Page 101 of Savage Rancher
The motion sensor alert vibrates my phone on the nightstand.
I'm up instantly, reaching for the device, my other hand already moving toward the drawer where I keep my sidearm.
The screen shows a vehicle approaching the main gate. Black SUV. Expensive. Alone. I pull up the camera feed and zoom in on the driver, but I already know who it is.
Cole Turner.
I grit my teeth, holding a growl in. He's coming here, to my property—the morning after his crew chased Emma through the dark.
I can’t decide if it’s very stupid or very smart.
Sliding out of bed carefully to avoid waking Emma, I pull on jeans and a T-shirt. I grab my phone and move downstairs, my mind already in operational mode.
Mason's in the kitchen, coffee in hand, his eyes on his own phone. He looks up when I enter.
"Turner's at the gate," he says quietly.
"I know." I pour myself a coffee. "Let him in."
Mason's eyebrow lifts. "You sure?"
"Yeah." I take a sip, the heat grounding me. "I want to hear what he has to say."
Mason taps his phone, and the gate opens remotely. We both watch the feed as the SUV rolls up the driveway, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.
"Luke?" I ask.
"In the stable. Watching." Mason's voice is flat. "He's got eyes on the approach and the perimeter."
Good.
The SUV parks in front of the house. Turner steps out—tailored jacket, dark pants, boots polished to a shine. He looks like a businessman, not a trafficker. Not a man who was running human cargo through Emma’s property twelve hours ago.
He walks to the front door and knocks.
I wait. Let him stand there. Let him wonder if I'm going to answer.
Then I go open it.
Turner smiles. It's the kind of smile that doesn't reach his eyes—polished, practiced, empty.
"Jake Callahan," he says, his voice smooth. "Mind if I come in?"
I hold my position in the doorway. "What do you want, Turner?"
"Just a conversation." He glances past me, into the house. "Man to man."
I step aside, letting him in, and close the door behind him. Mason's in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching. Turner notices but doesn't acknowledge him.
Without waiting for an invite, Turner walks into the living room, his gaze sweeping the space—assessing, cataloging. "Nice place. You boys have done well for yourselves."
I don't respond.
Turner turns to face me, his hands in his pockets, relaxed. "I wanted to come by and clear the air after last night."
"Last night," I repeat, my voice cold.
"Yeah." He nods, his expression thoughtful. "See, I knew Emma was up on the north ridge. I knew she was taking pictures."
