Chapter 3-Benji #3
“There was money,” I say, grasping for something, anything that makes this make sense. “We had money in the joint account—”
“I didn’t touch any of that. I told you I never wanted your money!” she snaps. “I just wanted you to listen to me. I just wanted you to believe me.”
That lands harder than anything else she’s said.
I flinch.
Actually, flinch.
Like she just fucking hit me.
If she did, I’d probably feel better.
“Look, I survived. It’s fine now. I just want you to sign the papers,” she adds, quieter now, like she’s pulling herself back together piece by piece.
“So you can go on a dating app?” I shoot back, because I don’t know what else to do with this mess inside my chest.
“It—it’s not like that,” she stammers. “It’s an idea for a segment. For my vlog. One of my producers suggested it. Dating with Esme—”
“Shit, that sounds so cool!” Bit blurts.
I close my eyes for a second.
Just a second.
Because if I don’t, I might say something I can’t take back.
Or worse—I might start understanding.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Not yet.
Not when everything I’ve believed for three years is starting to crack right down the middle.
“No.”
She stops and glances back over her shoulder.
“What?”
I move without thinking, stepping closer until there’s barely any air left between us.
“You’re not sleeping in that fucking van while you’re here. Especially not if you’ve got someone breathing down your neck.”
Her brows knit together.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said that like there’s a problem,” I remind her. “Now, what is it? You pick up a stalker? Somebody cross a line, Ezzy?” I murmur, calling her a pet name I once whispered in her ear.
Fuck. no. Don’t think about that.
She hesitates.
That alone is enough to piss me off.
“It started with emails, texts. Then notes and gifts on my van. And just a few days ago, he broke into a small apartment I lease,” she says finally, quieter now. “I knew I had to get you to sign the papers and well, here I am.”
The words hit, and something primitive tears loose inside me.
Hot. Violent. Territorial.
Mine.
I hate that word.
Hate what it does to me.
Hate how right it feels.
I shove it down just enough to keep from doing something stupid in front of witnesses.
“You’re not staying in that van,” I say flatly.
Her chin lifts immediately. “Why not? It’s been a home for me longer than anywhere else, I’ve ever stayed.”
And that right there is a fucking harsh reminder that we were married for just six months when I was deployed, and six months later, she was gone.
“I can handle myself,” she says.
“Yeah? Maybe,” I lower my voice and step right into her space. “But from where I’m standing, you didn’t drive all this way just for those papers. You came looking for help.”
Her breath catches.
“Benji—”
“You’ll stay in my house,” I cut her off. “With me. Until I figure out what the hell is going on.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” I snap. “The lawyer will need a few days to check what happened with the divorce. And while that is being settled, you can take a load off.”
We’ve got a lot to discuss, and God knows, I need to unpack everything that she revealed. I don’t know what to think—not yet—but maybe I don’t have the whole picture.
Just acknowledging that to myself is enough to tear at my insides.
“Why? Why would you do any of that for me?” she asks, and I see it—a precious sort of vulnerability that tugs at my heart.
I reply before I remember to use a filter. “Because I’m not letting some psycho think he can come onto my land and take what’s mine.”
The second the words leave my mouth, the world tilts.
Her eyes widen.
Mine.
Shit.
Bit makes a tiny noise behind us that sounds a whole lot like, oh my God.
I turn away before Esme can say a single word about it.
“Take the van, follow this road to the big house at the end of the lane,” I throw over my shoulder, already heading for the door. “We’ll deal with the rest later.”
I don’t wait to see if she follows.
I just walk.
Because if I look back—if I let myself see her standing there, breathing, real, on my porch after three years of being a ghost I couldn’t kill—I might do something a hell of a lot worse than argue.
I might believe her.
And I am nowhere near ready for that.
Not even close.
I get three steps into the house before Sawyer catches my arm.
I jerk free on instinct and glare at him.
“What?”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just levels that calm, commander stare on me like he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.
“You gonna get ahold of yourself?”
A humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “Nope.”
“Try harder.”
I look past him, toward the porch where I can hear Bit already talking to Esme in that too-bright, too-kind voice of hers, probably trying to make the impossible feel survivable.
“She said she’s got a stalker,” Sawyer says quietly. “That true?”
“She says a lot of things.”
He studies me for a beat too long.
“You don’t believe her.”
I don’t answer.
He reads that just fine.
“Doesn’t matter right now,” he says. “If someone’s tracking her, your problem isn’t your divorce papers. It’s keeping that shit off the ranch.”
The ranch.
Our business.
His woman.
Our men.
Our homes.
Everything I built to be different from Ace Gunner and the poison in his blood.
Everything I did to run away from a past that hurt too fucking much to face.
I drag a hand through my hair and look toward the main house.
Esme’s still out there.
One hand on her bag strap.
One shoulder lifted like she’s bracing for the next hit.
Bit’s smiling at her, probably asking if she wants tea or coffee or a damn muffin.
Angie’s standing back with her arms crossed, weighing Esme with the kind of practical female judgment I know better than to underestimate.
Esme looks tired.
