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Jackson

The mare rears, a thousand pounds of muscle and fury silhouetted against the morning sun. From my office window, I can see every flex of Shiloh’s thighs as she maintains her seat, every subtle shift as she brings the animal back under control. Her hands are steady on the reins—they’re always steady, whether she’s gentling a stallion or trembling beneath me.

Mine.

The thought surfaces with predatory satisfaction as she circles the round pen, directing the mare through a series of precise movements. Six years I’ve watched her work, plotting, waiting. Now she’s here, on my land, under my roof. Under my control.

Or she should be.

My thumb traces the rim of my coffee cup, the porcelain cool and smooth against my skin. The bruise on her throat from last night has faded to a shadow, barely visible above her collar. Not enough. Never enough.

“Still doing your own surveillance?” Lucas Caldwell’s familiar drawl carries a hint of amusement. “I thought that’s why we pay security teams.”

I don’t turn from the window. After fifteen years of friendship, Lucas knows better than to expect pleasantries. “Henderson’s coming at ten?”

“Right on schedule.” Lucas settles into one of my office chairs, already reviewing contracts. “Six months of negotiation about to pay off. Premium summer grazing rights, first access to his breeding stock—” He pauses. “Henderson’s old school. The kind of man who still thinks women should stick to the kitchen, not the training ring.”

Now I do turn, catching his knowing look. “Careful.”

“Your woman has a mouth on her,” he says drily. Anyone else, I’d murder for thinking they had the right to talk about Shiloh, but Lucas isn’t being disrespectful—just observant. If anyone in this godforsaken town understands obsession, it’s him.

He watches Shiloh work. “She’s something else. Never seen anyone handle stock like that.”

Below, Shiloh dismounts in one fluid motion, her boots hitting the ground with practiced grace. The mare follows her like a love-struck puppy, earlier rebellion forgotten. Every movement is efficient, professional, perfect.

The crunch of tires on gravel draws my attention. David Henderson’s truck pulls up beside the barn, deliberately mud-splattered despite being this year’s model. Old money playing at being a working rancher.

I watch Shiloh notice their approach, see the slight tension enter her spine. She has no way of knowing how important this deal is, but her eyes flick to my window, as if for reassurance.

“Shall we?” Lucas gathers the contracts, already moving toward the door.

I catch up to our visitors at the round pen, where Shiloh is demonstrating the mare’s progress. Her voice carries quiet authority. But I note the subtle tells in her posture as Henderson’s attention shifts from the horse to the way her worn denim encases her curves.

Annoyance shoots through me—but I don’t say anything, not yet. This deal is too fucking important—grazing rights for Lucas and me, and one more backstop against assholes like Lucas’ father buying up mineral rights where they fucking shouldn’t.

“Remarkable control,” Henderson drawls, interrupting my thoughts as his eyes trace her curves. “You must have quite the way with difficult creatures.”

Shiloh’s hands tighten fractionally on the reins, though her tone stays professionally pleasant. Lucas smoothly redirects the conversation to grazing rotations, but Henderson’s gaze keeps returning to her with increasing speculation.

“Tell me.” He interrupts Lucas’ discussion of contractual terms. “Does your trainer work with other operations? I’ve got some stallions that could use a firm hand.”

Shiloh’s shoulders tense slightly, though she maintains her calm work with the mare. Her eyes flick to me again, gold flakes in the hazel flashing with suppressed anger. Seeking protection—no, permission .

“Jackson keeps her services in-house,” Lucas answers smoothly, trying to steer the conversation back to business.

Henderson’s smile shows too many teeth. “Shame. My boys would love to see what else she can ride.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Could add some additional compensation to our grazing agreement. For special services.”

My hand settles on the grip of the Colt at my hip, a movement so natural I barely register it. The familiar weight of steel promises simple solutions.

I see Shiloh take a careful breath, bracing herself to respond. Blood pounds in my ears as Henderson continues, encouraged by his own crudeness. “Hell, we could make it a regular thing. Send her around to all the big operations. Bet she’s real good at breaking in all kinds of wild things.”

Lucas stills beside me.

“Unless you’re keeping her all to yourself?” Henderson winks, oblivious to how close to death he is. “Can’t blame you there. Though seems a waste not to share such a fine piece of?—”

The mare spooks at my sudden movement, but I barely notice. My hand is around Henderson’s throat before he can step back, lifting him until his boots scrabble in the dirt. The force of my grip makes the tendons in my forearm stand out like cables.

“Choose your next words very carefully.” My voice comes out rough as I shift my grip, pressing precisely where cutting off blood flow to the brain takes only pounds of pressure. “They may be your last.”

“Jesus, Jackson.” Henderson wheezes, face purpling. His eyes finally register the monster he’s awakened, the one that clawed its way up from poverty through calculated violence. “Just making conversation?—”

I tighten my hold until I feel cartilage creak. “No. You were making assumptions about what’s mine.” I let him feel how easily I could crush his windpipe, remembering other men who’d made similar mistakes. Men whose graves have long gone green. “Consider this a learning opportunity.”

“The deal—” he gasps.

“Is dead.” I release him with enough force that he stumbles. “Like you’ll be if you ever look at her again.”

Lucas doesn’t move to stop me as I back Henderson toward his truck. Doesn’t try to salvage six months of negotiations. Some lines can’t be crossed.

“You’re making a mistake,” Henderson manages, rubbing his throat. “Those grazing rights?—”

“Are worth less than the breath you’re using to talk.” I smile, letting him see what’s been lurking behind my carefully constructed facade. “Now get off my land before I bury you under it.”

I watch until his truck disappears in a spray of gravel. Only then do I turn back to where Shiloh continues working the mare, her breathing steady despite what just happened. Despite what I just sacrificed to keep her safe.

I look more closely. Her hands tremble on the mare’s halter, and she’s stroking the mare’s face rather than continue the training. She’s more affected than I thought.

“Well.” Lucas straightens his jacket, eternally unruffled. “I suppose you’ve made some decisions about your priorities.”

I grunt acknowledgment, attention fixed on Shiloh’s precise movements. She guides the mare through another pattern, her chin lifted in that defiant way that first caught my attention.

“Yes.” The word comes out rough as I track her every movement. “I have.”