I don’t know what to do. I’m a damn cattle rancher, not a detective.
“Private investigators aren’t cheap.” Jake blows out a breath. “I emptied my savings account keeping an eye on Conor all those years.”
“It’s not just that.” Jarret tips his head toward us. “I have concerns about hiring someone to track the man we plan to murder. Some of those detectives are retired cops. And anyone we hire could be called in to testify in court regarding the surveillance. I don’t know how this will all turn out, but if we’re suspected of killing John, I don’t want the added risk of an outside party saying, Oh, yeah. Those guys hired me to find him.”
None of us want that risk. Especially not with all the bodies in the ravine.
“I agree.” I prop a boot against the rung of the fence. “But I want a security guard, a body guard, someone to patrol while we’re distracted. Just during branding week.”
“I’ll get recommendations from the PI I used for Conor,” Jake says.
“In the meantime, we can’t leave them unattended.” I direct my eyes at the girls. “Not for a second. When my sister’s at work, one of us will be watching her on the cameras.”
“I’ll do it. I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on anyway.” Jake’s mouth wobbles, hiding a smile, as if we don’t already know how much the dirty fucker enjoys watching her.
I turn toward the fence, eyes on Raina, and explain to the guys all the qualifications I want in a security guard, my expectations from the role, and how he’ll man the cameras and patrol the property while we’re in the field for fifteen-plus hours every day. Then I outline the logistics of the branding operation, the things I want to improve and my ideas on how to make it run smoother.
When I finish, Jarret and Jake stare at me like there’s no grain in the silo.
They can fuck off if they don’t like what I’m saying.
“Spit it out.” I straighten, ready to ram heads. Or fists, if we’re doing this the usual way.
“You’re back.” Jake’s frown crooks into a shit-eating grin.
“Thank fuck.” Jarret leans against the fence, wearing the same smile. “The foreman position is still open, waiting for you. If you want—”
“I want it.” I rest my hands on my hips and let the responsibility settle through me. It feels good. “But I’m making changes, starting with how we castrate. We’re switching to elastic bands. It’s more efficient. More humane.”
As I detail a few other revisions I’ll make after branding week, my pulse increases, and my chest expands. I read a lot of books in prison, studying as much as I could about anything and everything, including how to run a successful ranch.
Jarret regards me with a look he doesn’t wear often. Eyes bright and glossy, face slack, open body posture—he gives himself away before he moves in and suffocates me in a constrictive, hard-bodied hug.
My hands lift, giving him an amicable pat that does nothing to express the soul-deep affection I feel for him.
Then I do what’s expected and shove his chest. “Get your ugly ass off me.”
He shoves back, grinning. “How ugly?”
Jesus, how old are we? I haven’t played this game with them since we were stupid little shits. But as he waits expectantly, I shake my head and give in.
“So ugly we had to hang a pork chop around your neck to get the dog to play with you.”
Jake laughs. “He’s ugly enough to scare a buzzard off a gut pile.
“Uglier than a pocketful of assholes.”
We go back and forth a few times before falling into quiet grins, heads down, appreciating happy memories.
“We missed you.” Jake’s gaze shifts to the bullpen, tracking the smiling redhead. “Conor’s been… Worried. Impatient. She doesn’t know what to do, except to give you more time.”
A pang of guilt hits my stomach. “The adjustment took me by surprise. I was so fucking ready to get out and return home. Then I got here, and nothing felt the same. I’m not the same, but I’m starting to accept that, day by day.”
“If you need anything…” Jarret says.
“I need to end this thing with John and put it behind us.”
We spend the next hour, leaning against the fence and watching our girls while kicking around plots of murder.
Jake and Jarret single-handedly took out John’s creditors and hitmen over the years, but they had intel from Sheriff Fletcher and John’s computer—addresses, dates and times of meetings—and the element of surprise.
John knows we’re coming for him, and he’s a crafty motherfucker.
The weaponry and self-defense training will continue with Raina, because I want her to have those skills. But there’s no way in hell I’m putting her in John’s sights.
I will end this, one way or another.
That night, Raina and I join the others on the back porch, and the first thing I notice is there isn’t enough seating.