Chapter 14 Maggie
Maggie
The morning came early and cold.
I was up before the alarm, moving through my cabin in the dark, pulling on layers I hoped would be enough. Late autumn in Texas could fool you—warm sun by noon, but those pre-dawn hours carried a bite.
By the time I reached the main barn, I'd already run through my mental checklist twice. Radios charged. First-aid kit restocked—extra wraps, the good hemostatic gauze, not the cheap stuff from the feed store. Water canteens filled. Ammunition counted.
The barn was lit and busy when I walked through the doors. Not tense, exactly—just purposeful.
Clay was leaning against a stall door with his arms crossed, looking like he'd rolled out of bed approximately ninety seconds ago. His hat was on crooked. His shirt was buttoned wrong. He was holding a biscuit in one hand and appeared to be losing a staring contest with one of the barn cats.
"You look terrible," I told him.
"It's four forty-five in the morning, Maggie. Everyone looks terrible at four forty-five in the morning." He took a bite of the biscuit. "Except you. You look like you've been up since three organizing something."
"Four. And I was organizing the first-aid supplies."
He scoffed once, amused but not surprised. “Of course you were."
Wyatt was near the tack room, checking rifles with the methodical focus that meant he'd been at it for a while. My brother processed worry as preparation—always had, even when we were kids.
Daddy was on his phone near the barn office, voice low. I caught fragments. "…bigger than we thought…" and "…appreciate the heads up, Dale." Comparing notes with the neighbors. The trail cameras had confirmed numbers overnight. He hung up and caught my eye, gave me a nod that said we'll go over it.
Hunter leaned against the far wall near his saddled horse, coffee in hand, expression quiet. He'd walked the creek edge with Jack yesterday evening and come back with nothing to say about it, which meant he'd seen plenty.
And Jack.
Jack was working near the back of the barn, checking his horse's hooves with practiced hands. Sully sat alert at his side, gaze tracking every movement in the barn.
Instead of reassuring me, the sight scraped against something raw. Because I couldn't look at Jack without my body remembering things it had no business remembering before sunrise. The way his hands felt sliding down my waist. The sound of my name in his mouth.
I didn't look at him longer than necessary. Today wasn't about whatever lived between us after dark. Today was about the ranch.
I busied myself with the saddlebags, rechecking supplies I'd already checked twice.
Get it together, Blackwood. You've got bigger problems than a man who makes you stupid.
"Coffee?" Momma appeared beside me with two thermoses and a cloth bag that smelled like fresh biscuits. Because of course she did.
“Thanks, Momma." I took the thermos. The metal was warm against my cold hands.
She didn't leave. She stood close enough that I could smell her perfume—vanilla and something floral, the same scent my entire life.
"You sure about riding out?"
I looked at her—really looked—and saw what she was actually asking.
"I'm sure," I said.
She nodded. Her gaze flicked once toward Jack. Then back to me.
I exhaled and nodded back.
"Be careful out there," she said softly. "All of you."
"We will."
She squeezed my arm once, then moved on—distributing coffee and biscuits to the crew, doing the work she'd done for forty years.
"Maggie." Wyatt materialized at my elbow with a clipboard that probably contained seventeen contingency plans. "We need to go over the approach. Dad and I mapped the likely bedding area based on the trail camera footage and the damage patterns Jack identified—"
"I know the plan, Wyatt. I was in the room when you made it."
He ignored me. "If we find the sounder and they scatter, nobody chases into the brush alone—"
"Radio check every fifteen, rally point at the old Miller fence line, three shots rapid for an emergency." I folded my arms. "I know."
That muscle in his cheek jumped—the one that meant he was working very hard not to say something he'd regret.
"I just want everyone on the same page."
"We are. Relax."
"This isn't—"
"Wyatt." I dropped my voice. "I've been riding this land just as long as you. I know every creek bed, every draw, every place a sounder might hole up. I'll be fine."
Something flickered behind his expression. The big brother under the ranch manager. In practice, the protectiveness made me want to throw things at his head. And the only reason I didn’t was because it made me happy to know he cared about my safety, even if it drove me nuts the way he showed it.
"Just stay in the middle of the group," he said quietly.
"Because it makes tactical sense," I said. "Not because you asked."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Fine. If the situation changes—"
"We reassess. No heroes. Just the job." I squeezed his arm. "Go check your rifles again. I know you want to."
