Chapter 6
Five-thirty a.m., and the kitchen was hers.
Liv stood at the prep station, wooden spoon moving slow through butter and sugar going amber in the double boiler.
The smell alone of bourbon, brown sugar and pecans toasting in the cast iron skillet was enough to make a person weep.
Outside the window, the sky was still more purple than pink, and the only sounds were the coffee maker gurgling and the soft creak of the house settling into another day.
This was her favorite hour. Before the chaos. Before the questions she didn't know how to answer.
Just flour, sugar, and the rhythm of her own hands.
The back door creaked.
She didn't tense. Didn't reach for a knife or spin around wild-eyed like she'd done her first week here.
She smiled.
"Figured I'd find you in here," Mike said, his voice rough with sleep.
She turned. His hair was still damp, pushed back from his face, and his Henley looked like he'd yanked it on in the dark. His forearms were strong and leanly muscled, like the rest of him. He held two mugs of coffee, one already half-empty.
"You bribing me?" she asked, eyeing the mug rather than his body. This man spelled trouble and she certainly didn’t need any more of that in her life.
"Always." He held it out. "I'm a provider of caffeine and questionable flattery. It's my brand."
She took the cup, sipped, and closed her eyes. "Perfect. Strong enough to wake the dead."
"That's the Watkins family recipe. We don't believe in weak coffee or weak convictions."
"Good to know." She set the mug down and went back to stirring.
"What's the plan today, Cookie?"
"Sticky buns this morning. Cobbler for tonight. You've got peaches, real peaches,” she stressed. And they're almost overripe. They'll bruise just looking at them, but if I coax the sugar right, they'll melt like butter."
He whistled low. "No wonder the boys keep volunteering for dish duty."
Liv arched an eyebrow. "Let's see where that talk gets you after I burn a pan."
“Can’t imagine that happens often.” Mike stepped closer, setting his mug down as he surveyed her work. "Dough looks perfect."
She grinned, ridiculously pleased. "Thanks."
"I mean, it's no pre-mix from a grocery bag, but it'll do," he added.
She rolled her eyes. "You really can't help yourself."
"You love it."
He was close now, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of fabric softener on his shirt. And beneath it, something distinctly him, cedar soap and that easy confidence that seemed to roll off him like heat.
They fell into rhythm easily, working around each other like a dance they didn't have to think about. Mike chopped pecans while Liv rolled out dough, their hands moving in tandem, stealing glances, sharing smiles.
This. This she could get used to.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asked suddenly, not looking up.
His chopping paused.
"Miss what?"
"Medicine. The work. The adrenaline."
Mike set the knife down. Stared at the pecans like they held answers.
"I lost someone." His voice went quiet. Careful. "First tour. Fellow medic. Charlie." He paused. "We were both twenty-four. He was. . ." Mike shook his head, almost smiled. "He was cocky. Used to mix Gatorade powder into Folgers when we ran out of sugar. Called it combat cappuccino."
Liv didn't move.
"It was disgusting," Mike said. "But he was fast. Saved a kid once with a pen and a shoelace." His jaw worked. "During a night raid, someone screamed. Charlie ran toward the gunfire."
He stopped.
Liv's throat closed.
"I was five seconds too slow."
The kitchen went quiet except for the soft bubble of sugar on the stove.
"Cooking gives me control," Mike said finally, picking up the knife again. "Comfort. I might mess up a glaze, but no one dies because I over-sugar."
Emotion tightened Liv's throat. "That's why you fight so hard in the kitchen."
He looked at her, surprised.
"It's not about ego," she said. "Not really. It's belief. You believe in the routine. The rhythm. It's your armor." She paused. "Just like food was mine when New York chewed me up and spit me out."
They stood in silence for a moment, her eyes full of understanding, his gaze warm but lingering on something more.
Mike reached out. Brushed her cheek with his thumb, slow, deliberate. "You've got flour."
Her breath caught. "Occupational hazard," she managed.
