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Shiloh

The courier’s truck had barely disappeared down the drive before I ripped open the heavy cream envelope with its gold law firm letterhead. Now the deed sits heavy in my hands, fresh ink gleaming in the morning light filtering through my newly-repaired windows. Free and clear. No conditions. No strings attaching me to Jackson’s empire. Just pure, clean freedom that feels nothing like the victory I’d imagined.

My hands shake as I spread the documents across my father’s old desk. Each page tells a story I wasn’t ready to see before—Jackson’s careful maneuvering, years of quiet protection long before his obsession began. Bank records show how he shielded us from the worst predators while letting Daddy keep his illusion of independence. The dates blur as understanding hits like a physical blow. He started watching over us years before he ever looked at me with hunger.

Coffee brews in the kitchen, filling the house with the rich scent. Another choice he gave me, not forced but offered. Like the lumber in the barn. The crew working on the roof. The client calls that respect my expertise.

“Dammit.” The word comes out raw as I trace my father’s desperate signature on that last loan application. The one Jackson quietly bought up before the sharks could collect. I remember Daddy’s shaking hands after those late-night poker games. The way he’d drink until dawn, pride warring with fear.

Just like me. Too proud to accept help until it was almost too late.

The morning sun catches the silver rim of my mother’s old mirror, the glass recently replaced by Jackson’s crew. My reflection shows a woman I barely recognize anymore—stronger, maybe. Less afraid of needing people. The shadows under my eyes speak of nights spent rebuilding, but there’s something else there, too. Something that looks uncomfortably like hope.

My phone buzzes with another client referral. Another legitimate opportunity laid carefully in my path. Ever present, but not quite controlling.

“God fucking dammit.” I shove back from the desk, needing to move. Needing to think.

But thinking’s the problem, isn’t it? I’ve spent too long thinking. Analyzing. Looking for strings and finding support instead. The cameras were a violation, yes. The surveillance crossed every line. But this?

I pick up the deed again, and heavy in my hands for such a fine piece of paper. Jackson gave me freedom. Real freedom. The kind that comes from choosing to trust rather than being forced to submit.

The keys to my truck feel strange in my hands, like they belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t about to drive to Jackson Hawkins’ ranch and admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s a difference between protection and possession. And that maybe, his obsession makes me feel as cherished as it makes me feel safe.

Sunshine glints off my newly-washed windshield as I pull out of the drive. My ranch looks different now—stronger, like it’s shrugged off the storm’s damage and my father’s legacy of pride. Miguel’s crew is already at work on the barn roof, their quiet competence another gift I’m learning to accept.

My hands tremble slightly on the steering wheel as I rehearse what I’ll say. I’m still furious about the cameras. The surveillance was unforgivable. And yet?—

The black truck appears in my rearview mirror with predatory suddenness, its grille filling my view like an advancing storm. My heart slams against my ribs as something ancient and primal recognizes the threat. I press the accelerator, but the truck matches my speed.

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 during those 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.