Chapter 19-Sawyer
“We’ve got another delivery of bulls scheduled for next month,” Micah says, eyes still glued to the laptop screen glowing on the old wooden desk.
We’re sharing the big office inside the main barn for now—high ceilings, metal walls, and a faint smell of hay and oil that never quite goes away.
It’s fine by me, but I know Micah. The man likes his space.
He’ll be cutting this area in half the minute we finish installing the new updates to the system, building himself a corner where he can work his tech magic without Benji or me breathing down his neck.
“From where?” Benji asks, leaning back in his chair, boots up on the desk like he owns the place.
“Kingston Ranch,” Micah replies, tapping something into his spreadsheet.
I let out a low whistle. “They’ve got quite the reputation.”
“They do,” Micah says, his grin faint but smug. “And they’re tired of dealing with Gunner Land & Seed. Old man Gunner’s been scheming again—claiming a percentage of each sired bull for himself.”
I grunt. “That tracks.”
Benji’s jaw tightens.
He doesn’t say it, but we all know what’s running through his head.
His old man’s a legend in the industry for all the wrong reasons—greedy, ruthless, and the kind of bastard who sees loyalty as a weakness.
It’s one of the reasons we started Jersey Iron Ranch in the first place. We wanted to build something clean.
Honest. Ours.
But knowing Ace Gunner’s been pulling strings behind the scenes, even hiring out muscle to sabotage us?
That puts him in a whole new category of scum.
Benji drags a hand through his hair.
“I put out some feelers. My father hired that crew—the Hellbound Heathens—through Josh Cunnings. You remember him? Foreman he brought on when I enlisted.”
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. “I remember.”
Micah mutters something that sounds like a curse. And I don’t blame him. Josh Cunnings is a motherfucking cockroach.
I only met him once ten years ago, and it was enough.
“Look, our next run happens in a few days,” I say, cutting through the tension. “I reached out to my contacts, and no one has heard a whisper about the Heathens coming back for more. So I’m hoping our little skirmish was enough to dissuade them.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Micah says without looking up.
“Even with only two of us on a delivery, we’ll be able to cover ourselves.
I’ve got the new rig ready to go—state-of-the-art surveillance, reinforced locks updated with all the new biometric tech, bullet-resistant cab. No one’s sneakin’ up on us this time.”
“Good,” I say, nodding. “We got this, boys. Just like old times.”
I pause, glancing at them both. “But I feel like I should tell you all that Bit—”
Micah snorts, finally looking up. “Bro, we really don’t give a damn who you’re shacked up with.”
My hackles rise instantly. “I’m not shacking up with her. This is different.”
Benji chuckles under his breath. Micah smirks, but I’m not smiling.
“And I know it’s fast,” I continue, leveling a hard stare at both of them, “so I’ll let you off with a warning. But you only get one.”
Micah raises his hands in mock surrender. “It’s like that, hoss?”
“Damn straight,” I growl. “Just watch your mouths about Lil Bit. Do that, and we’ll be good, brother. Got it?”
“Copy,” Micah says, the humor gone now.
Benji studies me for a moment, his expression thoughtful.
“Well, hell. So you really do care for this woman?”
I nod once. It’s not enough to explain it, but words aren’t my strong suit.
Care for doesn’t come close.
It’s an understatement the size of Texas.
I obsess over her.
I ache for her.
Hell, I think I love her already.
But that’s not something I’m saying out loud—not here, not yet.
She deserves better than a confession tossed around a barn office between shipment schedules.
“Thing is,” I say instead, voice lower now, “one of the Heathens—the prick who started all this—he’s got history with Bit. He’s why she came running here with those guys, the Destiny’s Enforcers MC.”
Micah frowns. “What do you mean, history?”
I clench my jaw.
“Asshole came on strong, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Started a bar brawl over her, and the DEMC boys got her out of there. Turns out he’s a full-patch Heathen, and that crew likes to dabble in human trafficking.”
Benji slams his hand on the desk. “The fuck?”
Micah mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
“Exactly,” I say, my tone sharp. “I had that bastard in my grip the night they ambushed the truck, but I didn’t know it was him. He slipped away. So now—”
“Now you want extra security here, especially when we’re out on runs,” Micah finishes, voice all business now.
The joking edge is gone, replaced by the soldier in him.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Exactly that.”
Benji leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes steady on mine.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
And right then, I know—beyond any doubt—that I picked the right partners for this place. This ranch.
We’re not just friends.
We’re brothers.
And anyone who comes for what’s ours—our land, our business, or the woman I can’t stop thinking about—is gonna regret ever stepping foot in Barren County.
That’s a promise I guarantee.