Not just road-weary or end-of-day worn down.
Bone-deep tired.
The kind that settles into a person after too many nights spent alone, too many problems handled without backup, too many doors closed in your face.
That thought pisses me off most of all.
I don’t want to notice it.
Don’t want to clock the shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders slope just a little like she’s carrying more than she should, or how her face looks thinner than I remember—sharper in places that used to be soft.
Don’t want to notice the van either.
But I do.
Her late uncle left it to her.
It’s one of those old conversion models. Late nineties, maybe early 2000s.
Boxy frame, solid bones.
Someone’s put work into it—upgraded suspension, reinforced panels, solar rig on top if I’m seeing that right.
Custom job.
Smart modifications.
Not something thrown together for a weekend trip.
Something built to live in.
Something built because there wasn’t another option.
My stomach turns.
Yeah.
I recognize it now.
Not just the van.
What it means.
I drag my gaze away before I can stare too long and find something else I don’t want to see.
Sawyer’s still watching me.
Not saying anything yet. Just measuring. Waiting.
Then, finally—he huffs out a sigh.
“Fuck, Benji, call your lawyer,” he says, voice low, steady, like he’s already five steps ahead of where I’m standing. “Review the papers. Get answers.”
I don’t respond.
Because that’s the easy part.
Paperwork. Legal shit. Lines on a page.
That’s not what’s standing ten feet away from me right now.
Sawyer’s gaze flicks past me, toward the porch where Bit is still talking to Esme like they’re old friends catching up instead of two women standing in the middle of a damn emotional minefield.
His jaw tightens.
There it is.
That shift.
Not anger.
Not annoyance.
Protectiveness.
For Bit.
Always for Bit.
And I get it.
“But until then,” he continues, slower now, more deliberate, “if there’s danger attached to her…”
His eyes cut back to mine.
“…it’s attached to us.”
I stiffen.
Because that?
That’s not just a statement.
That’s a line being drawn.
And Sawyer doesn’t draw lines lightly.
Behind us, I hear Bit laugh—bright and easy—and it clashes so damn hard with the tension in my chest it almost makes me flinch.
I glance back before I can stop myself.
Esme’s smiling at something Bit said.
Actually smiling.
And then she laughs.
Soft. Real.
Familiar.
The sound cuts through me like barbed wire dragged across open skin.
I haven’t heard that laugh in three years.
Didn’t realize I still remembered it.
Didn’t realize it would hit like this.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yeah,” Sawyer says beside me. “That about sums it up.”
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging in a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me.
“This is a bad idea,” he adds quietly.
I glance at him.
He’s not looking at me now. He’s watching Bit.
Always watching Bit.
“Having her here?” I ask.
“Having anyone connected to trouble here,” he corrects. “You heard her. Stalker. Break-in. Trouble like that doesn’t just go away.”
His jaw flexes.
“But,” he continues after a beat, and I know this costs him something, “I also saw your face when you walked up.”
I stiffen again.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He ignores me.
“If you feel even half of what I think you do,” he says, voice low and steady, “then she’s not leaving this place unprotected. Not while there’s a threat out there.”
I let out a rough breath.
“That’s not your problem.”
His head snaps toward me.
“It is if it walks onto this land,” he says flatly. “And it is if it puts her at risk.”
He jerks his chin toward Bit.
Message received.
Clear as day.
This isn’t just about me and Esme.
It’s about the ranch.
The people on it.
The woman he’d burn the world down for.
And still—he’s offering.
Reluctantly.
Carefully.
But it’s there.
“If she stays,” Sawyer adds, “we lock it down. No wandering off. No solo trips. You handle your business, your past, whatever the hell this is—” he gestures vaguely toward the porch “—but you don’t bring heat down on us without warning.”
I nod once.
Because there’s nothing else to do.
Because he’s right.
And because if there’s one thing I trust more than my own temper, it’s Sawyer’s read on a threat.
I look back toward the porch again.
Esme’s tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, listening to Bit talk about something with her hands flying, animated as hell.
Angie’s hovering just behind them, watchful but not interfering.
She looks out of place.
And somehow, exactly where she shouldn’t be.
And my chest doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.
“Fuck,” I mutter again.
“Yeah,” Sawyer repeats, quieter this time.
I take one slow breath.
Then another.
Neither of them help.
I square my shoulders anyway and turn toward the house.
“If she’s staying,” I say, voice rough, “I need space.”
Sawyer doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t agree either.
Just watches me go.
Because he knows.
If she’s under my roof—if she’s walking this ranch, breathing this air, sleeping within reach—then I’m either going to figure out the truth.
The real fucking truth this time.
Or I’m going to tear myself apart trying.
And the worst part?
I don’t know which one scares me more.
Because if she didn’t betray me?
If Paul set us both up and I let him?
Then everything I’ve built my anger on for the last three years?
It’s rotten.
Right down to the foundation.
And that kind of collapse?
That doesn’t happen quietly.
That kind of truth?
It blows a man apart.
And judging by the way my chest feels right now?
Tight. Cracking. Barely holding together.
I’m already halfway there.