't react, but she felt the contact like a static shock.
"You know what you're doing," she said, more to fill the silence than anything.
"Built a lot of things on the docks." He fitted the hinge into place. "Fixed a lot of things too. This isn't complicated—just needs someone who gives a damn."
"And you give a damn about my horses?"
He looked up at her, something unreadable in his expression. "I give a damn about people who build things getting to keep them."
Before she could respond, Fathom appeared at the barn door. "Truck coming. Same one from yesterday."
Turnbuckle was moving before Fathom finished speaking.
Dana followed him to the gate, her heart hammering.
Strand's truck approached slowly—the same deliberate crawl he'd been doing for two days. Behind the tinted glass, she could make out shapes. Multiple men. The baseball bat she'd see in her nightmares was probably in there too.
Turnbuckle positioned himself at the gate like a wall.
She'd seen men try to look intimidating before. Weekend warriors puffing up at rodeo bars, drunk cowboys picking fights they couldn't finish. This was different.
This was intent.
The truck slowed as it neared the gate. Windows down, engine idling. She could see Strand now—hard eyes, prison ink on his knuckles, the casual cruelty of someone who hurt people professionally.
He looked at Turnbuckle. At the prospect patch on his cut. At the two other bikers flanking the yard.
Then he looked at Dana.
"Interesting company you're keeping."
"Better than yours."
His smile was a wound. "Saturday's still coming, sweetheart. Your new friends can't watch you forever."
"They don't need to." Turnbuckle's voice was quiet. Almost pleasant. "They just need to watch you."
Something flickered in Strand's expression. Calculation, maybe. The dawning realization that the math had changed.
"Fogarty won't like this."
"Fogarty can come tell me himself." Turnbuckle took a step forward. Then another. Moving toward the truck with the kind of intent that promised violence. "Or he can send you. Either way, I'll be here."
The truck's engine revved.
Strand's eyes went to Turnbuckle. To the gate. To Dana standing behind both.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then the truck accelerated away, gravel spraying, disappearing down the road like the retreat it was.
Dana let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
"He'll be back," she said.
"Probably."
They stood at the gate together, watching the dust settle. The sun was dropping toward the horizon, painting everything gold and orange.
"With more men."
"Definitely." Turnbuckle turned to face her. In the dying light, his scar looked like a shadow. "That's why we're staying."
"Staying?"
"Tonight. Tomorrow. Until Saturday's over and your horses are safe." He said it like it was obvious. Like the idea of leaving her alone hadn't even crossed his mind.
"I didn't ask for—"
"You asked for help." His voice was firm but not unkind. "This is what it looks like. Someone standing between you and the people trying to hurt you. Someone who doesn't leave when it gets hard."
Dana's throat tightened. She thought about all the people who'd left—foster families who gave her back, trainers who quit when the work got tough, everyone who'd ever promised to stay and didn't.
"You don't know me."
"I know enough." He held her gaze. "I know you stood in a stall full of blood and didn't break. I know you're planning to compete Saturday because quitting means letting them win. I know you've been sleeping in your barn with a shotgun because your horses matter more to you than your own safety."
She felt exposed. Seen in a way that made her want to step back, rebuild the walls she'd spent years constructing.
Instead, she held her ground.
"And what do you know about not quitting?"
Something dark moved behind his eyes. "I know what it costs when you look away. I won't make that mistake again."
The words carried weight she didn't fully understand. History she hadn't earned the right to ask about yet.
But standing at her gate, watching this scarred prospect who'd walked toward a truck full of killers like it was nothing, Dana felt something shift.
She'd spent her whole life proving she didn't need anyone.
Maybe needing someone wasn't the same as being weak.
"Okay," she said finally. "Stay."
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Wasn't asking permission."
"I noticed."
He turned back toward the barn, already planning the next task. "Cameras go up before dark. You should eat something—you look like you haven't slept in days."
"Because I haven't."
"That changes tonight." He glanced back at her over his shoulder. "We've got watch. You rest."
It sounded like an order. It felt like something else.
Dana followed him back to the barn, her chest still tight with emotions she couldn't name.
He'd walked toward a truck full of men who killed horses for messages.
Walked toward them with the kind of intent that made them accelerate away.
For her.
She didn't know what to do with that. But for the first time in days, she thought she might actually sleep.