Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Silas
“Sherry?”
The name dies in my throat. No one starts work before me. Ever. Not the staff, not the office crew, not anyone.
But the shadow in the hallway isn’t Sherry.
It’s her.
Annie Wright.
Electric blue hair twisted into a messy bun, a few strands loose around her face. Multiple piercings glint in the early light. Stormy gray eyes, intense, and calculating.
Petite, but with shoulders and thighs that betray long days of hiking. Oversized cardigan, black jeans, fitted tank. And a camera hanging from her neck as if she might defend herself with it if she had to.
I stop, study her. My instincts are on edge. She doesn’t really belong in Ironwood. Not at first glance.
The way she carries herself. It’s not the polished, predictable kind of presence I’m used to. Too many assumptions floating around that hair, those piercings. Everyone will see the armor before they see the person.
And yet…
I remember her resume. CPA, experience with mid-sized and corporate ranch operations. Meticulous, with a reputation for catching discrepancies others overlook. That’s the kind of skill I can’t ignore.
This is the reason I hired her, and let her know she can pretty much choose her own hours while she’s here… as long as the work gets done.
I shift my weight, one hand brushing the worn leather glove I always carry. My father’s.
I can’t afford to dismiss her. Not with the mess Ironwood has been silently bleeding through.
“Annie Wright,” I say. “First day. Early. I didn’t expect you yet.”
She blinks at me, expression carefully neutral. “I… I like to get a head start. Check the systems, make sure I’m not missing anything.”
Good. Competent. Confident. Too confident. Dangerous if she doesn’t know her limits.
I need to give her a chance, but I’ll keep my eye on her. Keep the boundaries clear.
“Do you… want a coffee?”
What am I doing? I barely make coffee for myself, let alone anyone else. I always have way too much on.
But she surprised me by being up early, and she shocks me even more by agreeing.
“Go on, then. Just a quick one. I do need to get started.”
I move toward the counter and grab the Thermos. Every step, every gesture, intentional and precise.
I pour the coffee. Black. No sugar, no cream. She tilts her head, just enough for me to notice the flicker of acknowledgment.
She knows how to read a room. Already sizing me up. Already counting the rhythm of the ranch.
“Same for you?”
She nods. “Black is perfect. Wakes me up.”
I hold the cup out. “Here.”
She takes it and sips carefully, thumb drumming against the strap of her camera. Counting. Thinking. Processing. Already three steps ahead.
Interesting…
Maybe I need to know more about her.
I step toward the hallway. “So… what brings you to Colter Creek?”
“Well… the job.” She cocks a knowing brow. “I like temporary ranch work. It allows me to keep moving.”
“I see.”
I don’t see. Not really. I need stability. I can’t imagine a life without a solid base. But I guess what we need is a free spirit who knows her stuff because once we get Ironwood back on track, Cody can keep on top of things again.
We just need that stability once more.
“Well…” She glugs back the remainder of her coffee. “I need to get started. See you around, yeah?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what to say.
I watch her go, the soft clack of her boots on the polished floors fading into the buzz of early morning activity.
My jaw tightens. She’s the kind of person who notices everything, anticipates problems before they even surface. That’s useful.
Exactly what we need.
I shake my head and turn back to the day ahead. The ranch doesn’t wait for contemplations. Even if I have a new member of staff to think about.
I step outside, the morning breeze cool against my skin, and take a slow walk along the property lines.
I check fences, gates, and water troughs, making mental notes of what needs attention. The early hours are mine alone. A time when the ranch runs on instinct and muscle rather than conversation.
I walk past the barns, scanning for anything out of place. The smell of fresh hay and pine cleaner mingles with the faint tang of livestock.
It should feel ordinary, but Ironwood never is.
Not really.
A shipment dispute from yesterday nags at the back of my mind. I can’t let it fester. I make a note to cross reference the delivery logs later.
My father’s glove feels right in my hand… worn, familiar, a reminder of the responsibility I’ve inherited.
“Oh dear.” A voice shatters the silence of the morning, letting me know I’m finally not by myself. “Why on earth do you have that look on your face?”
“Benji.” My ranch hand always manages to make me smile. “How are you?”
“Good,” he says, though his eyes flick to the paddocks, noting the fences I’ve already inspected. “Morning chores are almost done, but you looked… intense out here.”
I nod, keeping my tone even. “Just checking everything. Nothing gets past me.”
He grins. “Of course not. But hey, I’ve got the feed trucks coming in today. You ready for another round with Jake?”
I don’t have to answer. He knows the look. The crease of my brow, the tight jaw, the subtle flare of patience wearing thin.
He knows I don’t tolerate incompetence… or excuses. And what has been happening with the shipments recently has been irritating to say the least.
By the time the first truck pulls up, I’ve already coordinated the unloading zones, checked the barn doors, and verified the inventory logs.
“Two pallets here,” I call to the driver, “and have the third staged near the north barn. Don’t block the gates. Get Jake to check your paperwork and then bring it to me before you leave. Let’s move.”
The driver nods, a little flustered by the precision, but follows orders. Benji moves efficiently beside me, anticipating my directions before I even give them.
It isn’t long before Jake arrives, striding up in his usual self-assured way, tablet in hand.