His hand didn't move. Just stayed there, warm against her skin, his thumb tracing the edge of her jaw like he was memorizing the shape of her.
She should step back.
She didn't.
Then he grinned and reached past her, dipping a finger into the half-made cobbler filling.
"Hey," she said, swatting at him.
He popped his finger into his mouth, eyes rolling. "Oh. That's criminal. Illegal. You should be arrested."
"You're such a child." She was flustered now, cheeks warm. "Here. Try it properly."
She scooped a spoonful and held it out.
His mouth closed gently around the bite she offered and their eyes locked.
He chewed slowly. Swallowed. "Yep," he said. "I'm in love."
"Easy, cowboy."
"With the cobbler," he added. "Naturally."
She smirked. "Obviously."
The silence between them was suddenly full of everything they weren't quite saying.
The kitchen door banged open.
They jumped apart like teenagers caught in a coat closet.
Arletta stood there, hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised toward the ceiling. "Mike Watkins, you said you'd check that smoker ten minutes ago. The pork's about to achieve liftoff."
Mike scrubbed a hand over his face. "Right. Yeah. Smoker. I'm—I'm going."
Arletta's eyes cut to Liv, then back to Mike. Her mouth twitched. "Mm-hmm."
She turned and left, but not before Liv caught the smile she was trying to hide.
Mike paused at the door, looked back. "You're good for this place, Liv." His voice dropped. "You're good for me."
And then he was gone.
Leaving behind warm peach filling and a woman trembling not with fear, but with something dangerously close to wanting.
Later that afternoon, a delivery truck rolled up to the west gate, tires crunching gravel. Charlotte, chasing Pudge across the yard, stopped mid-leap to watch. Heather came around from the barn, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing as a young driver stepped out, long white box in hand.
"Delivery?" she called.
"Flowers," the kid said, checking his clipboard. "For a Miss Olivia Langford?"
Heather frowned, discretely glanced around, noting where her people were. Lyle was in the barn assessing a mare Kenny had brought home. Charlotte, after a brief pause, had skipped off to join him. She looked back at the delivery kid. "There's no Olivia here."
He double-checked the slip. "Says so right here."
Heather reached out slowly and took the box. "I'll make sure it gets to the right person."
The kid tipped his hat and left, oblivious.
Heather stared down at the box for a long moment. Then, with deliberate calm, she carried it straight to the kitchen.
Liv had just slid her cobbler into the second oven when Heather came through the side door.
“I’m pretty sure this is for you,” Heather said gently, handing her the box.
Liv reached out, then stopped dead.
The name printed cleanly across the top wasn't "Liv Ramsey."
It was Olivia Langford.
The box slipped from Liv's hands.
Heather caught it. Set it on the table between them.
Liv backed up a step. Then another. Her hip hit the counter. The room tilted.
"No sender's name," Heather said quietly, watching her. "Just yours." She paused. "I'm guessing by your reaction that Olivia Langford is the real you?"
Liv's hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter, but it didn't help.
"This can't—" Her voice broke. "No one knew. No one could know."
"Sit down," Heather said gently, reaching for her.
But Liv stumbled back, knocking into a chair, sitting down hard. "It's him." The words came out strangled. "He found me."
"Who?" Heather's voice stayed soft, but her eyes had gone sharp.
Liv shook her head, throat closing.
The door banged open and Mike walked in, sweat-slicked from checking the smokers.
He took one look between them and his easy expression vanished.
"What's going on?" Then he saw the box. "Liv?"
She couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
Mike crossed the kitchen in three strides. He glanced at the box on the table, then crouched in front of her, hands settling on her knees, grounding her. "Hey. Look at me."
She did. Barely.
"You're scared," he said quietly. "I get it. But it’ll be okay." His hands tightened. "Who sent these? Who's looking for you?"
"I don't—" She pulled in a breath that hardly filled her lungs. "I witnessed something. A crime. Something I was never supposed to see."
Mike's eyes darkened.
"He's connected," she whispered. "To people who make problems disappear."
“Like a mafia?”
