Page 3 of Savage Rancher
Can’t.
No one puts that look into Emma Hayes’s eyes.
No one touches her—except me.
I glance at the time. He’s late, but he’ll be here.
It’s the last time he’ll come to the Rusty Spur. The last time he gets drunk here. The last he’ll leave the bar to go home and beat up whatever woman is broken enough to choose to be with him. The last time he picks on the weak and flexes his muscles against the less fortunate in this town.
The last time he threatens Emma Hayes.
I stretch my fingers inside my gloves, ready.
4
JAKE
2125.
A truck rumbles into the full parking lot, kicking up gravel as it skids to a stop, blocking the entrance. It’s a black F-450 Platinum, license plate TURN2AU.
I’ve only been back in Iron Ridge for a week, but I know the truck belongs to Eli Turner and was paid for in cash. I also know that the Turner spread has steady cattle sales, but their operational costs are too high. His operation capital wouldn’t be able to sustain that kind of purchase.
If it’s too good to be true, it likely is.
I know that Eli’s older brother, Cole, who lives in Bozeman, manages a handful of shady corporations and has ties to some very bad men. Must be where the extra cash is coming from.
Not that it matters. Eli Turner won’t live through the night.
The truck door slams shut hard, and a man struts around the vehicle. I recognize the way he moves, pushing his way into the night like the bully he’s been since he was a kid.
Turner pauses, head down, staring at the cell phone in his hand. His laugh is loud and ugly as he taps something on the screen. Still focused on his phone, he continues toward the barin that loose, swaggering gait—probably already half drunk and definitely full of himself.
I stay where I am, flexing my fingers in the gloves. My slow, steady breaths don’t stir the air.
He doesn't see me. He barks another laugh, muttering something as he puts the phone into his back pocket.
As he passes me, I push off the car and step forward, my boots silent on the gravel. "Turner."
He whirls to face me. Recognition hits, followed by irritation. Not fear—not yet.
"Jesus." He spits on the ground in my direction. "Jake Callahan."
I don't move closer. Don't need to. I don't say anything either. Like I said, I like the waiting.
"I heard you were back in town. Heard you were discharged." He sneers, the twisted smirk he perfected in the crib. "What? Not even good enough for the military, huh?”
A couple comes out of the bar. I move to the side to avoid being seen, but they’re making out, going into the alley behind the building, probably for a quickie, and oblivious to everything around them.
“Bet you came back for that Hayes bitch. You were always sniffing at her skirt, weren’t you, Callahan?” Turner sniggers, thinking he's clever. “Can’t blame you. Sweet piece of ass like that.”
I keep my expression static. I stopped letting fuckers like Eli Turner pull me a long time ago. Eighteen years in the military—ten of those as a Delta Force member—hones a man.
Turner watches me carefully. “And now her daddy’s dead and Emma’s on all that land, all by herself. Imagine what could happen to a woman all alone."
There it is.
The reason I'm here.
