Chapter 9-Sawyer
Brentwood Cattle isn’t what I expected.
It’s bigger. Cleaner. Older.
Everything smells like fresh hay and money—generational kind.
The kind of ranch that’s been building itself for a hundred years and has the power to ruin a man with one bad handshake.
Charles Brentwood himself meets me at the main barn, a tall, silver-haired man in a crisp white shirt and the kind of jeans that probably never saw mud.
He’s all smiles, but there’s a calculating gleam in his eyes that says he knows exactly how much I need this contract.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d make it on time, Sawyer,” he says, hands on his hips. “In fact, I was told not to expect you at all.”
I set the clipboard down on the tailgate and meet his gaze.
“Really? I’d be interested to know who said that, Mr. Brentwood.”
He grins, slow and deliberate. “Ace Gunner. Gunner Land & Seed out of South Dakota. Big seed stock rancher. His family’s been in the business a hundred years.”
“Has it now.” I nod once, filing that name away. “Well, maybe I’ll give Mr. Gunner a call, let him know he doesn’t have to worry about Jersey Iron Ranch.”
Brentwood chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder like we’re old friends.
“You do that now. Oh—and Sawyer? I’m glad he was wrong. If this does what I think it will for my program, you and I are gonna be doing a lot of business together, my friend.”
I shake his hand, firm and sure.
“Glad to hear that, Mr. Brentwood.”
The deal’s done in minutes—his foreman signs off on the manifest, my trailer’s unhitched, and I hand over the straws like I’m passing off a newborn.
Every tube of that frozen gold represents months of work, planning, and risk.
It’s not just a delivery—it’s proof that Jersey Iron can play with the big boys.
But Ace Gunner’s name is still bouncing around in my head.
He’s not just competition. He’s legacy.
The kind of old-money rancher who thinks the world owes him respect because he inherited his daddy’s land instead of earning his own.
If he’s the one pulling the Heathens’ strings, then this isn’t about business anymore. It’s personal.
By the time I get back to the hotel, the night’s gone black again.
Rooster’s bike is parked out front, Falcon’s leaning against the railing with a bottle of something cold in his hand, and Micah and Benji are hauling takeout up the stairs, handing one big bag to Falcon.
We look like hell—road dust, bruises, and adrenaline—but everyone’s alive.
And it’s more than I hoped for when the shooting started.
Inside, the room smells like fries, sweat, and old air-conditioning.
The MC boys are sprawled out in their own room—eating, sleeping, cleaning up—I assume.
My guys perk up when I walk in.
Micah raises a brow. “How’d it go?”
I drop the clipboard on the dresser, peel off my gloves, and finally let the grin I’ve been holding back break loose.
“Brentwood’s happy. Contract’s solid.”
Benji whoops low and tired.
“Hell yeah, brother.”
Micah smirks from the bed.
“Knew you’d pull it off.”
I nod, sink into the nearest chair, and rub a hand over my face. I can feel the road dust grinding into my skin, but the exhaustion doesn’t touch the spark under my ribs.
I should be dead on my feet, but my mind’s wide awake.
“I know who hired the Heathens,” I say quietly.
All eyes are on me.
“Who?” Falcon asks from the doorway, his voice low.
I look up, meet his gaze, then look back at my guys.
“Ace Gunner.”
Micah whistles low. “That son of a bitch.”
Benji leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Fuck!”
“Who’s Ace Gunner?” Falcon asks.
“He’s the owner of a legacy operation, some say the best seed bulls in the country,” I reply.
“He’s also my bastard of a father,” Benji growls.
“Shit,” Falcon says.
“Yeah, shit.”
“So, what’s our next move?” Micah asks.
I glance toward the window, where the neon hotel sign blinks in and out.
Outside, somewhere far from here, there’s a woman back at my ranch who kissed me like she meant it just a day ago.
I straighten, the decision already made.
“We head home,” I say. “And then we make damn sure no one ever touches Jersey Iron—or the people on it—again.”
“Speaking of which there’s something you should know about the guy you were beatin’ on, Sawyer,” Rooster says.
I nod my head, grab a burger from the takeout bag, and I join him outside the motel room.