Chapter Four
~ Jackson ~
I crouched in the fourth greenhouse, running my finger along the edge of the seed tray to check moisture levels I’d already checked an hour ago. The Belize seeds were starting to sprout—tiny green heads poking through the soil in half the trays—which should have been enough to keep me focused.
Instead, I found myself looking at the drainage problem in the corner for the third time that morning. The puddle had grown overnight, a shallow reflection of the ceiling lights spreading toward the east wall.
I’d stepped over the pile of gravel and PVC pipe I’d left beside it three times already, telling myself I’d fix it after lunch, then after dinner, then first thing tomorrow.
Now it was tomorrow, and the pipe was still sitting on the floor where I’d dropped it, the gravel bag leaning against it like an accomplice.
I moved to the next tray, adjusting the grow light above it even though it was already at the right height.
The seeds were barely breaking the surface—fragile green shoots that looked like they might blow away in a stiff breeze.
I checked the thermometer hanging from the greenhouse frame: sixty-eight degrees.
Perfect for merlot. Too cold for me in just a t-shirt.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, the vibration traveling up my spine.
I ignored it, checking the soil pH in the third tray with a probe I’d calibrated that morning.
The reading came back exactly where it had been the last three times I’d checked: 6.
2. The perfect number for the variety. I’d known that the first time.
The phone buzzed again. I pulled it out with wet fingers, leaving smudges across the screen.
Cruz’s name glowed at the top of the message. Below it, a photo: a paper cup of airport coffee so bad the sleeve was printed with a warning in three languages. Underneath, a single line: “Bucharest. Don’t ask.”
I stared at the photo, zooming in on the coffee cup to read the warning—“Caution: Contents Hot” in English, French, and something that looked like Romanian. I typed back “Looks like motor oil” and put the phone face-down on the potting bench.
The seeds needed transplanting, not monitoring.
I’d been nursing them since the day after Billings—a month ago, now—bringing them inside at night, moving them from tray to tray as they grew.
They were the only thing in the fourth greenhouse; everything else was in the three larger structures behind the house.
My phone buzzed again. I picked it up before the vibration stopped, like a teenager waiting for a text back from a crush. Which was exactly what I was doing, and wasn’t that a sobering thought at thirty-two.
A single thumbs-up emoji. Nothing else.
I dropped the phone back on the bench with more force than necessary. A thumbs-up. After everything—after the hotel room, after the seeds, after the bracelet I was still wearing—a fucking thumbs-up.
The seeds didn’t care about my love life. I checked the next tray, noting that two more shoots had broken the surface. Twenty-seven out of thirty now. Not bad for a first attempt.
My phone buzzed again. I left it where it was, checking the timer on the irrigation system instead.
Eighteen minutes until the next watering cycle.
The system was automated—I’d installed it myself, running the pipes from the well house to each greenhouse—but I still checked it twice a day, like the timer might decide to stop working on its own.
The phone buzzed a third time. I gave it thirty seconds—enough to make it seem like I wasn’t waiting—then picked it up.
Another photo: the inside of what looked like a conference room, all glass walls and uncomfortable-looking chairs. Underneath: “Five hours. Six more to go. At least the view is decent.”
I typed back “Where?” without thinking, then stared at the single word on the screen. I’d broken the pattern—the one where I answered in as few words as possible, where I never asked questions. Where I pretended this was just a convenience, not a thing that mattered.
I hit send anyway.
The response came back fast: “Lviv. Ukraine border. Hotel security for a defense conference. Exciting stuff.”
I didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know if “be careful” was the right response to a man who’d spent his adult life jumping out of planes and kicking down doors. So I set the phone down again and moved to the next tray.
The rhythm of it had started the day after Billings: Cruz texting from random airports, me answering with the bare minimum.
Bucharest had been a first—a place name instead of just “Eastern Europe”—but the pattern was the same.
He texted. I answered. He texted again. I tried not to look at my phone every five minutes.
It wasn’t working.
Another buzz from the phone. I left it where it was for a full minute, moving between trays, adjusting the temperature in the greenhouse with the manual controls I kept meaning to automate.
The text, when I finally checked it, was a question: “What’s the soil pH on the merlot? Remember you mentioned 6.5 being optimal for the rootstock. Want to make sure I’m getting the right numbers.”
