Page 61 of Leather & Lies

“Just keeping an eye on things,” he says mildly. But we both know what kind of men my father borrowed from. What kind of collection methods they prefer.

Just before sunset, I spot that threatening truck again. The driver stops at the end of the drive this time, studying the house through binoculars. One of Miguel’s crew casually starts target practice in the fenced in yard. The truck leaves.

Jackson

Everything okay out there?

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. But something shifts in my understanding as I watch the good-natured jostling of the crews as they get ready for another night watch.

Soon, dawn light filters through newly-repaired windows, and I realize the house feels different now—less a memorial to my father’s failures, more a testament to what can be rebuilt. Even the creaks sound stronger, purposeful.

The smell of fresh coffee pulls me from sleep earlier than usual. I pad downstairs in borrowed flannel, stopping short at the sight that greets me in my makeshift kitchen.

Jackson Hawkins stands at my counter, his massive frame making the space feel smaller. Two takeout cups from my favorite cafe in town steam beside him. A bakery box from the artisan place an hour away sits unopened. His expression as he turns is carefully neutral, but his knuckles whiten on the counter edge.

“Brought real breakfast,” he says quietly. “Thought you might be tired of camp food.”

The scent of fresh pastries mingles with his cologne—cedar and leather and something darker that makes my pulse skip. He’s wearing casual ranch clothes, but power radiates off him just the same.

“You shouldn’t be here.” But I’m already reaching for the coffee, my body betraying me like it always does around him.

“No.” His eyes track my movement, hungry but controlled. “I shouldn’t be.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’re not saying. Beyond the windows, Miguel’s crew is arriving for another day of rebuilding what the storm destroyed.

I’m not ready. Not for him, not for this, not for the weight of everything I’ve discovered in my father’s files. But as I lift the coffee to my lips and catch him watching the movement of my throat, I realize something else.

I’m not running either.

24

Jackson

“Boss.”Miguel’s voice carries concern over the phone line. “She’s working herself to exhaustion. Sleeping on the floor. Barely eating.”

My grip tightens on the phone, every muscle tensing with the need to act. To force my way back in. To make her accept protection whether she wants it or not.

“Send more men,” I say instead, each word feeling like surrender. “Anything she needs.”

“She’ll fight it.” Miguel knows her too well. “Already tried to send back the lumber.”

“Then get creative.” I pace the length of my office, staring at the surveillance feeds that now show nothing. I’d ordered the indoor cameras removed, leaving only the perimeter security. Another concession that burns like acid. “Tell her it’s payment for consulting. For the stallion work. For anything that lets her keep her goddamn pride.”

Pride. The word echoes in my mind. Her pride versus my control—the battle that’s defined us from the beginning.

“There’s something else.” Miguel’s hesitation sends cold fingers down my spine. “Someone’s been watching the property. Unmarked truck. Walsh’s men, looks like.”

My vision narrows to a red tunnel of rage. “Triple the night watch. If they so much as breathe in her direction?—”

“Already handled.” Miguel’s voice steadies me. “Just thought you should know.”

After he hangs up, I stand at the window, staring toward the mountains that separate my property from hers. Six miles as the crow flies. An eternity in other ways.

I could be there in thirty minutes. Could surround her with security whether she wants it or not. Could do what I’ve always done—take control, eliminate threats, protect what’s mine.

Except that she doesn’t think she’s mine anymore.

She’s wrong, but even I know that if I ever want her to come back, I have to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

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