Page 2 of Ranger's Code

No one asks. No one pushes.

And I don’t tell them that this—this ritual, this rhythm—is the only thing that makes me feel like I still belong in my skin. That this kitchen is the only place I’m not halfway to wolf. That without it, I’m not sure I’d still be here at all.

CHAPTER1

MAGGIE

Galveston, Texas

Present Day, 4:47 a.m.

I wake up in my loft condo—a cozy, one bedroom unit tucked inside a converted warehouse that sits right on the Galveston beachfront. The industrial bones of the place show through in exposed brick walls, steel beams, and high ceilings, but I’ve softened it with pastel rugs, stacks of cookbooks, and the smell of vanilla that never quite leaves my clothes.

I pad barefoot across the cool concrete floor, still groggy from another night of stress dreams about collapsing cake towers. After a hot shower, I step out and stretch naked in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting. It’s one of my favorite indulgences. There’s something about standing there, unguarded, the sea breeze sneaking through the slightly open window I allow myself, that makes me feel strong in my own skin. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about voyeurs—not this early, not from this angle. Especially with only the soft glow of the bathroom light behind me.

I get dressed, leave my home, and head toward my bakery—Sea Salt & Sugar. I wake early and walk to work before dawn, my footsteps echoing off the quiet brick-lined streets of Galveston's historic district. I like the rhythm of the walk, the way the morning air smells like sea salt and sugar, like the name of my bakery. It gives me just enough time to transition from sleep to business mode, from dreamer to boss.

The morning had started normally enough—my usual walk from the loft, backpack over one shoulder, reusable coffee mug in hand, sneakers scuffing against the brick path that winds past shuttered boutiques and sleepy cafés. My building, once a canning warehouse, now stands proud with exposed beams and vintage ironwork, a nod to the city's industrial bones. I waved at the old man walking his basset hound as I unlocked Sea Salt & Sugar with a little hum on my lips.

I set the ovens myself last night to turn on at the proper time, checked the timers, calibrated the temp, even left a sticky note with backup instructions just in case. I did my usual final walkthrough, flipped off the lights, and locked the front door with the same muscle memory I use every night. Everything had been in perfect working order. But now? Two of the three ovens are stone cold, not even a flicker of warmth from the heating elements. The third is glowing like a furnace, its internal temp surging off the charts—off by almost seventy-five degrees, like it's trying to cremate the morning batch out of spite.

I open that one and feel the wave of unnecessary heat roll over my face, like stepping into a sauna made entirely of scorched vanilla. The tray I left inside the night before looks like a crime scene. Twelve dozen vanilla almond cupcakes, high-end with custom sugar lace toppers meant to mimic the bride's gown, are now half-baked disasters. The batter bubbled too fast, cracked in odd places, and the centers caved in like they knew they weren’t welcome in polite society. I don’t need to poke them to know they’re raw in the middle. What was supposed to be elegant and ethereal now looks like a tray of inedible sinkholes.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," I mutter, yanking on the oven mitt and dragging the tray out like it owes me money.

By the time sunlight begins to stream through the windows, I already have frosting in my hair—a smear of raspberry buttercream from the test batch I prepped half-awake, trying to stay ahead of the chaos. I don't even notice it until I catch my reflection in the metal mixing bowl, a sticky pink streak marking the side of my temple like war paint. I wipe it with the back of my hand, sigh, and turn my attention to the real problem— a white, plain envelope sitting neatly on a freshly wiped counter, as if someone carefully placed it there for me to find.

I approach it as if it were a coiled snake ready to strike. It doesn’t belong in the usual kitchen chaos—no flour dust, no crooked edge, just centered and calm, which only makes it more ominous. My heart dips low in my chest as I reach for it, already bracing for the worst before my fingers even touch the paper.

Someone scrawled my name across the front in quick block letters.

Maggie

Sorry. Can’t do this anymore. Good luck.

Kyle

"No. Nope. Absolutely not," I say to no one, voice cracking at the edges.

Kyle, my assistant baker, isn’t just another line cook passing through. He has skill—real pastry school credentials, a decent palate, and the ability to hold his own under pressure. He was the first person in a long line of employees who seemed to actually get it, who could keep up with my standards without falling apart. He lasted almost eight months, which in my world is practically a gold watch and retirement party. And now he’s gone. No warning. No call. No text. Just a seven-word mic drop and a kitchen full of ruined batter, like all the time and training I invested in him meant nothing.

I stare at the note like it might grow a face I could punch—smug, silent and unapologetic, just sitting there like it hasn’t detonated my entire morning. My fingers twitch, half-tempted to crumple it into a ball and launch it into the trash, but that would only make me feel better for two seconds. Then I’d still be down one baker and twelve dozen cupcakes. And Kyle? He’d be off somewhere, probably sipping coffee and congratulating himself on his timing. The jerk.

A buzzing panic flutters beneath my ribs, but I shove it down. I don’t have time for a breakdown. The wedding order is due by ten. The front-of-house staff won’t arrive until seven, and there’s nobody left to help me pipe roses onto two-tiered towers of hope and heartbreak.

I take a breath. Then another. In the quiet, my shoulders drop a fraction, though the tension still curls tight in my spine. The bakery is my sanctuary, my battlefield, my entire shot at proving I haven’t wasted years chasing buttercream dreams. And right now, it feels like it’s crumbling beneath my feet. But I don’t fall apart. I recalibrate, even if it means doing it alone.

"Okay, Maggie," I whisper, tying my apron tighter. "You’re not dying. You’re just completely, epically screwed."

I crack four eggs into a bowl with a vengeance; the shells crunch beneath my fingers like they personally offended me. Yolks splatter into the stainless-steel mixing bowl with satisfying plops. I reach for the sugar with a swift, practiced motion, dumping a measured scoop in without even looking. If my emotions had a flavor, they’d be bitter and burnt around the edges—but I’ll still find a way to fold them into the batter and make something edible. That’s my superpower: rage baking. Fury-fueled frosting. The more the world spins sideways, the harder I lean into butter and precision.

The silence of the kitchen feels heavier than usual—no low hum of friendly ovens, no music, no Kyle talking about his weird obsession with lemon zest ratios. Just my heartbeat and the ticking clock over the espresso machine.

By 6:15, I have three dozen cupcakes in the working oven and two mixers going at once. By 6:32, the piping bag has blistered my thumb, and I haven’t frosted a single cooled cake because I can’t find my tip set. By 6:48, I’m holding a broken pastry bag over the sink, shaking my head like I can physically rattle the day back into order.

My phone buzzes on the prep counter. I glance at the screen.

Kari Bonham—6:49 a.m.

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