I stared at the screen, something in my chest going tight. He’d remembered. Not just the seeds, but the details—the exact number I’d mentioned in that hotel room in Salt Lake, the one conversation we’d had about my vineyard that hadn’t been just passing the time.
I typed back “6.2-6.5 for the stock. 6.0-6.5 for the vines. 6.2 ideal for both” and hit send before I could overthink it.
The response came back almost immediately: “Good. I’ll keep an eye out.”
For what, I had no idea. We were twelve thousand miles apart, separated by an ocean and whatever mission had taken him to Lviv. But the fact that he was looking—that he was thinking about my vineyard, about what I might need—made my throat tight in a way I refused to examine.
I went back to the seeds, checking each tray methodically. The Belize variety was a gamble—a long shot that might not work in Montana’s shorter growing season—but the seeds had been a gift, and gifts deserved attention. Even from men who texted like they were writing mission briefings.
Even from men who’d never said what we were doing or why or if it meant anything.
The bracelet gleamed on my wrist when I moved between trays, the light catching the engraved “J” in the design.
I hadn’t taken it off since Billings—had slept with it the first night, then placed it carefully on the nightstand the second, then started wearing it again the third.
Now it felt strange not to have it on, like a piece of equipment I’d forgotten.
My phone buzzed again. I checked it without thinking: a photo of what looked like a Ukrainian restaurant, plates of food I couldn’t identify spread across a table. Underneath: “Dinner. Hotel security gets better food than actual security. Go figure.”
I stared at the photo, trying to figure out if there was a message in it beyond the obvious—if Cruz was telling me he was eating, that he was safe, that he was thinking about me. That he missed me.
I typed back “Looks good” and set the phone down, wondering when I’d started reading meaning into random photos of airport coffee and hotel food.
The seeds were doing fine. The drainage problem was still there. And somewhere in Eastern Europe, Cruz was eating dinner at a restaurant with a view of a border I couldn’t picture, texting a man he’d spent five nights with in six months.
It wasn’t enough. But for now, with the greenhouses warming in the morning sun and the seeds pushing up through the soil, it had to be.
* * * *
I was on my knees in the corner of the greenhouse, finally addressing the drainage problem, when my phone rang.
Not a text—a call, which meant either Rawley or Sterling, and neither of them called unless something was broken, on fire, or about to be.
I wiped my muddy hands on my jeans and answered without checking the screen.
“Reyes.”
“It’s Rawley.”
Two words, and I knew. The tone was flat, controlled—the voice he used when something was wrong but he wasn’t ready to share details over an open line. I sat back on my heels, pipe cutter in one hand, phone in the other.
“What’s the situation?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
There was a pause—Rawley deciding how much to say. “Eleanor Peterson is in county lockup awaiting trial,” he said finally. “Has been for three months.”
I went still, the pipe cutter suddenly heavy in my hand. Eleanor Peterson. The name alone was enough to make my skin crawl—a woman with enough money and enough spite to make trouble for everyone connected to the ranch. A woman who’d already tried to kill Burke and Danny’s baby once.
“And?” I prompted when Rawley didn’t continue.
“And we’ve had two separate sightings of unfamiliar figures near the eastern fence line in the past week. Tuesday night and yesterday morning.” His voice was clipped, matter-of-fact. “Jojo spotted the first one from the kitchen window. Burke caught the second on the north ridge with binoculars.”
I didn’t ask if they were sure. Rawley wouldn’t have called if he wasn’t certain. “You want me to ride the perimeter,” I said.
Not a question.
“I want someone with fresh eyes and no emotional stake in what we might find,” Rawley said. “First light tomorrow. Can you be at the stable at five?”
It wasn’t really a question. We both knew I’d be there.
“Yes,” I said, not asking for details or negotiating terms. “Five o’clock.”
There was a pause—Rawley registering the lack of pushback, the immediate yes. “Good,” he said finally. “Bring your phone. We’ll need photos.”
The call ended without a goodbye. Rawley wasn’t big on social niceties when there was work to do.
I set the phone down and looked at the half-cut pipe in my hand. The drainage problem would have to wait. I had a perimeter to ride and photos to take, and somewhere on the eastern edge of Black Butte Ranch, someone was watching.
* * * *