Page 21 of Ranger’s Justice (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #1)

RANGER’S PURSUIT

DEACON

T he woman at the bar doesn’t belong here.

I knew it the second I walked in.

The Devil’s Den is the kind of place where desperate men come to make bad decisions, and where worse men come to make sure those poor decisions turn into something permanent. A hole-in-the-wall dive sitting on the edge of the Texas border, it reeks of cheap whiskey, cigarette smoke, and violence waiting to happen.

And yet, there she is.

Perched on a cracked leather barstool, her shoulders squared like she’s daring someone to look at her the wrong way. A whiskey glass sits untouched in front of her, and her gaze flicks around the room like she’s memorizing faces, looking for something—or someone.

She’s got trouble written all over her.

Not in the usual way, though. She’s not a cartel princess slumming it in the dark corners of hell, and she’s sure as hell not looking to pick up one of these lowlifes. She’s dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted jacket, and a ponytail that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide the sharp edge of her jawline.

She doesn’t belong here. And she knows it.

But she’s not leaving.

I sip my beer, keeping my posture loose, casual, even as my gut tightens. Because I know who she is.

Sutton Blake.

Daughter of a decorated officer. Good girl with bad luck. Witness to something she shouldn’t have seen.

She’s also not supposed to be here.

We started tracking Hollister’s last remaining enforcers weeks ago. The bastard might be dead, but his reach lingers, his men still moving in the shadows, covering their tracks, settling old debts. Sutton’s name came up exactly once in our intel—just a blip in a report, a neighbor who noticed too much.

I was supposed to track her, make sure she didn’t stick her nose in places it didn’t belong. Keep her safe from a distance.

That plan is already going to shit.

Because here she is, parked in the middle of cartel territory, looking for a man who would snap her neck before she had time to scream.

I exhale through my nose, tapping my knuckles against the bottle in my hand. A slow beat. Calculating.

How the hell do I play this?

If I walk up to her and tell her to leave, she’ll dig in deeper. I’ve seen the type—determined, guilt-ridden, too damn stubborn for their own good.

But if I let her stay?

I glance toward the back of the bar. A group of men sit huddled in a dark booth, their voices low, their body language tense. I don’t need enhanced senses to know they’re watching her, too.

I curse under my breath. Too late. She’s already made an impression.

Sutton moves, pulling out her phone and typing something, then tucking it away. Her fingers tap against the bar, restless. She’s waiting for something.

Or someone.

My jaw ticks. Time to move.

I push away from the bar, making my way toward her, keeping my steps measured, my approach calculated. I don’t know what she’s expecting, but she sure as hell isn’t expecting me.

I lean in just enough to invade her space, just enough to make her stiffen. Good. That means she’s paying attention.

“You’re in the wrong bar, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low enough that only she hears.

She turns her head slowly, her hazel eyes sharp, assessing. Not scared—curious.

“You don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she says, her tone even.

I let out a rough chuckle, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not gonna find it here.”

Her lips curve into something that isn’t quite a grin but isn’t not one either. “You don’t even know me.”

I adjust my posture, letting her feel the heat of my presence, letting her understand that I’m not just some asshole at a bar.

“Oh, but I do.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flicker over her, slow, deliberate. “Sutton Blake. Good girl with a bad habit of getting into things that aren’t her business.”

Her breath hitches. Gotcha.

But she recovers fast. She narrows her eyes. “And who the hell are you?”

I grin. “I’m the guy who’s going to keep you alive if you listen.”

Her fingers flex on the bar. “And if I don’t?”

I step even closer, my voice dropping into something darker, something final.

“Then, sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

She exhales slowly, but she doesn’t look away and doesn’t back down.

And damn it all to hell, I know right then and there—this woman is going to be a problem.

A big one.