Chapter Four #3
I nodded, studying the map. “Boot prints at the creek crossing,” I said, indicating the spot with my finger. “Two sets. Military tread, different weights. One carrying something heavy.”
“The cut in the fence was twenty yards north of the camera,” Rawley added, his finger moving up the map. “Clean cut, amateur repair. They came through, placed the camera, then went back out the same way.”
I looked at the map again, mentally connecting the dots: creek crossing to fence cut to camera position.
A straight line, more or less, with clear sightlines to the house at every point.
Not the path of someone who’d stumbled on the property by accident.
The work of someone who’d studied the terrain, identified the optimal approach, and executed it with minimal exposure.
“Whoever planned this isn’t improvising,” I said, keeping my voice level. “They had intel on the property layout and the patrol schedule. Knew where to cut the fence without being seen. Knew exactly where to place the camera for maximum coverage.”
What I didn’t say—what I was still processing—was what the camera angle told me.
The lens had been aimed directly at the main approach to the house, true, but also at a specific set of windows on the second floor.
The windows that belonged to the master bedroom, where Rawley and Jojo slept.
Where their infant son’s crib sat in the corner.
Someone hadn’t just scouted the property. They’d identified the most vulnerable point in the entire ranch—the room where a baby slept—and positioned their surveillance to watch it.
The kitchen door opened, and Jojo came in carrying two mugs of coffee. He set one in front of Rawley without being asked, the other at the empty place across from me, then stepped back, his eyes moving from Rawley’s face to the map on the table.
“I’ll be in the barn,” he said quietly. “Brandon’s down for his morning nap. Burke’s coming by at nine to look at the north fence.”
Rawley nodded once, not looking up from the map. “We’ll be done by then.”
Jojo nodded back, then left the room without another word, closing the door gently behind him. The whole exchange had taken less than thirty seconds—no discussion, no questions, just a clear division of labor and an obvious understanding of boundaries.
I’d seen it before—the way Jojo anticipated Rawley’s needs, the way Rawley made space for Jojo’s independence—but it still caught me off guard sometimes. The efficiency of it. The trust. The way they moved around each other like they’d been doing it for decades instead of just a couple of years.
Rawley was already moving on, his finger tracing the property boundary on the map. “We need to assume there are more cameras,” he said. “At least one covering the north approach, probably another watching the south pasture. Maybe more.”
I nodded, reaching for my coffee. “I can ride the north line this afternoon. Check the fence posts, look for fresh cuts or disturbed ground.”
“Burke’s covering the south pasture,” Rawley said. “Decker’s taking the western ridge. Macon’s handling the river access points.” He paused, then added, “Carter’s staying with Jojo and the babies.”
The unspoken message was clear: everyone had a job, everyone was accounted for, and no one was being left alone. Not with Eleanor Peterson’s people watching the house.
“What about the eastern approach?” I asked. “That’s still the most likely entry point. Creek for cover, trees for concealment, ridge for over watch.”
Rawley’s mouth tightened. “I’ll handle it,” he said. “With Danny. He knows that section better than anyone.”
I didn’t ask why Danny—who spent most of his time organizing just about everything—would know the eastern tree line better than the man who owned the property.
Some questions didn’t need answers.
“I’ll photograph the map,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Check the angles, make sure we’re covering all the approaches.”
Rawley nodded, stepping back to give me room. I took three photos—one of the full map, one close-up of the eastern boundary, one of the house and immediate surroundings—then tucked the phone back in my pocket.
“We’re meeting at six,” Rawley said. “My place. Everyone’s bringing what they found. Macon’s running the briefing.”
I nodded, finishing my coffee in one swallow. “I’ll be there.”
We moved to the door without further discussion—no need to hash out details that were already clear. At the porch, Rawley paused, his hand on the doorknob.
“Thanks,” he said, the word coming out rough, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “For riding out. For not asking questions.”
I nodded once. “Anytime.”
He held my eyes for a long moment, something passing between us—acknowledgment, maybe, or understanding—then pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch.
I followed, closing the door behind me. The morning had fully arrived now, the sun high enough to burn the frost from the grass and turn the puddles in the drive to mirrors. In the distance, Black Butte Mountain stood sentinel over the valley, its snow-capped peak catching the light.
I mounted the mare with a single motion, gathering the reins with practiced ease. Rawley was already moving, his gelding picking its way down the drive toward the stable. I turned the mare toward the eastern pasture, giving her her head as we broke into a ground-eating trot.
