Chapter 2 #3
Martinelli leaned back in his chair, studying Hammer with the kind of attention that made seasoned operators uncomfortable. “Why the interest?”
“Like I said, just…he was a friend.”
“More than a friend.” Martinelli’s tone carried the weight of someone who’d done his homework.
“Funny thing about South Eagle. This part of Renegade is like a small town—people remember things. And after you left the diner today, I made a few calls. Rowan Wallace and Sierra Blackwood. High school sweethearts.” He raised an eyebrow.
Hammer kept his expression neutral. “I told you I knew Sierra in high school. Natural to be concerned about old friends. And I’m not sure why this is any of your business.”
Martinelli held up a hand. “Just watching my backyard. People care about Sierra and her son. Especially since Elway’s passing. I just…it’s curious, you coming back from the dead now, of all times.”
Hammer blinked at him. “Why now?”
“Just…you know. Life isn’t easy. She’s lonely. And has a big ranch—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, before someone gets hurt.” Hammer drew in a breath. But weirdly, something niggled inside him. Wait—“Lonely?”
Martinelli drew in a breath. “Thanks for coming in. If you’re still interested in a job, I could set you up an interview.”
One that would come with a background check, no doubt.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Outside, he found Saxon leaning against the truck, studying a colorful poster taped to a lamppost. “Check this out. Fall Festival Rodeo, next weekend. Says here they’ve got junior competitions.”
Hammer glanced at the poster, noting the prize categories and entry fees. Twenty-five dollars for junior roping, fifty for adult divisions. But there was decent prize money. “Five hundred dollars for the overall junior champion. That’s big dough for a kid.”
“You should know,” Mack said, appearing from around the corner, holding two cups of coffee from the diner. “Hammer was the region roping champ for three years running.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” Mack said. “Muscle memory doesn’t disappear. Bet you could still nail a calf in under fifteen seconds.”
“Doubt it.” Hammer took one of the coffee cups. “Skills like that need constant practice.”
“Some things you never forget. Like riding a bike.”
“Roping’s not riding a bike, Mack.”
“Maybe not. But you were good enough to earn scholarship offers. Remember? Colorado State wanted you for their rodeo team.”
Hammer remembered. Full ride to study agricultural science and compete on the college circuit. A future that had evaporated the night he’d stood up to his stepfather and been forced to choose between that future and survival.
“That ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate good form when you see it.” Saxon folded the poster and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll catch some of the competition while we’re here.”
“We’re not staying for any rodeo,” Hammer said. “But while Mack is out visiting his dad, I’m just going to nose around, see what I can find out about these cattle rustlers.”
Mack made a triumphant fist.
“I don’t know why you’re so keen on visiting a guy who threw you out of the house when you were eighteen,” said Saxon quietly.
Yeah, what he said.
Mack sighed. “It was a bad day. Dad and I got in a fight over Rowan’s flag…” He shook his head. “He apologized. Told me to come back anytime.”
“My flag?”
“Whatever. It’s over.”
Hammer’s mouth tightened. “I’m only a phone call away.”
“I can take care of myself.” Mack shot him a look.
Hammer raised his hands in surrender.
“I’ll help you nose around,” Saxon said as they got into the pickup truck. “But I guess this means we’ll also need a place to lay over for the night.”
They stopped by the Mountain View Motel on their way out of South Eagle, and he and Saxon rented a couple rooms. “Maybe they’ll air it out before we come back,” Hammer said as they dropped their duffels off on the hard beds.
Dusk settled over the valley, headlights cutting through shadows.
The Jenkins ranch sat five miles west of the suburb of South Eagle, on prime bottomland that had been in the family for three generations. Although, back then, it hadn’t been called Jenkins land, had it?
“Turn here.” Mack pointed toward a gravel road marked by a wooden sign: Jenkins Ranch - Est. 1952.
Hammer stifled the growl in his chest. Whatever.
He turned onto the drive, noting immediately how different this property looked from the struggling ranches they’d passed.
New fencing stretched in perfect lines across manicured pastures where expensive quarter horses grazed on grass so green it looked artificially enhanced.
