Chapter 12
Liv made her way to the training yard where Heather was working with Mo on basic commands. The little border collie was focused, eager, tail wagging as he executed each sit-stay-come with precision.
"Can I talk to you?" Liv asked.
Heather glanced up, took in Liv's expression, and nodded. "Mo, free." The dog immediately bounded off to investigate a fascinating smell near the fence. Heather brushed her hands on her jeans. "What's on your mind?"
"I want to learn more." The words came out in a rush. "Not just shooting. Everything. Self-defense, situational awareness, how to spot surveillance. I'm tired of being helpless."
Heather studied her for a long moment. "You're not helpless, Liv. You’ve been surviving on your own. That takes serious strength."
"I survived by hiding. By running. By hoping I could stay invisible long enough for the threat to go away." Liv's hands fisted at her sides. "But it's not going away. And I can't keep letting other people fight my battles while I make biscuits and hope for the best."
"The biscuits matter," Heather said gently. "Feeding people, creating normalcy, that's part of the fight too."
"I know. But it's not enough. Not for me." Liv met Heather's eyes. "I need to be able to protect myself. And maybe even protect the people I love if it comes to that."
Something shifted in Heather's expression. Respect, maybe. Understanding.
“I can work with you on self-defense if you want. I graduated at the top of my class, so I know a thing or two.”
“I’d like that.”
"Okay. We’ll start tomorrow morning. After breakfast prep."
"What will we work on?"
"Basics. How to break a grip, how to use your environment as a weapon, how to run smart instead of just running scared." Heather's voice was firm but kind. "And how to trust your gut when it's screaming that something's wrong."
"My gut's been screaming for six months."
"Then it's time we taught you the difference between panic and intuition." Heather whistled for Mo, who came bounding back. "Fair warning, I'm not going to go easy on you just because you're new at this."
"Good." Liv managed a small smile. "I don't want easy. I want effective."
Heather grinned. "You're gonna fit in just fine around here."
As Liv walked back toward the house, she felt something shift in her chest. Not confidence. Not yet. But determination. Purpose.
She wasn't going to be a victim anymore.
And she sure as hell wasn't going to let the people she loved get hurt protecting her while she stood by helpless.
If trouble was coming, and it was, she'd meet it standing.
That evening, Mike found Liv by the smoker, watching Cooter tend the brisket with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for heart surgery.
"You doing okay?" Mike asked, settling beside her on the weathered bench.
"I don't know." Liv's voice was quiet. "Everyone's being so kind. Grandpa Quentin, Arletta, all those people today. It's overwhelming."
"Small towns can be like that. When you're in, you're all the way in."
"Even when I've brought nothing but trouble?"
"Especially then." Mike's hand found hers. "We Texans have a thing about protecting the underdog."
She was quiet for a moment, watching the smoke curl up into the darkening sky. "You all made Harris leave, didn't you."
It wasn't a question.
"Joe made Harris an offer," Mike said carefully. "One that benefits everyone involved."
"I don't want to know the details, do I?"
"Probably not."
She nodded, accepting this. "Will it work? Will Harris actually leave?"
"For now. But Liv—" Mike turned her to face him. "Harris leaving doesn't mean the threat's over. Whoever hired him will send someone else eventually."
"I know." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"So the question is, what do you want to do?"
She looked at him, really looked. At this man who'd offered her a job without questions, who'd held her through nightmares, who'd chosen her over and over again even when walking away would've been easier.
"I want to stay," she said. "I want to learn how to smoke brisket and help Charlotte with the bake sale and wake up at five a.m. to make biscuits with you." Her voice broke. "I want this. All of it. Even knowing what might be coming."
Mike's hands came up to frame her face. "Then we dig in and fight for it.”
"What if we can't win?"
"Then we fight anyway." He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers. "Because you're worth fighting for, Liv. And I'll be damned if I lose you without trying."
She kissed him then, desperate and fierce and full of everything she couldn't say out loud.
The kiss tasted like fear and fury and something deeper. Need, maybe. Want, definitely. The desperate human drive to feel alive when death keeps circling closer.
Mike's hands slid into her hair, angled her head, and deepened the kiss. She made a sound low in her throat, half sob, half surrender, and pressed closer, fisting her hands in his shirt like she could hold him there through sheer force of will.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Mike pressed his forehead to hers. "If I ask you to come back to my room tonight, are you gonna think I'm taking advantage?"
