3. Zahara
THREE
ZAHARA
Not wind.
Not an animal shifting in brush.
Dragging.
Slow.
Deliberate.
My eyes snap open.
The house is dark, moonlight cutting through the thin curtains in silver lines. For a moment I stay still, listening the way I do in trauma bays, breath measured, senses open.
There it is again.
Scrape.
Pause.
Scrape.
My heart begins a steady, controlled climb.
I slide out of bed quietly and move to Zion’s room first. He’s sprawled sideways across the mattress, one arm hanging off the edge, mouth slightly open.
Safe.
I press my palm gently to his back just to feel him breathe.
Another scrape outside.
Closer this time.
I straighten slowly.
Okay.
Not panicking.
Panicking doesn’t solve anything.
I walk into the kitchen and reach for the baseball bat I tucked beside the fridge earlier. Yes, it’s ridiculous. Yes, I’m a doctor, not a vigilante. But I refuse to be unprepared.
The sound shifts toward the side of the house.
Metal clinks.
My pulse spikes.
That’s the shed.
I step onto the porch barefoot, cool wood under my feet. The night air is sharp and dry. The moon is high enough to cast long shadows across the yard.
And then I see it.
The shed door is open.
I left it closed.
My grip tightens on the bat.
“Hello?” I call out, voice strong and steady.
Silence.
The kind that feels thick.
I move down the steps carefully, every sense alert.
Halfway across the yard, I hear it?—
Bootsteps.
Behind me.
My body reacts before my brain does. I spin, lifting the bat?—
And slam it straight into a solid chest.
It doesn’t move.
It just absorbs the hit.
“Well,” Beau says calmly, “that’s one way to say good evening.”
I stare up at him, breath ragged.
He’s wearing a dark henley and jeans, no hat tonight. His hair falls slightly forward over his forehead. He looks… infuriatingly steady.
“You don’t sneak up on someone holding a bat,” I snap.
“You don’t wander barefoot into the dark alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I lie.
His eyebrow lifts.
“Bat doesn’t count.”
“I would’ve hit harder if I meant it.”
“I know.”
That irks me more than it should.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“I heard something.”
“And you thought you’d just… what? Patrol my yard?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of that answer steals my breath for half a second.
He moves past me without waiting for permission, heading toward the shed.
“You don’t get to just—” I start.
“I do if someone’s been on your property twice in two days.”
I follow him, because despite my pride, I’m not stupid enough to let him investigate alone.
The shed door creaks in the wind.
Beau steps inside first. His presence fills the small structure immediately, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame.
“Flashlight?” he asks quietly.
I hand him the one from my pocket.
He sweeps it across the interior.
One rake knocked over.
One shovel missing.
My stomach drops.
“I had two,” I say.
His jaw tightens.
Boot prints in the dirt floor.
Fresh.
He kneels, studying them like he’s reading a book.
“Work boots,” he mutters. “Heavy tread.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I sound concerned.”
I fold my arms, though my pulse is still racing.
“Maybe someone needed a shovel.”
“At two in the morning?”
“It happens.”
He looks up at me slowly.
“You always this stubborn?”
“Only with men who assume I need rescuing.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“Not rescuing,” he says. “Preventing.”
“From what?”
He stands, close enough that I can see the faint scar along his jawline. I don’t remember that scar.
“From escalation,” he says quietly.
The word lands heavy.
“You think this is going to escalate?” I ask.
“I know Mercer.”
My breath stills slightly.
“You think he’s behind this.”
“I think he doesn’t like surprises. And you’re one.”
“And what are you?” I challenge.
His gaze drops to my bare feet.
“Trouble,” he murmurs again.
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
I clear my throat.
“You could’ve knocked.”
“You could’ve stayed inside.”
We stare at each other, tension coiled tight between us.
And then?—
A horse screams.
High-pitched.
Panicked.
We both freeze.
“That’s not normal,” Beau says sharply.
“I figured.”
He’s already moving, sprinting toward the fence line.
I curse under my breath and follow.
The sound is coming from Vance Ranch.
By the time we reach the fence, Beau is climbing it in one smooth motion.
“You stay here,” he orders.