Equipment sheds held tractors and implements that caught the last rays of fading sunlight, their red and silver surfaces gleaming in the golden hour.
The ranch house dominated the landscape like a monument to prosperity—a sprawling log construction with soaring gables and multiple dormers silhouetted against the deepening sky.
Light spilled from the windows, casting rectangular pools of yellow onto the wraparound deck supported by massive timber posts.
Professional landscaping surrounded the foundation with native stone planters and manicured shrubs that probably cost more than most ranchers made in a year.
The air here smelled different too—less like cattle and hay, more like money and ambition. Even the gravel driveway was perfectly graded, crunching under their tires with a sound that whispered expense. Wind chimes hung from the porch eaves, their sound eerily clear in the still evening air.
It felt more like a movie set than a working ranch—the kind of place built to impress visitors rather than raise livestock. The house lights made it look warm and inviting, but Hammer knew better.
“Looks like your father’s done well for himself.”
“Mayor’s salary probably helps. Plus whatever he makes from the ranch operation.” Mack was studying the house like he was memorizing details, his voice carrying a note of pride that made Hammer’s stomach turn. “He always said hard work and smart decisions would pay off eventually.”
Hard work. Hammer tasted bile at the back of his throat. This wasn’t hard work. This was kickback and corruption, political connections and the kind of moral flexibility that let a man sleep at night despite his sins.
Hammer parked near the front porch, noting the security lights that flooded the yard with harsh white illumination. Motion sensors, probably. Multiple cameras mounted under the eaves. Either Mayor Jenkins had enemies, or he had something worth protecting.
“You coming in?” Mack asked as he opened his door.
“I’ll wait here.”
“He’d want to see you. I know things were complicated when we were kids, but—”
“Complicated?” He shook his head. “I’ll wait here, Mack. Text me when you’re ready to go.”
“Listen. I get it. Just go. But I’m sticking around.” Mack gave him a grim smile, understanding passing between them. Some wounds were too deep for time to heal, some relationships too broken for politics or politeness to repair.
Not that there was a relationship to be fixed.
Mack grabbed his duffel out of the back.
The front door opened before Mack reached the porch steps.
Mayor Alden Jenkins stepped into the light—taller than Hammer remembered, broader through the shoulders, but carrying the same intimidating presence that had terrorized one young boy while charming everyone else.
His dark hair was now streaked with silver, swept back from a face that had aged into the kind of gravitas voters mistakenly found reassuring.
Deep lines etched around dark eyes that had learned to project sincerity on command, while his mouth held the practiced smile of a man who’d spent decades convincing people he was worthy of their trust.
The monster, in the flesh.
“Mack.” Alden’s voice carried syrupy pleasure. “Look at you. All grown up.”
He hugged Mack, but Alden’s gaze found Hammer through the truck’s windshield.
Hammer bristled. “Let’s go,” he said as Mack went into the house.
“You okay?” Saxon. He looked over from the passenger seat.
“Yep.”
Saxon sort of grunted, then looked out the window.
Of course, the drive back toward the motel, with a small detour, took him past the Blackwood ranch.
Whatever.
And sure, okay, he found himself slowing as the property came into view.
The contrast with the Jenkins spread was immediate and painful. Where Jenkins’s ranch spoke of prosperity and careful management, the Blackwood place showed the strain of recent losses and deferred maintenance.
Fence posts leaned at odd angles along the gravel drive that led to a house that had once been magnificent.
The two-story structure rose from a foundation of native stone, its cedar-shingle siding weathered to a soft gray that spoke of decades facing Colorado winters.
Three distinctive gables crowned the roofline along with a welcoming, if saggy, front porch.
A few brave mums still bloomed in clay pots by the front steps, Sierra’s attempt to maintain some beauty despite everything else falling apart, maybe. The porch swing hung slightly crooked, and several of the cedar shingles curled at the edges, waiting for repairs that might never come.
Still, the house held dignity. Warm light spilled from the tall windows, and smoke drifted from the stone chimney, carrying the scent of burning wood and home-cooked meals.
This wasn’t a showplace like Jenkins’s spread—it was a home where generations had been raised, where real work was done, where love lived in every weathered board and carefully tended detail.
At least, that was his memory.