"If you don't ask me to come back to your room tonight, I'm going to think you've lost your mind." Her voice was rough, raw. "I don't want to be alone, Mike. Not tonight. I want to be with you.”
"We don't have to. . .I'm not asking for—" He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his face. "Christ, I'm bad at this."
She almost laughed. "You're doing fine."
"I want you," he said bluntly. "Have wanted you since you showed up covered in dust and told me my biscuits needed work. But I also just … I want to hold you. Keep you close. Make sure you're safe."
"Then do that." She kissed him again, softer this time. A promise. "Hold me. Keep me close. And we'll figure out the rest as we go."
His thumb traced her bottom lip, his eyes dark and warm and full of things he hadn't said yet. "You're something else, Liv Ramsey."
"Olivia Langford," she corrected quietly. "If we're doing this, really doing this, we ought to be honest."
"Olivia." He tested it, rolled it around like he was tasting wine. "It suits you. Elegant. Strong. A little bit fancy."
"I'm not fancy."
"You make cinnamon knots that could make angels weep and steal tastes of filling when you think I'm not looking." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. "That's plenty fancy in my book."
She laughed, soft and surprised. "Come on. Let's get inside before I change my mind about the whole being brave thing."
"Not a chance." He stood, pulled her up with him. "I'll make you tea and we can sit on the couch and pretend the world isn't trying to kill us for a few hours."
"That sounds perfect."
And it was.
The motion sensors went off at two-forty-three a.m.
Mike's phone buzzed on the nightstand, just a vibration, and he was awake instantly, years of military training kicking in.
Three alerts. East fence line near the cattle guard. South pasture by the creek. North access road.
Multiple locations. Coordinated.
He was moving before his brain fully caught up, pulling on jeans and boots, grabbing his phone, careful not to wake Liv who was sleeping soundly in his bed. In the hallway he met Kenny, already dressed, rifle in hand.
"Lyle's checking south, Joe's got north," Kenny said quietly. "You take east with me."
They moved through the dark house like ghosts, silent, efficient, lethal if necessary.
Outside, the ranch was quiet. Too quiet. Even the dogs weren't barking.
Mike's gut twisted.
They reached the east fence line in under five minutes. The motion sensor was still blinking, indicating it had been triggered. But there was no one there.
Just a single white peony, laid carefully on the fence post.
The flower was fresh. Dewy. Someone had cut it recently, maybe hours ago, maybe minutes. The stem had been trimmed at an angle, professional, like something you'd get from an expensive florist.
Or a funeral home.
Mike's flashlight swept the area. No footprints in the soft dirt. Whoever left it had been careful, deliberate. They'd walked on the gravel access road where tracks wouldn't show.
Kenny crouched beside the fence post, studying the ground with the focus of a man trained to read landscapes. "Boot prints. Size ten, maybe ten and a half. Deep tread, probably tactical. Two sets. No, three."
"Three people," Mike said. His voice sounded strange, too calm, like his brain was processing information his body hadn't caught up to yet.
"At this location alone." Kenny stood, his expression carved from stone. "If they hit three locations simultaneously—"
"Then there's at least nine of them." Mike's hands curled into fists. "Hell."
This wasn't surveillance anymore. This wasn't Harris working alone, taking photos, asking questions.
This was a team. Coordinated. Professional.
This was an operation.
"They were here," Kenny said, voice flat.
"They're still here."
They spread out, searching. Found two more items, a business card with no name or contact information, just a single word printed in elegant script that said, soon, and a photo of Liv from weeks ago, candid and unaware, laughing at something Charlotte had said while they made pie together in the kitchen.
Mike's hands shook as he picked up the photo. "They've been watching her for weeks."
"Not just watching. Studying." Kenny's voice was grim. "Learning her patterns. Her people. Where she feels safe. Makes me wonder why they even bothered sending Harris."
"We need to get everyone to the house. Now."
By the time they reconvened in the great room, Lyle and Joe had found similar items. Another peony, two more photos, a small charm bracelet that looked expensive and deliberately chosen. One charm was a tiny rolling pin. Another was a whisk. The third was a small letter ‘O’.
Gifts. Intimate. Personal.
They laid everything out on the table like evidence at a crime scene.
Three white peonies, stems cut at identical angles.