The ride back to my place took twenty minutes—fifteen if I pushed the mare, which I didn’t. She’d already done her share for the day, carrying me along the tree line while I looked for threats. I let her set her own pace, my mind already working through the implications of what we’d found.
By the time I reached my farmhouse, I had a list of priorities: check the property boundaries, reinforce the locks on the doors and windows, move the emergency gear from the barn to the house. Basic security measures, the kind I’d implemented a dozen times in a dozen different places.
None of which addressed the real problem: someone had been watching the ranch.
Someone with training, with patience, with a clear target in mind.
And Eleanor Peterson, for all her money and connections, was still in jail, which meant either she had help on the outside or someone else had picked up where she’d left off.
Either way, we had a problem.
I unsaddled the mare in the small shed behind the house, rubbing her down with a rough towel before turning her out into the paddock. She headed straight for the water trough, drinking deeply before moving to the hay I’d set out that morning.
Inside, the house was quiet—just the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the foundation settling.
I moved through the rooms on autopilot, checking locks, testing windows, making mental notes of sightlines and blind spots.
The kind of security sweep I’d done a thousand times before, in places a lot more dangerous than a ten-acre farm in Montana.
When I’d covered the house, I went out to the porch and sat on the top step, the valley spread out in front of me.
From here, I could see most of the eastern approach—the tree line where we’d found the camera, the creek crossing where the boot prints had been, the ridge beyond that offered a clear view of the entire property.
Someone had stood on that ridge, watching. Had cut the fence, placed the camera, retreated the same way. Had planned it all with the kind of care that spoke of training and experience.
My phone was in my hand before I’d made the conscious decision to reach for it, Cruz’s contact already pulled up on the screen. I stared at it for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the call button, then moved to messages instead.
I typed: “Peterson situation is more organized than Rawley thought. Someone ran proper surveillance on the property. Thought you should know.”
I stared at it, reading it three times to make sure it said what I meant—that there was a threat, that it was serious, that I was telling him because he should know, not because I wanted him to do anything about it.
I hit send and set the phone on the porch rail, then immediately picked it up again to make sure the message had gone through. It had—the little “delivered” notification appearing under the text, then changing to “read” a moment later.
Four minutes later, my phone rang. Not a text—a call, Cruz’s name flashing on the screen. I answered without thinking.
“Reyes.”
There was a pause—Cruz registering the use of my last name, the formal tone—then his voice, level and clipped in the way it got when something had his full attention. “The camera. Where exactly was it mounted relative to the post?”
“West side,” I said. “Six inches below the top crossbar. Zip-tied at two points.”
Another pause. “The boot prints. How deep were they?”
“First set, three-quarters of an inch at the heel, half an inch at the toe. Second set, half an inch all the way through. Creek bank mud, so they held detail.”
“The wire cut. Interior or exterior side?”
“Exterior. They cut from outside, came through, then twisted it back together from the inside.”
A longer pause this time—Cruz processing, calculating, deciding. Then, quietly: “I’m going to try to move my timeline.”
My jaw tightened. “You don’t need to do that,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I’d intended. “We’ve got it covered. Rawley’s running a full security sweep, everyone’s accounted for. I just thought you should know.”
“I know,” Cruz said, and didn’t agree to not do it. “I’ll text when I have details.”
The call ended without a goodbye, Cruz already moving on to whatever came next. I set the phone down on the porch rail and stared out at the valley, the starter trays visible through the greenhouse glass catching the afternoon light.
I’d told Cruz first. Before Sterling, before Macon, before any of the people who actually lived on the property. I’d seen the threat, assessed the risk, and my first thought had been to text a man who was twelve thousand miles away, doing God knows what for Sterling’s team.
Not because he could help—though God knows he could—but because I’d wanted him to know. Because something in me needed him to be part of it, even if that part was just receiving information.
I sat with that fact, turning it over in my mind like one of the stones from the creek bed. Examining it from every angle. Trying to figure out what it meant that Cruz had become the person I told when things went wrong.
The phone sat silent on the rail, no new messages, no follow-up calls. Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Cruz was already moving—changing plans, shifting timelines, doing whatever it took to get back to Montana faster than he’d intended.
Because I’d texted him. Because I’d asked.
I picked up the phone again, scrolling through our message history—airport coffee and hotel food and questions about soil pH. Three months of texts, five nights together, and a threat to the ranch that had me sitting on my porch steps, waiting for a call that might not come.
“Pathetic,” I told the empty valley, but there was no heat in it. Just the quiet acknowledgment of a fact.