Chapter 8-Micah
The run to Chase Baron's place should've taken my mind off her.
Should've being the keyword.
Didn't is the reality, though.
Alex chatters most of the drive back to Jersey Iron Ranch about some podcast he's listening to while we haul the empty cryogenic containers home after dropping off another half-million dollars' worth of frozen genetics.
It’s bull jizz for the win, ladies, and gents.
It's funny when you think about it.
People hear cowboy and they imagine horses, hats, and sunsets.
Reality?
Million-dollar breeding contracts.
Cryogenic tanks.
Temperature logs.
Insurance paperwork.
Enough technology to make NASA proud.
Not that I'm complaining.
I like the work.
Like the precision.
Everything has a place.
Everything follows a system.
Unlike people.
People are a messy bunch, aren’t they?
Complicated things. Almost impossible to understand.
Especially women.
Especially one particular redheaded bartender who's managed to occupy every spare corner of my brain.
Benji and Esme skipped this run.
Apparently Esme's producers wanted them filming somewhere for one of her new episodes.
The woman's internet famous.
Millions of followers.
Still blows my mind.
She started Plus Size Life with Esme and a Van after Benji blew their marriage to hell by believing Paul's lies.
Water under the bridge now.
Hell, they're disgustingly happy these days.
Turns out all it took was surviving a murderous stalker, an accidental fake marriage, Vegas, and getting legally hitched for real.
Simple.
And now she's pivoted.
Something about Married Life with Esme and the Ranch. Or maybe Life on the Ranch.
Hell if I know.
Whatever it's called, people eat that shit up.
Watching Benji pretend he isn't completely whipped is apparently quality entertainment.
Good for them.
They've earned it.
Me?
I spent the whole damn drive wishing I was somewhere else.
Specifically...
The Watering Hole.
Three days.
Three fucking days.
That's how long it's been since I kissed Sloane behind the bar after changing the filters in her van.
Three days without seeing her.
Without hearing her laugh.
Without making sure she got home safe.
I don't like it.
Not one damn bit.
By the time Alex hops out of the truck back at Jersey Iron Ranch, I'm already halfway to my cabin.
“You heading into town?” he calls after me.
“Yeah.”
“You gonna see—”
“No.”
He grins.
“You didn't even let me finish.”
“Didn't have to.”
His laugh follows me all the way across the yard.
Smartass.
Inside my cabin, I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter and strip out of my dusty work clothes.
Five minutes.
That's all this shower gets.
I've got surveillance feeds to check.
My private security network comes alive the second I touch the monitor mounted beside the bedroom door.
Eight camera angles.
Thermal imaging.
Perimeter sensors.
Satellite backup.
The whole system hidden beneath what looks like a regular log cabin.
Nobody would ever guess.
Solar panels on the roof.
Battery bank underground.
Dedicated satellite uplink hidden inside what looks like an old windmill.
The cabin's camouflage. The technology isn't.
Every camera reports green.
Ranch secure.
North pasture secure.
Main gate secure.
The Watering Hole camera?
All online.
I pull the feed onto the larger monitor.
Sloane's behind the bar.
Busy.
Always busy.
She's carrying two loaded trays while Patrick does what exactly?
My jaw tightens.
Patrick's leaning against the register, talking to some guys instead of helping.
Worthless bastard.
My shower takes exactly three minutes and thirty-seven seconds.
I know because the timer on the bathroom wall tells me.
Military habits die hard.
I wrap a towel around my waist and walk back toward the bedroom, already mentally planning the drive into town.
Maybe I'll catch her before closing.
Help stack chairs.
Walk her to her van.
Make sure she gets home.
That's all.
Nothing weird about that.
My phone chirps.
Not a text.
An alert.
Priority.
My heartbeat kicks.
I snatch the phone off the dresser.
Camera Seven.
Rear parking lot.
The Watering Hole.
Live feed.
“Fuck.”
The word tears out of me before I even realize I'm speaking.
A black SUV rolls into the back lot.
Too clean.
Too expensive.
Windows blacked out.
Not local.
Driver doesn't shut the engine off.
Passenger climbs out first.
Leather jacket.
Gold chain.
Greasy hair slicked back.
Second guy follows.
He’s bigger.
Thick neck.
Tattoo crawling up the side of it.
Neither one looks like they're stopping in for wings and beer.
They don't head toward the front entrance.
They head for the back.
Toward the service door.
Toward Sloane.
I swipe to another camera angle.
Zoom.
Enhance.
The software sharpens the image.
Recognition software searches my local database.
Nothing.
Unknown.
I don't like unknown.
Not when Patrick looked half-crazy the last time I checked the cameras.
Not when he'd been demanding money from Sloane.
Not when every instinct I've got has been screaming that something is coming.
The taller one pounds on the back door.
Hard.
Aggressive.
Definitely not customer behavior.
This is more like collection behavior.
Like loan shark behavior.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Every instinct forged overseas comes roaring to life.
Threat.
Potential hostage situation.
Unknown number of armed suspects.
Civilian inside.
One civilian I happen to care far too much about.
The towel hits the floor.
I don't even remember dropping it.
Jeans.
Boots.
T-shirt.
Holster.
Knife.
Wallet.
Keys.
Phone.
Everything happens on autopilot.
Thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
I'm out the front door before I've finished buttoning my jeans.
The truck roars to life beneath me.
Gravel sprays behind the tires as I punch the accelerator.
The ranch gate blurs past.
Town's twelve minutes away.
I intend to make it in seven.
Nobody—and I mean nobody—is laying a fucking hand on my Princess while I'm still breathing.
No fucking way.