Luke
I’m sitting in my living room with my laptop, looking over some intel Hendricks forwarded on Turner’s operation. It’s late, but I’m waiting for Harper to call me. If Jake knew, he’d tell me I was like a teenage girl sitting by the phone, hoping her crush would call.
He’d be right.
All day I’ve been thinking about Harper, wondering how she is, wishing she was here. I want to text her, but I know she needs to take care of her shit on her own.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
My phone pings at 1247. I pick it up and frown at the text notification that one of the cameras or sensors on the ranch has been tripped—the one at the entrance of the main driveway.
The security system we’ve installed is sophisticated: layered coverage across the entire property with cameras at every access point.
Nothing gets within range of Blackthorn without us knowing.
I swipe to the security app and pull up the camera feed. A single vehicle, headlights cutting through the darkness, moves steadily up the main drive toward the house. I recognize the car instantly—it’s Harper’s SUV.
I shoot out the door that leads from my suite into the main house.
In the foyer, I intercept Jake coming down the stairs. He’s pulling a shirt over his head, his expression hard and focused, a gun tucked into his pants.
"It’s Harper," I tell him, heading to the door. “Something’s wrong.”
"Any idea what?” he asks, checking his gun.
"Betting it’s got to do with her father.” I open the door and step onto the porch.
The night air is cold, sharp with the scent of pine and approaching winter. The main drive is visible from here—a long stretch of gravel cutting through open pasture before disappearing into the tree line.
I whistle, a short trill that sounds like the chickadees around the ranch. Jake stops next to me as Mason emerges from behind the stables, his rifle in hand.
Headlights appear through the trees, and Harper’s SUV emerges from the trees and into the open. The vehicle pulls to a stop twenty feet from the porch, and I see her face through the windshield.
She looks resolute and hollow. Even from here, I can see she's shaking.
I start toward her as she opens the door and gets out.
She's dressed casually—jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and boots.
No coat. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but strands have come loose around her face.
She's holding a manila folder against her chest like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
It’s the expression on her face that guts me. Red-rimmed eyes. Smeared mascara. The kind of anguish that comes from losing everything you thought was solid.
I know that look. I've worn it myself.
I open my arms and she walks right into them. I hold her to me tightly, trying to absorb her unhappiness.
"You’re barefoot,” she murmurs, the folder pressed between us.
I kiss her temple. "Which shows I’m willing to reverse gender roles for you."
She snorts and then sniffles. Disengaging from me, she looks over my shoulder at Jake and Mason, standing just behind me, both still locked in. “Sorry I disturbed you guys. I hope this makes up for it.”
She holds out the folder.
Jake takes it. “This is…”
"Evidence. I confronted my dad and he admitted to all of it. Five years of covering for Turner, signing off on cases, making evidence disappear." She moves back to my side, shivering, and I put my arm around her. "He said Turner threatened me, that he did everything to protect me."
Her voice cracks.
Rage flashes through me, hot and immediate. I glance up at Mason and Jake and see they’re thinking the same thing—Garrett didn’t protect Harper. He put a target on her back by showing Turner exactly where to aim.
Harper points to the folder. "That’s everything I could photograph from the evidence room. Twelve properties over five years. Every single one follows the same pattern—harassment, accidents, foreclosures. And every time, Clearwater Holdings buys the land."
Jake takes the folder and opens it. Mason moves to look over his shoulder.
"Jesus," Mason mutters. "Systematic."
"Circle H is the last piece," Harper says.
Jaw tight, Jake nods. "Turner's been building a corridor. Emma's ranch completes it."
"Your father signed off on all of these?" Mason asks.
"Every single one." Harper's voice is hollow.
Jake glances at me. He's thinking the same thing I am. Sheriff Garrett isn't just complicit—he's essential to Turner's operation.
"I'll investigate Clearwater Holdings," Jake says finally, closing the folder. "See who's really behind it and how deep this goes."
“You'll send a copy to Hendricks too?” I ask. “He'll want to see it."
Stiffening, Harper frowns. "Who's Hendricks?"
"The guy who helped with the van aftermath," I explain. "The one who got Jenna off the grid. He's connected everywhere—federal contacts, intelligence networks, people who can move without leaving trails."
"He's also the one who's been helping us track Turner's operation," Mason adds. "If anyone can trace Clearwater Holdings back to Turner, it's him."
"I'll get this scanned and sent to Hendricks tonight. We'll have answers by morning." Jake looks at Harper, and his expression softens. "You did the right thing bringing this to us."
"Doesn't feel right," Harper says, huddling into me. "Feels like I just destroyed my entire life."
"You didn't destroy it," Mason says. "Your father did. You're just the one who found out."
Harper's eyes fill with tears again, but she blinks them back.
I tighten my arm around her shoulders. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
Mason goes back to his cottage behind the stables, and Jake leads us back into the house. He nods at me, silently telling me he’ll lock up, as I guide Harper back past the kitchen to my suite at the back of the house.
She doesn't resist. Just walks beside me, her body pressed against mine like she needs the contact to stay upright. I guide her into my apartment, lock the door, and turn to her.
"I quit," she says quietly, watching me with her sad eyes. "My job. I told my dad I'm going on leave until he can process the paperwork."
Christ—that’d devastate her. I take her in my arms and kiss the side of her head. “I’m sorry, Harper.”
She looks up at me, and there's something fierce in her expression despite the devastation. "I can't be a deputy sheriff anymore. Not after this. Not knowing what I know."
"We'll figure it out," I promise, rubbing my hands up and down her back.
"How?" Her voice cracks. "I just walked away from my career, my father, everything I've built here. I don't have a plan, Luke. I don't have anything except—"
"Except us," I interrupt. I frame her face with my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You have us. You have Blackthorn. And you have me. We'll figure out the rest."
She stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for something—reassurance, certainty, proof that I mean what I'm saying. I let her look. Let her see exactly how serious I am.
"Okay.” She nods, and when she speaks again, she sounds stronger. “Okay, Luke.”
I drop a kiss on her lips. "What do you need?"
She looks at me, and something in her expression shifts—from desolation to something softer, more vulnerable. She wraps her arms tight around me, burrowing against my shoulder. "Just you," she says, her voice muffled against my shirt. "I just need you."
It feels like my entire chest explodes—not from fear, not from rage this time, but from relief so sharp it almost hurts.
I cradle her to me so there’s no space left between us. I lower my head, pressing my nose to her strawberry-scented hair, my eyes burning. No one’s ever needed me like this. No one’s ever chosen me.
“Yeah, sunshine, you’ve got me.” I kiss the top of her head, holding her even closer. “For as long as you want, you’ve got me.”