Page 65 of Leather & Lies

The first impact hits like a thunderclap, metal screaming as my truck lurches sideways. My teeth rattle with the force of it. I fight the wheel as we hydroplane across lingering storm puddles, desperation giving my arms the strength to maintain control. But the other driver is relentless, each hit calculated to weaken my grip, to force me where he wants me.

I catch a glimpse of the driver as he pulls alongside—Matt Walsh, my father’s old poker buddy. The same Walsh who’s been watching my ranch for weeks. Recognition hits like ice water in my veins. Through the passenger window, I see his lips curve in a smile that makes my skin crawl. He pulls out a gun and aims it at me.

The next hit comes from the other side, precise and brutal. My head cracks against the window as the truck spins, the world dissolving into a sickening blur of sky and earth. When reality rights itself, my hands are shaking so hard I can barely grip the wheel. Walsh’s truck blocks my path like the wall of a trap, and the sharp retort of a gun rings out.

Two men I recognize from those long-ago poker nights are already moving toward my door with the easy confidence of predators who know their prey is cornered.

“Well, if it ain’t Rick Foster’s princess.” Walsh’s voice carries that same oily charm that would make my skin crawl duringthose late-night games. My pulse roars in my ears as he climbs out of his truck, swaggering closer, blocking out the sun. “Living it up while honest men lose everything.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt, preparing to shove my door open and run, only to find Walsh’s gun trained on my face. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snarls as he opens the door.

I dive out, driving my elbow into the nearest man’s throat as he reaches for me, fighting back rising panic. The satisfying crunch of cartilage tells me I’ve done damage, but rough hands grab my arms from behind, twisting until pain shoots through my shoulders. The stink of tobacco and stale sweat fills my nose as they drag me backward, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the muddy ground.

“Your daddy owed me money.” Walsh looms over me, his eyes fever-bright with a bitterness that makes my stomach clench. His breath hits my face—whiskey and rage and desperation. My chest constricts as his men force me toward their truck, my mind racing through escape scenarios even as terror claws up my throat. “Wrote IOUs he never paid. Promised the ranch as collateral for loans he never settled.”

“Let. Go.” Each word carries the same precise edge I use with dangerous stallions, but these men aren’t horses. They’re predators who smell blood in the water.

“See, I figured Hawkins would just foreclose.” Walsh circles me like a coyote sizing up wounded prey. “Take the ranch, settle the debts. But instead?” He gestures at my truck, at my clean clothes, at all the evidence of Jackson’s protection. “Instead he sends his best crew to fix up the place. Gives you a clean deed while my spread rots.”

Understanding hits as his men continue to force me toward their truck. He’s been watching. Seeing Jackson’s crew rebuild my ranch while his place crumbles. Seeing the client referrals,the feed deliveries, all the ways Jackson wraps me in his protection.

“You really think he’s going to pay you?” The words come out steady despite the rage building in my chest. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

Walsh’s laugh carries that bitter edge of desperation. “Sweetheart, Hawkins has been watching your every move for years. You really think he won’t pay to get you back?”

The words hit like a slap, reminding me of the cameras. The surveillance. The violation I’d almost convinced myself to forgive.

As they force me into their truck, I taste blood and fury and something darker. They think they’re caging a woman. They have no idea they’re caging someone who trains killers for a living.

Just wait,I think as they pull away from my abandoned truck.Just fucking wait.

The deed to my ranch—the one that was supposed to mean freedom—falls from my hands, dancing away on the spring wind like the last of my illusions.

26

Jackson

Blood stains the steering wheel.Still wet. Still fucking warm. Skid marks slash the asphalt. Her phone lies shattered on the floorboard. And murderous rage, cold and unstoppable, builds in my chest.

She fought. The driver door hangs open, mud churned by multiple boot prints. Blood spatters are an angry red on the asphalt, and I hold onto the hope that it’s not hers–that she got in at least one good hit before they subdued her.

That’s my girl.

“Jackson.” Lucas’ voice carries a brutal hardness that usually makes men yield. “Step back from the truck.”

I realize I’ve crushed the door handle in my grip, metal groaning under my fingers. Lucas Caldwell’s Range Rover idles behind me, Wyatt already working the ground like the master tracker he is. The three of us have built empires through calculated violence, but this—this is personal.

“Three men.” Wyatt’s voice carries the certainty of a lifetime of tracking wild horses, and wilder men, across mountain ranges. “One limping. She must have done some damage.” Pride wars with rage in my chest. “Trail leads to a pickup.”

“Four hours max.” I force the words through clenched teeth. “The blood’s still tacky.”

“Which means you have time to do this right.” Lucas grips my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. His usual polish has been replaced by something darker—the calculated violence that built his cattle empire showing through. “You’re no good to her if you’re in jail for murder.”

“Bold of you to assume they’ll find the bodies.” But he’s right. Control. I need control.

A sleek BMW M5 pulls up, and Ryder Caldwell unfolds his massive frame from the driver’s seat. Lucas’ cousin moves like a predator despite his designer suit, and his smile holds nothing but violence.

“Was in the middle of something.” He adjusts his watch. “If she doesn’t fucking forgive me, I’m blaming you, assholes.”

---