Chapter 8
The great room felt like a courtroom. Joe had his laptop closed, phone face down on the side table like evidence.
Lyle stood near the window with his arms around Heather, steady and calm in that veterinarian way that made you think of large animals and careful hands.
Kenny leaned against the far wall, all coiled stillness, watching her the way he probably watched the horizon during his years in Special Forces.
Waiting.
Liv sat on the overstuffed sofa and Mike joined her, his size and strength giving her courage.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly.
"Yes, I do." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
Lyle pulled out a chair for Heather then sat beside her. Joe leaned back, arms crossed but expression open. Kenny stayed where he was, a shadow against the far wall.
Liv's throat closed. She looked down at her hands, at the small burn on her thumb from the oven rack.
"I lied to you," she said, meeting each person’s eyes. “And I’m sorry. You already know my real name isn’t Liv Ramsey.” Her voice cracked. "It's Olivia Langford."
No one moved, but their non-judgmental demeanor encouraged her to continue.
"I'm from New York. I owned a dessert bar in Manhattan. Crème & Crumble. It was... everything I'd worked for. My whole life." She swallowed. "And then a couple months ago, I catered a private event that went horribly wrong. I witnessed a man being executed at point blank range.”
Her hands fisted in her lap. Silence pressed in from all sides, but no one flinched.
"I saw it. All of it. The blood. The way the man fell. I was horrified and frozen in place." Her voice broke. "And then the shooter turned and saw me standing there."
Mike let out a slow exhale, his eyes never leaving her face. He already knew this part. That didn’t make it any easier to hear again.
"I ran. Called the police. They promised protection. Asked me if I’d be willing to testify.
" She shook her head. "But before anything could happen, I started getting threats. My phone was hacked. Messages left on my door. When I didn’t get anywhere with the NYPD, I reached out to a friend’s dad who was a detective.
I felt I could trust him. He told me they were building a case against Damian Russo’s organization, but that the case wasn’t solid enough to move on him and if they jumped the gun and arrested him on my say-so, the whole thing would fall apart.
Evidently, whatever they’re trying to pin on him trumps a blatant murder. ”
“Which left you vulnerable as a sitting duck,” Mike said quietly, tersely.
“Yes. Detective Sanchez said there was a lot of red tape and stuff going on behind the scenes and that I’d need to lay low until they were able to get more evidence in place.
He told me if I stayed in New York, though, I'd most likely end up being framed for some fabricated infraction.
Or worse, wind up at the bottom of the Hudson river.
" Her voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"So I left. Changed my name. Wiped my social media.
Kept moving until it felt safe enough to stop. "
She looked over, met Mike's eyes. "I thought Bear Valley, the ranch, all of you . . . I thought maybe I could finally breathe." Tears blurred her vision. "But obviously they’ve found me."
The room went so quiet Liv could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. The creak of the house settling. Her own heartbeat hammering in her ears.
Lyle nodded, slow and deliberate. "Thank you for trusting us with your story, Olivia. Or Liv. Whichever feels right."
Kenny didn't say anything. Just pushed off the wall and came over, rested one hand briefly on Liv's shoulder—solid, grounding—then walked out.
It was the most he'd said without words since she'd met him.
Mike was still sitting beside her. Watching. His eyes were bright and fierce and full of something that made her chest ache.
"You picked a good place to hide," he said, voice rough. "Because we don't give up ground. Not to anyone."
"Miss Liv?" Charlotte appeared at her elbow just as she finished cleaning up the lunch dishes the next day, the ever-present stuffed lamb tucked under one arm, face smudged with what looked like jam.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"If your name's really Olivia, can I still call you Liv?"
Liv's throat tightened. "Of course."
"Good." Charlotte nodded, solemn. "'Cause Olivia sounds like a fancy lady who doesn't like goats."
Liv laughed, surprised. "And Liv doesn't?"
"Liv sounds like someone who makes really good cookies and isn't scared of Tiny."
"I'm definitely scared of Tiny."
Charlotte patted her hand, wise beyond her years. "That's okay. Everybody is." The little girl took off out the back door and Liv stepped outside to watch her go, nearly colliding with Kenny as he mounted the porch steps.
“Oh! Hey,” she said inanely. She never knew quite what to do around him.
"Feel like learning something?" he asked.
"Like what?"
"How to shoot."
Liv's stomach dropped. "I've never—"
"I know." His voice was quiet. Patient. "But if trouble's coming, you should know how to protect yourself."
She wanted to say no. Wanted to stay inside where it was safe and familiar.
