Sawyer (Dry Creek Cowboys #1)

Prologue-Sawyer

Walking away from war isn’t easy.

But if I want to live as something more than a machine, it’s necessary.

The things I’ve seen—the men I’ve killed—leave a mark no amount of scrubbing can take off.

You tell yourself you did what you had to. That you were following orders. That it was them or your brothers.

But at night, when it’s quiet, the ghosts line up anyway.

So, I came home.

Back to civilian life.

Back to silence.

After months of searching, I found the perfect place to build something that’s mine.

A stretch of land up in northern New Jersey of all damn places—a town called Dry Creek, tucked deep in Barren County. Mountains to the west, farmland to the east.

A dairy and produce farm next door, a sleepy town about thirty-five minutes down the highway.

Private. Quiet.

Just the way I wanted it.

The place had seen better days. Fire tore through it before I got here, but that just meant I bought it for a steal.

I rebuilt every inch—the barn, the house, the bull pens, bunkhouse, even the fences—poured every last dollar I had into making it right.

Now, it’s ready.

Jersey Iron Ranch.

My second chance. My empire.

Seed bulls, champion bloodlines, the kind of stock people pay real money for.

Bull jizz is a hell of a business, turns out.

Never thought I’d trade bullets for breeding contracts, but life’s got a sense of humor.

I’ve got two of my old special ops boys joining me soon—Benji and Micah. Solid men.

The kind you can count on when the world’s on fire.

Can’t wait to have them here, especially since trouble’s already sniffing around.

I mean that literally. I can’t wait.

So, I had to reach out to an old acquaintance with connections, Sammy Ramirez. He’s an ex special ops guy, just like me.

His connection? Nikolai Petrov. Bratva.

Not my ideal choice, but he’s honest enough.

Being a soldier taught me that there’s little difference between governments and gangsters.

Truth? The mafia runs their business just like legit corporations, and the fucker after me? Well, he ain’t kosher.

Whoever is behind the attacks on my business must not have bothered researching me.

He thinks I’m a sucker.

That I believe all this shit is random. Trucks stalling on highways. Stolen. Robbed. Broke down.

I’m talking new equipment carrying a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth of product.

Sure, because that happens more than once.

This fucking faceless asshole thinks I believe some low rent group of criminals hiding behind the patch of an MC—one that read Hellbound Heathens Cincinnati, as the secret dashcam on one of my most recently robbed trucks caught—has simply decided to go to war with a New Jersey seed bull ranch.

Yeah right. Cause that makes a shit ton of sense.

I don’t have a name yet. But there are few contenders.

What I do know for sure is something is fucking rotten around here.

People’ve been poking where they shouldn’t.

People who don’t want Jersey Iron Ranch to succeed.

Fact is, I need muscle until my guys arrive.

Sure, I’ve faced worse odds before. But I’m not about to sit back and let anyone take what I’ve built.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling this fight’s going to be different.

Because for once, it’s not just war or survival. It’s personal.

But I damn sure wasn’t expecting her.