Chapter 9 Hawk
HAWK
I plunk myself down on the couch in my man cave.
I’m exhausted—more so mentally but physically as well. It’s not like a day working the ranch, but I did drag the cocaine into my house, flush it all down the toilet, and then clean my bathroom to a shine. After that, I detailed the inside of my truck, getting rid of any stray grain of coke.
And now I sit here.
With some self-loathing.
If I had thought to do all of this yesterday, Eagle might be awake and well.
Yes, in the end, Eagle’s actions are his own, but I’m the one who left a trail of breadcrumbs.
And I’m the only one in our family who knows that Eagle hasn’t been clean for eight years. That he’s fallen off the wagon several times and gone through rehab.
Then he showed up freaking out about Dad the other day.
I should have been the one to see this coming.
I sigh again. I can’t think about Eagle anymore. All it does is make me feel worse.
So I go back to Ted Tucker.
Always kind, always gentle.
A stark contrast to my father and his strong hand. I don’t remember ever hugging him.
* * *
Fifteen Years Earlier…
The box is dented, the board warped at the edges, but since Ted and I started playing, Monopoly has become my favorite board game, replacing Scrabble. I spread the pieces across the kitchen table while Ted sets his black coffee on a coaster and gives me a grin.
“Don’t go easy on me,” I say.
He raises a brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Hawk.”
I’m twelve. Too old to be babied. Ted respects that. He treats me like an equal when we play.
Ted’s not family, but he’s here more than most. Always in a button-down shirt, even on Saturdays. Always bringing my dad papers and quiet reminders about calls or meetings. But today, he’s just Ted—playing Monopoly with the boss’s middle kid like it actually matters.
I’ve learned a ton from him, but the dice aren’t moving my way today. Pretty soon Ted has a monopoly on the oranges and three houses on each. I land on New York Avenue and groan.
“Five fifty,” he says, sipping his coffee.
“Seriously?” I stare at my stack of money. It’s enough, but barely. “You’re going to charge me the full amount?”
“That’s the game.”
I slide the bills across the table.
He takes them, counts them out. “You told me not to go easy on you.”
He’s right. I did. Still… “You’re ruthless.”
He chuckles. “No, I’m consistent.”
“What’s the difference?”
Ted leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. “Ruthless is taking every dollar you’ve got just because I can. Consistent is playing fair—same rules for everyone, every turn. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
I frown, arms crossed. “But you could’ve let it slide.”
“I could’ve,” he agrees. “But then what kind of lesson would that teach you?”
“That life isn’t fair?”
He snorts. “Life’s not fair. That’s a given. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.”
I look down at the board. At the money I have left. It’s not much, but I’m still in the game.
And if I’m still in the game, there’s still a chance.
* * *
Present Day…
I didn’t win that game. Ted did.
But I learned a valuable lesson. One that shaped me into the man I am today.
I was born into privilege. I knew that from the time I could think for myself.
My father taught me ranch work.
But Ted…
Ted taught me everything else.
I think about that Monopoly game more often than I probably should. Weird, how something so small—just paper money, plastic hotels, and a lopsided game board—could be a turning point. But it was. It really was.
That day, I understood fairness—that it can discriminate.
I understood rules—that they’re not always fair, but they must be respected and applied to everyone equally.
I started craving fairness. Not just for me—for everyone.
Justice. Rules that apply across the board, no matter who you are, what you’ve got, or what you can get away with.
I was twelve when I realized the game only works when everyone plays by the same rules.
And I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
I became the guy who fixes things.
When my younger brother went off the rails, I reeled him back. When the family business needed someone to deal with legal, zoning, or political crap, I stepped up. Every time.
Not because I wanted to be the dependable one. God knows I didn’t. But because it was the right thing to do.
Even now—especially now—I feel it pressing down on me.
Daniela.
She’s the exception. The first thing in my life that makes me want to break my own rules. Because with her, there is no middle ground. No measured, calculated move. Just instinct. Fire. Gut.
Yet that little voice—the echo of Ted’s voice—always lingers.
“Be fair, Hawk. Be just. Be better than the people who aren’t.”
I scrub a hand down my jaw, exhaling hard.
But what if justice means breaking the rules this time?
What if fairness is protecting someone by any means necessary—even if it means becoming the thing I swore I’d never be?
Because if Daniela’s in danger—and I know damned well she is—then being consistent, being calm, being fair…
That might not be enough.
And if that’s true?
I’m ready to burn the goddamned board.
I’ll do what I have to in the name of protecting her. In the name of—
A memory sparks then.
Something Ted said to me all those years ago.
That my father was playing a game himself between his business with the ranch, about how much land our family owned.
When I asked Ted what he meant, he shut down.
Was Ted hiding something? Was he digging into something about my father and his business?
The Bellamy land stretches farther than most people can imagine.
Hell, even I can’t imagine it some days, and I’m supposed to inherit a fifth of it.
Our ranch is so big that I haven’t even walked all of it.
Not even close.
Thousands of acres rolling out in every direction. Corners of this place I’ve only seen on paper maps and digital surveys. Places that feel more like myth than property.
It makes me feel small.
And I’m not a man who’s used to feeling small.
This land isn’t just dirt and grass. It remembers, it keeps secrets, and if you listen close enough, it’ll tell you things you might wish you never knew.
Dad said that to me once, before he shot me. Back then I thought he was just trying to sound wise. But the older I get, the more I understand.
This place isn’t just dirt and cattle trails.
It’s legacy. Burden. Responsibility. There are herds to manage, water rights to monitor, fences to repair, leases to renegotiate.
Then the stuff no one talks about—the unmarked graves from the frontier days.
The abandoned hunting cabins deep in the brush.
The old root cellar built into the hillside that I’m pretty sure was used for things better left unspoken.
And every time I think I’ve seen it all, some old ranch hand or neighbor will mention a canyon I didn’t know about or a spring fed by snowmelt from the north.
We own land that butts up against national forest and government reserves and another country.
Land people have tried to buy, dig into, even steal from.
Part of me wants to explore every last inch of it. Ride the boundaries on horseback, sleep under the stars, map out what’s real and what’s rumor.
But another part of me is afraid of what I’ll find.
Like the old barn…
The only reason Falcon and I knew about the barn is because we wandered to it once on horseback while we were looking for a place for target practice. It was decrepit and abandoned, clearly built before my father’s day.
But my grandfather, Brick Bellamy, didn’t own all of this land. Once he passed and my father inherited the ranch, he expanded it, using his trust fund from my grandmother, the Cooper Steel heiress.
Or did he start expanding it before Grandpa died? Dad was Grandpa’s right-hand man for many years, and Grandma only just passed last year.
So much I don’t know…
Secrets don’t just hide in people. They hide in places too.
And I’ve got a feeling this land has seen things—knows things—it’s just waiting to reveal.
Like Ted.
His ghost roams this place.
I can feel it.
And he has secrets.
Secrets that cost him his life.