Page 69 of Savage Rancher
No.
Then I definitely shouldn’t come.
J
And yet…
What time?
67
JAKE
Mason, Luke, and I arrive at the Rusty Spur at 1730—early enough to claim territory, late enough that the after-work crowd is filtering in—ranchers, construction workers, and the regulars who treat this place like a second living room.
Mason parks his truck next to mine in the gravel lot. Luke pulls up on the other side, like we discussed formation.
Three men. One message.
We walk in as a unit, and I scan automatically. Exits—front door, back hallway leading to restrooms, and rear exit. Sight lines—clear view from the pool tables to the bar. Potential threats?—
Cole Turner.
He's at the bar, nursing what looks like whiskey. His back is to us, but his shoulders stiffen the second we walk in. He knows we're here.
Good.
Mason catches my eye and jerks his chin toward a corner table. Perfect position—wall behind us, clear view of the entrance and the bar. Tactical advantage. We claim it without discussion.
Luke drops into the chair facing the pool tables, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. Mason takes the seat with the best view of the bar. I sit where I can see the door so I can see her the second she walks in.
"You good?" Mason asks quietly.
"Yeah." Glancing at Turner, I stretch my fingers. I know exactly what I'm doing. This isn't romance. This is strategy. Remove ambiguity. Establish Emma as protected. Force Turner to recalculate.
Mason’s watching Cole at the bar. "He's twitchy."
Luke snorts. "He should be. We’re a wall of consequences he can’t outrun."
A server approaches—blond, mid-thirties, efficient. "Evening, boys. What can I get you?"
"Three beers," Mason says. "Whatever's on tap."
She nods and heads toward the bar, coming back in a few minutes with our beers. I’m paying her when I see Cole push off his stool and start toward us.
Here we go.
I don’t move a muscle, but I watch him approach.
He stops at a comfortable distance from our table, not crowding or posturing. His hands are relaxed at his sides, his expression pleasant. Professional.
"Jake Callahan." He says it like he's greeting a business associate. "I thought that was you. Mind if I join you for a moment?"
He doesn't wait for permission, pulling out the fourth chair and sitting down with the ease of someone accustomed to negotiating. Not aggressive. Just... present.
I don't respond. Just watch him.
Turner's eyes move across the three of us—assessing, calculating. When he speaks again, his tone is conversational. "You've assembled quite the team here. Former military, I'mguessing? Special forces based on the way you move and the way you position yourselves." He gestures to our table placement. "Tactical. Impressive."