She nodded.
"And they're looking for you?"
She nodded again, eyes filling. "I got a text. A few nights ago. 'We know where you are.' I thought. . .I hoped they were bluffing. But this . . ." She gestured toward the box.
Mike stood slowly. Opened the box.
Inside sat a pristine bouquet of white peonies and baby's breath. Carefully arranged. Unmistakably deliberate.
And wrapped with a single blood-red ribbon.
Liv's breath caught like hands were choking the air from her throat.
Mike's jaw clenched as Heather handed him the delivery slip.
"Langford," he said quietly.
Liv slumped into the chair. "That's my real name."
"The drunk at the rodeo," Mike said. "He was telling the truth."
"I didn't want to lie. I just. . .I thought I had more time."
She stood, nearly toppling the chair. "I can't stay here. I have to go. I’m so sorry."
"Hey." Mike's hands framed her face, made her look at him. "You're not going anywhere."
"Mike—"
"You're as safe as possible here, Liv. With us. With me."
Her eyes filled and her voice broke. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Detective Sanchez assured me I’d just be biding time until the authorities worked out a plan. I changed my name. I haven’t used any credit cards. How in the world did they find me?"
He pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her like he could hold her together through sheer will. She pressed her face into his chest and tried not to fall apart.
"Breathe," he murmured into her hair. "I've got you."
Heather slipped quietly out the back door, giving them space.
Mike paced the length of Joe's office, boots scuffing against the worn wood floor. The door was shut, the blinds drawn.
Joe sat at his desk, laptop open, fingers still on the keys.
Lyle sprawled in one of the leather chairs, his shirt covered in white dog hair and dried blood.
He'd just stitched up the Millers' Great Pyrenees after a tangle with a coyote.
Kenny stood at the window, arms crossed, watching the driveway like he expected trouble to roll up any minute.
Maybe it would.
"I ran the florist's transaction," Joe said. "Delivery service out of Austin. Online order. Paid cash. Burner IP." He shook his head. "Can't track it further. Yet."
"Son of a bitch," Lyle muttered, sitting up straighter.
"How long before someone shows up?" Kenny asked. First words he'd spoken since walking in.
Joe shook his head. "Hard to say. Depends on who's looking and how motivated they are."
"Motivated enough to track her from New York to Bear Valley," Mike said flatly. "That's pretty damn motivated."
Lyle leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So what's the play?"
Mike stopped pacing. Looked at his brothers. "We keep her here. We keep her safe. And we find out who's hunting her before they get close enough to matter."
"She tell you what she's running from?" Joe asked.
"Not all of it." Mike's jaw worked. "But enough. She was apparently the sole witness to a crime. And whoever she saw has mafia connections and doesn't want her talking."
Kenny's voice was quiet. Certain. "Then we make sure she doesn't have to."
Joe's laptop pinged.
All four brothers turned.
Joe clicked, scrolled, his expression going dark. "We've got a problem."
"What kind?" Lyle asked.
"The ranch database was accessed. Guest records. Reservation emails." Joe's fingers moved fast. "Masked IP. Could be routed from anywhere, but the code syntax feels domestic. New Mexico, maybe."
"When?" Mike asked.
"Two hours ago."
Mike cursed.
"Whoever’s looking for her is not being subtle about it," Joe said.
"Can you lock them out?" Lyle asked.
"Already did. But if they got in once—"
"They'll try again," Kenny finished.
Mike scrubbed both hands over his face. "What do we need to do?"
"I'll reinforce the firewall," Joe said. "Set up alerts if anyone pings us again."
"I'll patrol perimeter at night," Lyle added.
Kenny nodded once. "I'll take morning watch."
Mike looked at each of his brothers. "And I'll make sure she's never alone."
"You gonna tell her about the hack?" Joe asked.
"Eventually." Mike's voice was tight. "But right now, she's barely holding it together. I need to give her a minute to breathe before I drop another bomb."
Joe closed the laptop. "Your call. But she deserves to know what she's up against."
"I know."