Page 60 of Branded By the Cowboy

Three tones.

Then—

“This better be good,” Beckett’s voice rumbles, low and dry, like he’s halfway through a bottle of whiskey and a bad mood.

I exhale hard, relief loosening in my chest. “Still an asshole, I see.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a gruff laugh. “Sutton. Damn. Long time. What’s up?”

I glance at the window, at the skeleton of the barn, and at the faint outline of Luna through the glass door—healing but alive.

“I need a favor.”

His voice sharpens. “Talk.”

I lean against the desk, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. “Someone tried to kill my wife.”

Silence.

Then, colder now: “Say that again.”

“They set fire to the barn while she was inside. It wasn’t random. Wasn’t an accident. She was supposed to die in there.”

Beckett swears softly under his breath. Then I hear the glug of liquid—probably whiskey. “You got proof?”

“Sheriff’s report came in yesterday. Arson. Deliberate. Same as the other shit that’s been happening—cut fences, busted water pipes, missing livestock. I didn’t want to see it at first. Thought it was bad luck. But now?—”

“Now it’s a pattern.”

“Yeah.” I rub the heel of my hand over my brow. “And I’m done pretending it’s not personal.”

Another pause. Then, “You think it’s about the ranch?”

“I think it’s about control. Land. Maybe the will. I don’t know. But whoever it is, they’re not afraid to escalate.”

His voice drops. “You think they’ll come back.”

“I know they will.” My throat tightens. “And I won’t be caught off guard again. Not with Luna here. Not with Shay pregnant. Not with everything we’ve built.”

Beckett’s quiet for a beat. I can hear the weight of it settling in on his end—years of instincts kicking in.

“All right,” he says finally. “What do you need?”

“Eyes. Muscle. Backup for when I can’t be here. I need someone who doesn’t spook easy. Someone who knows how toset up and monitor discreet surveillance systems. A good friend who knows how to track a threat without making a damn mess.”

I can almost hear Emmett’s smirk. “You need me.”

“The job’s yours if you want it.”

Another long silence. Then a low, humorless chuckle. “Didn’t think the first time I’d hear your voice again would be over goat-based domestic terrorism.”

“Don’t start.”

“No, I mean it. You’ve got sabotage. Threats. Arson. A grumpy ex-SEAL turned goat dad. It’s like a Hallmark Christmas special with explosions.”

I huff a sharp breath, but it doesn’t turn into a laugh. I’m wound too tight. “This isn’t a joke, Shadow.”

“I know. I heard it in your voice the second you said ‘wife.’” A pause. “You sound different.”

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