Chapter 11 #2
He turned, but as he did, his gaze landed on the table by the door. On the business card that lay on the wooden top.
Ralph Rousseau, Rocky Mountain Land Development.
Rowan picked up the card. A handwritten message was scrawled on the back.
It’s time.
“Man’s been persistent, I’ll give him that,” Alden said, clearly seeing his actions.
Rowan turned to him. “How long has he been trying to buy your place?”
“Six months, maybe more. Started friendly enough, but lately…” Alden shook his head. “Yesterday he came by in person. Said I was being foolish, that accidents happen to people who don’t know when to take a good deal.”
“And you told him?”
“Same thing I’ve told him every time. This land isn’t for sale.” He met Rowan’s eyes. “It’s been in your family for three generations.”
Yes, yes, it had. “Have you had any problems? Cattle getting sick, equipment failing, fires?”
“You asked me that before. Some cattle went missing, but no trouble like the neighbors. But then, I’ve got good security.”
Rowan pocketed the business card and followed them out.
“Rowan.” Alden stepped out onto the porch beside him. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”
He just stared at the man. Then he nodded curtly and headed toward his truck. He had bigger problems than his stepfather’s belated attempt at redemption.
Saxon stood by his truck, holding his phone.
“I should go with him,” Rowan said, glancing at the retreating ambulance.
“No need. I’ll follow in my truck.” Saxon’s expression turned serious. “I’ll drop you back at the house. You should get back to Sierra and Huck. This could be a distraction while someone hits the ranch.”
And he just stilled. Wanted to bang his head on something. “You think—”
“I think we’re dealing with people who plan ahead. Go home. I’ll handle things at the hospital.” Saxon pocketed his phone. “I called Detective Martinelli. He’ll meet us at the scene tomorrow morning. We need to process that area properly.”
“What time?”
“Early. Seven a.m. That’ll give you time to get back for the rodeo.”
The rodeo. Yes. He couldn’t miss that. Thankfully, Sierra’s monthly annuity check had come in, and she’d paid Huck’s entrance fee on Monday.
The drive home took fifteen minutes through muddy back roads. By the time he pulled into the Blackwood ranch yard, his gut was a coiled knot.
“Call me with updates,” he said to Saxon as he got out.
The house was dark except for a single light in the living room window.
Rowan eased the door open. “Sierra?”
A shotgun barrel appeared in the doorway, followed by Sierra’s pale face. Her hair was disheveled, a fierceness in her eyes. She wore pajama pants and an oversized flannel shirt, and her bare feet.
Her posture suggested she’d been sitting in the dark for hours.
“Well, hello there, Annie Oakley,” Rowan said.
Recognition dawned in her eyes. Her rigid posture softened slightly, but the gun remained steady.
“Maybe let me do the shooting,” he said as he gently moved the barrel away from him, then eased the weapon from her grip.
“How is he?” she whispered.
Rowan set the shotgun aside and pulled her into his arms. “He’s stable, on his way to the hospital.”
“Who would shoot Morrie?” Sierra’s voice was muffled against his chest.
“Same people who’ve been targeting your ranch. Same people who want your land.” Rowan held her tighter, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. “But they made a mistake tonight.”
She lifted her head. “What kind of mistake?”
“They showed me exactly how far they’re willing to go.” Rowan’s hands framed her face. “And now I know how far I’m willing to go to stop them.”
Be brave.
Sierra took a deep breath, standing in the doorway of her grandfather’s office, morning sunlight streaming through the windows and illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden air.
The rich wood paneling seemed to glow in the early light, and everything looked exactly as he’d left it.
His reading glasses still sat on the massive oak desk beside a half-finished crossword puzzle.
His coffee mug—the one that read World’s Best Grandpa—sat empty beside a stack of unopened mail that had been accumulating for months.
The familiar scent of leather and Old Spice aftershave hung in the air, making her chest tight with loss.
Yes, she should have done this days ago when they were putting the house back together, but every time Sierra walked into this room, she could still see him sitting at that desk.
Huck was so excited about the rodeo today, and she needed to focus on that, but these papers needed to be sorted, and maybe if she started with the easy stuff—old bills, ranch records—she could work up to the personal things.