“Silas. Everything’s fine. I’ve accounted for all deliveries. The last shipment—”
“Jake,” I cut him off, “I need to double-check the logs. Like I said to the driver.”
“Why?”
I sense Benji stiffen beside me.
“Because we’ve had issues. You know this. We talked about it last week. You’re the operations manager, you need to deal with this.”
“And I’m dealing with it,” Jake says, as if that should be the end of it.
He holds the tablet out between us, confident that the numbers on that screen are enough to end the conversation. He thinks I’ll take his word and move on.
I don’t.
Jake Dorsey has always been efficient. Reliable. The kind of man who keeps things running without needing to be asked twice.
That’s why he’s here. That’s why I trusted him with operations in the first place.
But lately, there’s been something off. Just enough that I don’t let it slide.
“I didn’t ask if it was handled,” I say. “I asked to see it.”
There’s a flicker in his expression. Gone almost as soon as it appears.
Most people wouldn’t notice it.
I do.
Jake steps forward and hands over the tablet, smooth as ever. “Of course.”
I take it, scrolling through the logs. Dates, vendors, quantities, signatures. Everything lined up exactly where it should be.
Too exactly.
No delays. No corrections. No friction.
That’s not how real work looks. Not on a ranch this size, with this many moving parts.
My thumb taps once against the edge of the screen as I read, a habit I don’t bother breaking.
“Where’s the discrepancy from last week?” I ask.
“Resolved. Vendor miscommunication.”
“Which vendor?”
“Barrow Agricultural Consulting.”
I nod slowly, eyes still on the screen. “And the duplicate invoice?”
“Voided.”
“By who?”
There’s a pause this time. “Me.”
I lift my gaze and meet his, holding it.
Jake doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shift. He stands there as he always does. Certain, controlled, unbothered. But my gut tightens anyway.
I hand the tablet back to him. “Next time, I want documentation attached. Not just corrections.”
His mouth tightens just slightly. “Didn’t realize that was necessary.”
“It is now.”
Silence stretches, then he nods. “Understood.”
“Make it standard.”
“Anything else?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Yeah.” He stops. “Nothing gets resolved without me knowing first.”
He walks off, posture easy, unbothered, boots stomping against the gravel. To him, nothing about that exchange mattered.
I watch him go.
Beside me, Benji lets out a low breath. “Man doesn’t like being questioned.”
“He doesn’t have to like it,” I say evenly. “He just has to do it.”
Benji nods and moves off, already heading toward the north barn.
My attention shifts back to the ranch, to the trucks, the crew, the rhythm settling back into place because ultimately nothing’s changed.
Everything looks right.
Runs right.
But underneath, it isn’t.
I can feel it, the same way you feel a storm before it breaks. “Double check the north barn deliveries,” I call after Benji. “I want counts verified twice.”
“On it!”
I stay where I am a moment longer, scanning the movement, the patterns, the details most people overlook.
Ironwood doesn’t make mistakes.
Which means if something’s off…
It’s not an accident.
By the time the sun dips behind the tree line, Ironwood settles, the noise fading first, then the movement, until what’s left is the stillness I trust more than anything else on this ranch.
I start my usual walk along the property lines, rolling my shoulders once as I go. My father’s old worn leather glove rests in my hand, familiar in a way nothing else is.
The creases and softened edges are a reminder of everything this place was built on and everything it could still lose if I let something slip.
I don’t wear it. I never have.
But I carry it anyway.
My gaze sweeps automatically across fences, posts, gates, the ground itself, taking in every detail without needing to think about it. Years of doing this have turned it into instinct, into something deeper than routine.
Nothing gets missed.
Not out here. Not by me.
The sky bleeds from orange into deep blue, shadows stretching long across the paddocks as the horses settle, the ranch winding down for the night. The scent of hay, pine, and dust hangs in the air.
Everything looks right.
Everything should be right.
And yet that feeling from earlier hasn’t gone anywhere. It sits low in my chest, insistent. Something just out of reach that refuses to be ignored.
I round the north barn, my eyes dropping briefly to the ground as they always do.
And that’s when I see it.
The tracks are subtle, pressed into the dirt just off the service path. The pattern is wrong. The spacing is wrong.
Not deep enough for heavy equipment, not wide enough for the standard trucks that come through here.
Different.
Recent.
I slow, then crouch, lowering myself without breaking focus, studying the marks more closely. The edges are still jagged, undisturbed by wind or traffic, which means they haven’t been here long.
They weren’t here this morning.
My fingers press lightly into the track, testing the depth, the angle, the direction of the movement, tracing the path without disturbing it more than necessary.
The vehicle came in close. Too close, then left the same way it came. No hesitation, no correction.
I straighten slowly, my gaze lifting to the barn itself, to the doors, the windows, the darkened edges where shadow clings a little too easily.
There’s no record of a vehicle coming through here today that should leave these marks, which means whoever it was didn’t go through the proper channels, didn’t check in, didn’t want to be seen.
My grip tightens around the glove, the worn leather calming in my hand as the low, persistent unease from earlier intensifies, becoming more focused, more precise.
Someone came onto my land, and made sure they weren’t noticed.
I take one last look at the tracks, committing the pattern to memory before stepping back. I’m already running through what needs to be checked, who needs to be questioned, what logs need to be pulled apart until something gives.
Because whoever did this crossed a line.
And I don’t let that stand.