Chapter Four #2
The stable was dark when I arrived the next morning, the eastern sky just beginning to lighten from black to deep blue. I’d set three alarms—a habit from my SEAL days—and had been up since four, checking my gear twice and my phone three times to make sure I hadn’t missed a text from Cruz.
I hadn’t. The last message was still the photo of the Ukrainian restaurant, sent fourteen hours ago. Nothing since.
The bay mare lifted her head when I entered her stall, ears forward, clearly expecting an early breakfast. I ran a hand down her neck, feeling the smooth warmth of her coat under my palm.
“Not today, girl,” I told her, reaching for the bridle hanging on the wall. “We’ve got work to do.”
She blew out a breath that might have been disappointment but stood still while I slipped the bit between her teeth and the headstall over her ears.
She’d been mine to ride since I’d arrived at the ranch eighteen months ago—not officially, but Rawley had made it clear the bay was available whenever I needed her. A courtesy to a former teammate, he’d said, though we both knew it was more than that.
It was trust, plain and simple.
The saddle went on next, the mare shifting her weight to accommodate the additional pounds.
I tightened the girth one hole at a time, giving her time to adjust, then checked the fit with a flat hand between the cinch and her belly.
Not too tight, not too loose—the kind of detail that made the difference between a comfortable ride and a sore horse.
“Ready?” Rawley’s voice came from the stall doorway, low and controlled.
I looked up to find him already mounted on his gray gelding, a rifle in a scabbard by his knee and a coffee mug in his hand.
He’d been a SEAL before me—ten years in the Teams, three deployments to Afghanistan, a Bronze Star with a V for valor—and it showed in the way he sat his horse: straight-backed, alert, one hand always free.
“Two minutes,” I said, reaching for the lead rope.
Rawley nodded and backed his horse away from the door, giving me room to lead the mare out. “Eastern tree line first,” he said. “Then the creek crossing, then north along the fence to the ridge.”
I nodded, not bothering to ask why we were starting there. If someone was watching the ranch, the eastern approach made the most sense—tree cover for concealment, the creek for water, the ridge for a clear view of the main house.
Basic tactical thinking.
The mare followed me out of the stall without a fuss, her hooves clicking on the concrete floor.
Outside, the air was cold enough to turn our breath to fog, the ground hard with overnight frost. I mounted in one smooth motion, settling into the saddle with the ease of long practice, and gathered the reins.
Rawley was already moving, his gray picking its way across the yard toward the eastern pasture.
I followed, the mare falling into step behind the gelding without being asked.
We rode in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of hooves on frozen ground and the occasional creak of leather as one of us shifted in the saddle.
The eastern tree line was a quarter mile from the stable, a mix of pine and aspen that marked the boundary between the ranch and national forest land. We reached it as the sun broke the horizon, turning the frost on the grass to diamond and the eastern sky to gold.
Rawley reined in at the edge of the trees, his eyes scanning the undergrowth with practiced efficiency. “Start at the creek,” he said quietly. “Work north. Look for anything that doesn’t belong.”
I nodded and turned the mare toward the water, picking my way through the trees with care.
The creek was fifty yards in, a shallow cut through the forest floor that widened to a small pool before disappearing into the undergrowth.
The water ran clear over a bed of rounded stones, the surface still enough to reflect the trees overhead.
The boot prints were at the water’s edge, pressed deep into the soft mud where the bank sloped toward the pool.
Two distinct tread patterns—one larger than the other, the impressions deeper, as though the owner had been carrying weight.
I dismounted, tying the mare’s reins to a low branch, and crouched to examine the prints.
They were fresh—the edges still sharp, no sign of weathering or animal tracks across the surface. Made sometime in the last twenty-four hours, maybe less. I pulled out my phone and took three photos, getting close enough to capture the tread detail, then moved upstream to check for more.
The second set was twenty yards north, at a spot where the creek narrowed enough to jump. These were fainter, the impression shallower, but the tread pattern was the same as the first set—a distinctive diamond pattern I’d seen on enough combat boots to recognize.
I photographed these too, then turned to find Rawley watching from his horse, his expression unreadable. “Two sets,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Military or paramilitary tread. Recent.”