He moved off looking slightly less wound up.
Daddy caught my eye from across the barn and gave me a small nod. Well handled.
Clay appeared at my shoulder. "That was impressive. You managed a whole Wyatt conversation without anyone raising their voice."
"It's too early for yelling. Give it an hour."
"Fair." He adjusted his hat—still crooked—and glanced toward where Jack was saddling up. "Your ranch hand looks like he's done this before."
I kept my expression neutral. "He's experienced.”
Clay's grin was slow and knowing. "Mm-hm."
I leveled him with a look. "Don't you have cattle to move?"
"Trying to get rid of me already?"
“Desperately. I’ve got shit to do.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled and wandered off toward the south pens, whistling.
I was going to kill him. Eventually. When there were fewer witnesses.
Ivy caught my arm near the barn doors. "Be careful," she said quietly. "All of you."
"Always."
Near the barn office, Stephanie stood close to Liam. He was on call with the Rangers today—couldn't ride out, and it was written all over his face how disappointed he was that he couldn’t help out.
"Radio check as soon as you're in position," he said. "Keep your rifle close."
"Yes, sir." I saluted, half-joking.
"Be safe, Mags." Not joking at all.
"I've got people watching my back." I glanced toward Jack without thinking.
Liam followed my gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly—that quiet read he did on everyone, the one that missed nothing.
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.
Jack had finished his prep and turned to Sully. The dog had been sitting at his side through everything, watchful and still. Now, as Jack crouched and murmured something low, Sully's body changed. He understood he was staying.
You could see it—the slight slump, the gaze that tracked Jack with worried intensity.
Too risky to bring a dog against hogs. Smart call.
But watching Jack say goodbye to his dog—watching that shepherd settle near the barn with resigned trust, believing his person would come back—did something to me I wasn't prepared for.
Jack straightened, walked to his horse, and swung into the saddle.
I watched him for a moment I didn't mean to take. He sat a horse like he'd been born to it—spine straight, shoulders easy, hands natural on the reins.
I looked away.
When I glanced toward Stephanie, she was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Something soft and knowing, like she recognized what she was seeing because she'd felt it herself.
I turned away from that, too.
"Mount up!" Daddy's voice carried across the barn—forty years of authority in two words. "Let's move."
I walked to my bay mare. She nickered as I approached, bumping her nose against my shoulder. "Hey, girl. Ready?"
She tossed her head. Ready.
I checked my cinch, swung up. The creak of leather, the solid warmth beneath me, the weight of the rifle across my back.
The group assembled—Daddy in front, Wyatt to his right, Hunter and Jack flanking, two experienced hands bringing up the rear. I took the middle position. Not because Wyatt asked. Because it made tactical sense.
I wasn't reckless. I was practical.
Daddy raised his hand. We rode.
The ranch fell away behind us as we headed north, hooves drumming a rhythm against packed earth. The morning air was crisp—sage and cedar and the faint damp of overnight dew. Ahead, the tree line rose dark against the lightening sky.
The trail cameras had confirmed what Jack suspected. At least five adults were working the creek bed in a pattern that said they weren't passing through. They'd claimed territory.
We were going to take it back.
The first hour was methodical. We tracked the damage north along the fence line, documenting what the cameras confirmed. Owen and Wyatt read the land with an expertise I could never match—the way certain grasses bent, the angle of a broken fence post, the story written in mud and tracks.
Jack rode beside me for most of it—near enough to consult without crowding. Where Daddy saw damage, Jack saw patterns. Where Wyatt saw threat, Jack saw predictability.
"Creatures of habit," he said, studying a section of rooted earth near the second feed station. "Same path every night. Same spots. That makes them easier to trap, but it also means they're comfortable. Comfortable hogs don't flee."
"They fight," I said.
He looked at me. “Yeah." The response, the hint of worry in his eyes, was too loaded for me to deal with right now.
Hunter had pushed ahead toward a gap in the brush where a game trail cut toward the creek—the route he'd identified walking the edges last night with Jack.
He moved through the terrain with the ease of someone who'd mapped it on foot, and I saw Jack watching him with the quiet attention of a man who recognized skill in someone else.
The morning warmed as we pushed deeper. Open pasture gave way to scrubby mesquite, then denser brush near the water. Visibility dropped. The trees pressed closer, throwing shadow even as the sun climbed.