But safe and familiar hadn't kept her hidden.
"Okay," she said.
They stood in the back pasture behind the equipment barn, sun beating down, tall grass bowing in the breeze. Heather was a few yards away with Charlotte, keeping watch but giving them space.
Mike wasn’t as accommodating. He stood close, as though critiquing his brother’s every move. It made her slightly nervous to have him watching. Especially since this was not her area of expertise.
"Ever held a gun before?" Kenny's voice was quieter than she'd expected. Gentle, almost.
Liv stared at the rifle in his hands. "I've never even touched one."
Kenny turned the rifle so she could see the chamber. Empty. "First rule. Always treat it like it's loaded. Even when you know it's not."
He handed it to her.
The weight surprised her. Solid. Real. Her hands shook.
"Second rule," Kenny continued, stepping beside her. "You don't point it at anything you don't want to destroy. Ever."
She nodded, throat tight, her stomach feeling a little sick. He handed her a box of shells, showed her how to load the rifle.
"Stance." He nudged her feet wider with his boot. "Plant yourself. Rifle to your shoulder. Cheek down on the stock. It’s going to kick back at you a bit. Not too bad, but be prepared. See that notch? Line it up with the bead at the end of the barrel. That's your sight."
Liv followed his instructions, awkward and uncertain, already worried about the kicking back part.
"Good." Kenny's hand steadied the barrel. "Now breathe. In. Out. On the exhale, squeeze the trigger. Don't pull. Squeeze."
Fifty feet away, a tin can sat perched on a fence post, glinting in the sun.
Liv lined up the sight. Her heart hammered. Her hands trembled.
"You got this," Mike said, nearly derailing her concentration.
Charlotte's voice piped up, bright and encouraging. "You can do it! You get a sticker if you hit it!"
Liv almost laughed. Almost.
She breathed in. Let it out slow.
Squeezed.
The rifle kicked. Sharp, sudden, harder than she'd expected. The sound cracked across the pasture, scattering blackbirds from the fence line.
And the tin can spun.
Liv froze, heart pounding.
"You clipped it," Kenny said. No smile, but his voice carried something close to approval. "Try again. Aim lower this time."
She pulled in another breath. Steadied herself. Remembered the weight of the rifle, the way the kick felt, the sound echoing across the open land.
Squeezed again.
The can flew off the post.
"Yes!" Charlotte shrieked, jumping up and down. "You killed the can! You get a sticker!"
Liv lowered the rifle, hands still shaking—but not from fear this time.
From something else. Something fiercer.
Power. Competence. Control.
She looked at Kenny.
He nodded once. "Welcome to Texas."
Heather came over, grinning. "Not so scary when you know how to hold it, right?"
"No." Liv handed the rifle back to Kenny carefully. "I feel... stronger."
"Good," Mike said. "That's how you should always feel around here. Now let’s try it with a hand gun. Different feel. Mr. sharp-shooter here prefers rifles,” he said, nodding at Kenny. “But you might be more comfortable with something smaller."
“I thought you were a medic in the service?”
“You make that sound wimpy.”
“Oh, no! I—”
He laughed. “Kidding. Even us medics are highly trained in weaponry.”
For some reason, she found that incredibly sexy.
Mike swung a small black case off his shoulder and popped it open. Inside, foam cradled a matte-black pistol and two magazines. He lifted it out, cleared the chamber even though she’d just watched him check it twice, then angled it so she could see straight through. Empty.
“Rules don’t change,” he said. “They just get bossier.”
Kenny made a low sound that might have been a laugh. Heather nudged him with her elbow and whispered something that made his mouth twitch.
Mike slid a magazine in and locked the slide back. “We’ll start with five rounds. Less to think about.” He glanced at Kenny for the go-ahead. Kenny gave it without words.
He set a second can on a lower fence rail. Twenty feet, maybe. Close enough that she could see the rust.
He handed her the pistol muzzle down, grip first, his fingers warm against the backs of her knuckles.
“Grip is everything here,” he said. “Thumbs forward, not behind the slide. I like your thumbs where mine are.” He guided them, palm over hers, coaxing her fingers into place.
“Good. Think firm handshake, not death clamp.”
Her chest tightened anyway.
He shifted, came in behind her. He didn’t crowd. He surrounded. The heat of him, the steadiness of him, slipped under her skin like sunlight.
“Stance is almost the same,” he murmured, and she felt his breath at the shell of her ear. “Weight a little forward. Knees soft. If you lock your elbows, you’ll fight it.”
She tried to remember how to breathe.