He nodded once, then turned his horse north along the tree line. I remounted and followed, the mare picking her way through the undergrowth with careful steps.
We found the fence fifty yards further on—six strands of barbed wire stretched between cedar posts, marking the boundary between ranch land and the national forest beyond. Rawley reined in abruptly, his eyes fixed on a section of wire near the third post.
The cut was clean—a single strand severed midway between posts, then twisted back together with amateurish care. The repair was recent enough that the metal hadn’t oxidized, the fresh cut gleaming in the morning light. Someone had been through—not just watching, but entering.
I dismounted again, crouching to examine the cut more closely.
The wire had been severed with bolt cutters—I could see the distinctive compression marks on either side of the cut—then twisted back together with pliers.
Not a professional job, but careful enough that it wouldn’t be spotted from a distance.
“Here,” Rawley said from behind me. I turned to find him pointing at a fence post twenty yards north, where the tree line thinned to reveal a clear view of the ranch house half a mile away.
The camera was zip-tied to the post at eye level, its lens aimed directly at the main approach to the house.
A cellular trail camera—the kind hunters used to track game movement, with a SIM card that could send photos directly to a phone.
Someone had placed it carefully, the angle calculated to capture anyone coming or going from the front of the house.
Rawley dismounted in one fluid motion and crossed to the post. He examined the camera without touching it, then reached into his pocket for a knife.
Three quick cuts, and the camera was free, the zip ties falling to the ground.
He pocketed the device without a word, his face set in lines I’d seen before—the look of a man who’d just confirmed his worst suspicions.
I photographed the empty post, the cut zip ties, the angle of view. Then the fence cut again, getting close enough to capture the tool marks on the wire. Evidence. Documentation. The first step in whatever came next.
Neither of us said the obvious thing out loud—that Eleanor Peterson might be in jail, but someone was still watching the ranch. Someone with enough training to approach unseen, enough patience to set up surveillance, and enough motive to keep watching even with their employer behind bars.
We mounted again without speaking, turning our horses back toward the stable.
The sun was fully up now, casting long shadows across the frost-covered grass, but the day felt colder than it had at dawn.
Ahead of us, the ranch house sat peaceful in the morning light, unaware of the eyes that had been watching it.
Rawley’s hand moved to the rifle at his knee, checking the action with a casual touch that wasn’t casual at all. I did the same with the SIG under my jacket, feeling the reassuring weight against my ribs.
We rode back in silence, but the message was clear in every line of Rawley’s back, in the careful way he scanned the tree line as we passed: the threat was real, it was organized, and it was just getting started.
Rawley and Jojo’s farmhouse sat at the center of the ranch property, a two-story structure with a wide porch and forest green shutters that had seen better days.
We rode up the gravel drive in silence, our horses picking their way across the frozen ruts with careful steps. Rawley dismounted at the hitching post by the porch, his movements deliberate as he tied his gelding’s reins to the rail.
I followed, the mare standing patiently while I loosened her girth and checked her feet for ice balls. The morning had warmed enough to melt the frost on the higher ground, but the shadows under the trees still held pockets of cold that could freeze a horse’s hooves between steps.
Inside, the farmhouse was warm. The fireplace was crackling in the living room, the smell of coffee and fresh bread hanging in the air. Rawley led me to the kitchen without speaking, his boots leaving muddy prints on the hardwood floor.
The table was already set for three—plates, silverware, napkins folded into precise triangles—though it was only seven in the morning. Rawley moved a plate aside and unrolled a hand-drawn map across the polished surface, using coffee mugs as weights to hold the corners flat.
The map was pencil on butcher paper, the lines precise despite the medium—property boundaries marked in dark strokes, fence lines in lighter ones, the creek a wavy line that cut across the eastern edge.
Someone—Rawley, probably—had labeled each section in a tight, controlled script: North Pasture, East Tree Line, Creek Crossing, South Ridge.
“The camera was here,” Rawley said, tapping a point on the eastern boundary where the trees thinned. “Facing west-northwest. Clear line of sight to the front of the house.”