Chapter 28-Sawyer
The road to Arizona stretches out in front of me like it never ends.
It’s miles of cracked asphalt, bleached road signs, and the shimmer of heat mirages twisting the horizon into something that feels more like a dream than a highway.
Out here, it’s just me, the guys, the hum of the rig’s engine, and the ghost of that unease that’s been riding shotgun since we left Dry Creek.
The air hums with quiet tension, the kind you can’t quite name but sure as hell can feel.
Every bump in the road feels sharper, every shadow on the shoulder feels wrong.
And even though this run’s been clean so far, I can’t shake it.
That feeling.
The one that starts deep—right at the base of my spine—and crawls up slow, whispering that something’s off.
Micah says it’s just the soldier in me that doesn’t know how to rest.
Benji says I’m turning into an old man who worries too damn much.
But neither of them saw what I saw that night when the Heathens hit us.
Neither of them held that bastard’s gaze and felt the kind of hate that doesn’t burn out easy.
That kind of hate waits.
Plots.
Festers.
And the thought of it finding its way back to my ranch—to her—has my jaw locked tight and my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make the leather creak.
“Yo, Sawyer, you good? Need a break, man?” Benji’s voice cuts through the low growl of the engine.
“Nah, I’m tight,” I reply, scanning the road ahead.
He nods, leaning back in the passenger seat, his eyes hidden behind aviators.
Micah’s in the back, laptop open, tapping away, running checks on our satellite tracker and updating our internal logs—doing whatever the hell it is he does that keeps us one step ahead of the assholes trying to sink us.
We make good time, but the miles stretch, long and dry and endless.
Every so often, I catch a glimpse of something in the side mirror—a dust trail, a flash of chrome—but it’s always nothing. Just heat and nerves.
Still, the tension never lets up.
A few more deliveries, and we’ll be back in the black.
Fucking Ace Gunner, that piece of shit, and his hired gang of low lives cost us plenty.
Every hit set us back a half a mil easy—lost contracts, damaged product, equipment repairs, security upgrades.
We were lucky no one got killed.
But we’re rebuilding.
Between the Brentwood Cattle account, this Arizona one, and a few others Micah’s lining up, things are looking damn good for Jersey Iron Ranch.
And the best part?
We’re doing it our way.
The idea’s simple but smart—merge the old-school grit of seedstock breeding with cutting-edge tech.
Genetic testing, digital tracking, and advanced cryo storage.
It’s all stuff the big corporate operations use, but without all the soulless bullshit.
My vision.
Micah’s tech genius.
Benji’s bloodline.
Jersey Iron Ranch is the future, whether the old guard likes it or not.
“Once we’re back in the green, we start expanding,” Micah mutters, eyes glued to his screen.
“Hire some of our old team from our service days—men we can trust. Let ‘em drive the long hauls, handle security detail. Got some more rigs lined up. They’re used, but Benji you can upgrade and outfit them for our needs,” he says.
“Damn fucking straight I can,” Benji answers.
“Hell, in a year or two, we maybe even set up a satellite ranch in Montana or Texas if things keep climbing.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I mutter, but I can’t help the small grin tugging at my mouth.
The man’s right, though. We’ve got something here—something solid.
It’s a good feeling.
Or it should be.
But under it, there’s that low hum again. That gut-deep warning that says maybe peace is just the calm before the next hit.
The kind of quiet that’s too perfect.
Too still.
I shake it off, rolling my shoulders and glancing out at the desert stretching for miles—flat, open, and merciless.
By the time the sun starts dipping low, painting everything in orange and rust, we’re pulling into Rattlesnake Ranch.
The place sits just outside Tucson—sprawling and sunbaked, the kind of operation that hums with old money and big ambition. Long white fences, wide corrals, and barns that look more like luxury car garages.
A couple of ranch hands wave us in as the dust kicks up behind the rig. There’s a line of trucks parked along the fence, all shiny, new, and expensive. Even the cattle here look like they’re worth more than most folks’ houses.
Benji whistles low.
“Damn. These people don’t just raise cattle—they build empires.”
I kill the engine and climb down, boots hitting the packed dirt with a thud. The desert air hits my lungs dry and sharp, hot as sin even with the sun half gone.
“Alright,” I say, scanning the lot. “Let’s make it quick, get the paperwork signed, and head out first thing in the morning.”
Benji nods, but his grin fades when he catches my expression.
“You still got that feeling?”
I meet his gaze, jaw tight.
“Yeah,” I admit. “And I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon.”
Because no matter how good the deal, how smooth the delivery, or how wide the desert sky stretches—there’s a shadow on the horizon I can’t ignore.
And it’s got my woman’s name written all over it.