Page 13 of Savage Rancher
JAKE
The ranch house is dark when I pull up, but the lights in the barn are blazing.
Some might think Mason and Luke are working, but I know they’re waiting up for me.
Good. I need to talk to them.
I kill the engine and sit in Turner’s truck for a moment. Hands steady on the wheel, I control my breathing until it’s calm. Things didn’t go according to plan tonight, but I’m not sorry, not if it means I get Emma back. We’ll handle the rest.
I climb out of the vehicle. The night air is cold and clean, carrying the scent of pine and hay. I bow my head to my jacket, smelling Emma’s perfume on me.
I’ve never been so tempted to abandon a mission. It’s only because I need to make sure Emma’s protected that I stay on course and don’t go back to climb through her bedroom window like I used to.
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote cries. The sound grounds me and pulls me back into the present.
I cross the yard toward the barn, my boots slurping in the mud giving away my position.
I’m still getting used to Blackthorn Ranch. It’s hard to believe it’s our home now, ten thousand acres of Montana wilderness that we closed on a week ago. It used to be a cattle ranch. Now it’s home to three retired special forces operatives with no clue how to live in normal society.
What the fuck are we going to do here?
Our dog runs out—well, Shadow is as much our dog as a stray we found a week ago can be—and checks the yard, prepared to attack. When he sees it’s me, he slinks back to his bed in the stables.
Both leaves of the Dutch door are open, spilling warm light into the darkness. I can hear the low murmur of voices inside—Mason and Luke.
They look up when I walk in.
Luke leans against an empty stall, arms crossed, his light eyes assessing despite his snarky grin. He's built like an athlete—six-three, two twenty, all lean muscle and controlled violence. Our team’s former combat medic and demolitions expert, Riot is the kind of man who’ll blow it all up and then patch it together—if it suits him. His golden California good looks and reckless charm fool a lot of people.
Sitting on a hay bale cleaning his sniper rifle with methodical precision, Mason is no less gaging. He’s leaner than Luke, darker, and just as deadly. He grew up in a town like Iron Ridge near Santa Fe, but he doesn’t talk about it much. He doesn’t talk much at all. Most people underestimate him because he speaks so little, but to underestimate Ace is the sort of error you only make once. He can put a bullet through your eye from two thousand yards out and not lose a second of sleep over it.
They're my brothers—not by blood, but by choice. By fire. By lifetimes of watching each other's backs in places most people can't even pronounce.
And they know me well enough to read my face.
“Problem?” Mason asks, checking his scope.
I nod. "One."
Mason lowers the rifle, his dark eyes locked on mine. “What kind?”
"Witness."
The word drops in the barn like a grenade.
Mason's jaw tightens. "Fuck. Who?"
"Emma."
“Emma?” Luke's eyebrows rise. "EmmaHayes?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. They both know, as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one Emma. They know she’s the reason we’re here in Iron Ridge.
"Shit." Mason leans forward. "How much did she see?"
"Enough."
"Jesus Christ, Warden." Luke shifts against the rough wood at his back. To anyone who doesn’t know him, he’d look relaxed. "So where’s the package?"