“I absolutely will not.”
He hesitates half a second, just long enough for me to slip through the gate he left open.
“Zahara,” he growls.
“Save it.”
We run toward the paddock.
One of the horses is thrashing near the fence, rope tangled around its leg. A metal bucket lies overturned nearby.
“Someone spooked him,” Beau mutters.
He approaches slowly, voice low and calm. The horse recognizes him instantly, snorting but settling slightly.
I watch his hands.
Steady.
Sure.
Gentle in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him.
He works the rope free carefully.
The horse stills.
“You’re good at that,” I say before I can stop myself.
“I’ve had practice.”
He stands, brushing dust from his hands.
Then his eyes scan the perimeter.
“There,” he says.
I follow his gaze.
A section of the ranch fence has been clipped clean.
Clean.
Not attempted like mine.
Executed.
My pulse hammers.
“That’s not kids messing around,” I whisper.
“No.”
“Someone wants us scared.”
“Someone wants leverage.”
Us.
He said us.
I pretend not to notice.
We walk back toward the property line slowly.
“You think they’re trying to pit us against each other?” I ask.
“They’re hoping you’ll sell.”
“And if I don’t?”
“They’ll make it uncomfortable.”
I exhale slowly.
“I’m not selling.”
He studies me.
“Good.”
“You say that like it benefits you.”
He doesn’t answer.
That silence again.
Infuriating.
“You tried to buy this land before I inherited it,” I say.
His gaze sharpens.
“You heard that.”
“Yes.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“That was before I knew it was yours.”
“Why did you want it?”
He looks toward the horizon.
“Water access. Mineral potential.”
There it is.
Money.
“Honest at least,” I mutter.
“I don’t lie.”
“You just omit.”
His eyes flash.
“Careful.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’ll make me start arguing for real.”
I step closer.
“I’d like to see that.”
The air changes.
Thick.
Heavy.
Electric.
“You wouldn’t,” he says softly.
“Oh, I absolutely would.”
He steps closer too.
Close enough that our boots nearly touch.
“You think I’m your problem,” he says.
“I think you’re hiding something.”
He inhales slowly.
“And you think I don’t notice how you look at me?” he murmurs.
My breath catches.
“I don’t?—”
“You do.”
Heat floods my face.
“I look at everyone.”
“Not like that.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re lying.”
I open my mouth to fire back.
But headlights sweep across the fields.
We both turn instantly.
A truck on the road.
Moving slow.
Too slow.
Beau’s posture changes immediately, shoulders squared, jaw tight.
“Go inside,” he says quietly.
“I’m not running.”
“Not running. Being smart.”
The truck idles for a long moment near the property edge.
Then drives on.
Neither of us speaks until the taillights disappear.
“They’re testing boundaries,” Beau says.
“I don’t like being tested.”
“I know.”
I look at him sharply.
“You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
He holds my gaze steadily.
“I know you don’t scare easy. I know you don’t ask for help. I know you put that bat down only after you realized it was me.”
My pulse stutters.
“And I know,” he continues, voice lower now, “you’re not used to someone standing between you and danger.”
“I don’t need someone standing between me and anything.”
“Your son does.”
That hits.
Hard.
Silence stretches between us.
“I won’t let anything happen to him,” he says quietly.
I swallow.
“You don’t get to make promises about my child.”
“I get to make promises about what happens on this land.”
“And what if the threat isn’t from outside?” I ask softly.
His eyes darken.
“You think I’d hurt you?”
“I think you want something from me.”
“I do.”
My heart pounds.
“And what’s that?”
He steps back.
“Trust.”
The word lands heavier than I expect.
“I don’t give that easily,” I say.
“I know.”
He looks toward the house.
“You should get some sleep.”
“And you?”
“I’ll patrol.”
“You don’t have to.”
He glances back at me.
“Yes. I do.”
And just like that, he walks off into the dark.
Tall. Steady. Silent.
A line between me and whatever might be watching.
I stand there longer than I should.
Angry.
Confused.
Aware.
And something else I refuse to name.
Because the worst part?
I didn’t feel safer until he showed up.
And that?—
That is dangerous in ways I’m not ready for.
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