Rowan would be back soon, and then they could be, well, a normal family, right? Just going to watch their son compete.
Rowan’s words hung in her mind. I’m meeting Saxon and Detective Martinelli at the scene. I’ll be back in time for Huck’s competition, I promise.
She’d called the hospital this morning and gotten an update on Morrie from his wife. He’d survived the night, was out of ICU, the tough dog that he was.
Just start with something easy. She moved to the desk and picked up the stack of mail, sorting through bills and advertisements.
Electric company, feed store, ranch equipment catalogs—all the mundane business of running a cattle ranch that had continued arriving long after the man who’d built it was gone.
“Mom!” Huck’s voice carried down the hallway, followed by the thunder of his boots on the hardwood floors. “Where’s my good belt? The one with the silver buckle.”
“Hanging in your closet behind your church shirt,” Sierra called back, not looking up from the papers.
A few moments later, “Found it! How long until Mr. R gets back? I want to show him my rope work before we leave.”
He still hadn’t called Rowan Dad, but she wasn’t pushing. It would come. Maybe. Hopefully.
Sierra glanced at the clock on the mantel. Eight thirty. Rowan had been gone for over an hour, and the rodeo started at noon. “He should be back soon, baby. Keep getting ready.”
She tackled the filing cabinet next, sorting through years of ranch records and tax documents. It was easier to focus on the numbers, the practical details of hay purchases and veterinary bills, than to think about the personal items that would come later.
An hour passed before she worked up the courage to approach the bookshelf where he’d kept his personal correspondence.
Her fingers traced the spines of his favorite novels—Louis L’Amour westerns and Tom Clancy thrillers—before reaching for the ornate wooden box where he’d kept important family documents.
Inside, she found pictures of her parents, their marriage certificate, her birth certificate, report cards from elementary school that he’d saved. At the bottom of the box was a framed photograph that made her breath catch.
She was thirteen in the picture, wearing cowboy boots and a fringed vest, her hair in two braids that hung past her shoulders.
Her grandfather stood beside her, his arm around her shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera.
She remembered that day—her first time competing in barrel racing, nervous and excited and desperate to make him proud.
“I miss you so much, Grandpa.” The words came out as a whisper, her throat tight with unshed tears. “I don’t know how to do this without you. How to keep the ranch going, how to protect Huck, how to be half the person you raised me to be.”
She traced his face in the photograph with one finger, remembering the sound of his laugh.
“But I have something amazing to tell you. Rowan came back.” A smile tugged at her lips despite the tears.
“Remember how you always said he was a good kid who just needed a chance to grow up? Well, he grew up, and he came back, and Grandpa…he’s incredible.
He’s patient with Huck, and strong, and protective.
He looks at me the way Dad used to look at Mom. Like I’m his whole world.”
Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. “He’s teaching Huck things you would have loved to see. Roping, and how to be brave, and what it means to be a good man. And he loves us—really loves us, not just because we need him but because we’re his family now. You’d be so proud of the man he became.”
She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “I just wish you were here to see it. To see Huck with his father, to see us finally being the family you always wanted for us.”
The photograph showed them both so happy, so sure of their place in the world. Sierra had never imagined that day that she’d be sitting in his office alone, sorting through the pieces of a life cut short.
She went to put it back, but it didn’t sit flat on the bottom, so she picked it up. Huh. She turned it over and found a small latch hidden behind the backing. When she pressed it, the back of the frame popped open to reveal a small brass key taped to the inside.
What? Sierra stared at the key. She’d been through every drawer in this desk, every cabinet in this office. Where was there a lock she hadn’t found?
She stood up, looking around the room with new eyes. The filing cabinets used regular keys. The desk drawers weren’t locked. But there, hanging on the wall behind his desk, was her parents’ wedding portrait in an ornate silver frame.
No. That felt too easy. But when Sierra lifted the heavy frame from its hook—what in the world?—she found a small safe built into the wall, its door flush with the wood paneling and painted to match, with a small keyhole.
The brass key fit perfectly.
An envelope folder sat inside the safe, the manila folder inside thick with documents. Her hands shook as she pulled it out and returned to the desk, spreading the contents across the surface under the morning light.