Page 7 of Ranger’s Oath (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #5)

SADIE

T he echo of Deacon’s warning still rings in my head as I wake the next morning.

Sleep came in thin scraps. Every time I closed my eyes I pictured unseen lenses blinking in the walls, patient and hungry, waiting for me to move.

Dalton made slow passes around and through the building throughout the night, and Gage sat in the chair by the balcony like a statue built to keep bad things out. It should have comforted me. It didn't.

I refuse to live like a ghost in my own life. That's not who I am. So when Gage hands me coffee and says we're laying low, the word no climbs up my throat on instinct.

“I can’t,” I say, taking a long swallow. “I have the Gulf Coast Heritage Foundation gala tomorrow night.”

His eyes go dark, narrowed, the way people do when they're planning a route through gunfire or a gulf storm. “Say that again.” His voice is clipped, harsher than it needs to be. One hand flexes tight against the mug before he forces his grip to ease, as if he knows I noticed.

“The gala,” I repeat. “You know the foundation that works to preserve, protect, and promote the cultural, historical, and natural heritage of the Texas Gulf Coast.”

“Did you write that?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. I sit on the Board of Directors.

We've been planning this event for nearly a year. The honorees are flying in. The board expects me to run the final walkthrough today and be on site tomorrow. Not only is it important to the foundation, but to me personally, this is one of my premier events every year.”

“It sounds like a perfect place for predators to blend in and hunt,” he says. “Crowds, noise, confusion. You're not walking into that.”

“It's not a rave. It's a fundraiser.” I set the mug down and fold my arms. “People are counting on me.

If I vanish, donors ask questions, press calls the office, commitments dry up.

The foundation loses money and then we won't be able to respond when the next crisis hits the Gulf.

Try telling communities depending on us that we can't be there for them. Not going to happen.”

His mouth hardens. “Don't kid yourself that you can carry on as usual. They're coming for you, Sadie. Someone went as far as planting cameras in your sister’s home.”

“And the team pulled what they could find,” I answer. “The point of having a wall of Rangers is that I don't have to disappear.”

Dalton pokes his head in. “Good morning to me. Should I bring popcorn or body armor?”

“Both,” I say without looking away from Gage.

Gage sets his cup aside. “You want to go to the venue for the walk through. Then you want to attend the event.”

“Yes.”

“You'll follow my rules.”

I tip my chin. “Negotiate with me and I'll consider them.”

A spark lights in his eyes, heat and dare. “You like to bargain.”

“I like to win.”

I spread color-coded binders across the dining table, each tabbed within an inch of its life. Guest lists, dietary notes, vendor timelines—every moving part has a home. Logistics are my language, and I speak it fluently. When I lay the binders down, it’s not decoration. It’s a battle plan.

We go three rounds before noon. I put guest lists, vendor contracts, and run-of-show in a neat stack.

He lays out threat matrices, entrance choke points, camera coverage, medical response times.

Rush joins by phone and listens while we volley, keeping his comments measured and letting us argue it out.

“Bottom line,” I tell Rush, pacing barefoot across the rug, “if I don't show up for the walk through, there'll be sloppiness tomorrow. Sloppiness costs dollars. I can fix six problems with ten minutes in the room.”

Gage watches me move, all quiet calculation. “You're not stepping inside that building without a sweep.”

“Fine,” I say. "You sweep.”

Rush sighs like a man giving permission to a hurricane. “You go,” he says, “but you go on Gage’s terms.”

I smile sweetly. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”

“Damn right,” Gage says.

I arch an eyebrow. “As long as you don’t expect me to sit quietly. I don’t do ‘compliant victim.’”

His jaw works. Rush makes a choking sound that might be a laugh. “Figure it out, you two,” he says, and hangs up.

Gage mutters something under his breath, barely audible, then blows it out in a sharp exhale. I count three beats before he reins it in. The lapse makes his eyes go flat, too controlled.

I grin. “Told you. I like to win.”

Gage steps into my space until I feel the heat of him, steady and unyielding. “Princess, I'm here to keep you breathing, not to keep you happy.”

“Good news,” I say, holding his gaze. “I can do both.”

The venue is a downtown hotel with ceilings that glitter and staff that knows me by name. I've walked this ballroom a hundred times in flats and a lanyard, and later tomorrow I'll walk it in silk and diamonds. For now, it is clipboards and cables.

We arrive to find the AV crew building a small city of trusses above the stage.

I start working the room like a field general.

“Dim level at seventy for cocktail hour, then bring the wash to ninety-five for the program.

No hot spots on the lectern. Swap the floral at Table Ten, our honoree is allergic to peonies.

Chef, the vegetarian entrée needs a garnish that doesn't look like an afterthought. I need a champagne saber for the live auction, and I want the champagne behind glass until I say go.”

Gage walks two steps behind me, saying nothing, watching everything. He checks exits, studies staff badges, catalogues faces. He is a shadow with teeth.

A stagehand trips a breaker, the moving lights blink out, and the ballroom drops into dim. The ballroom AC kicks low, the chill crawling over bare arms until half the staff rubs their shoulders. I clock it instantly.

“Someone tell engineering to reset the thermostat—guests in gowns don’t donate when they’re shivering.” The AV lead swears. I clap twice. “All right, deep breaths. Five minutes to reset. And next time we don't run the fog machine and the moving heads on the same circuit. Split the load.”

The AV lead blinks. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” I say, softer. “You're doing great. I say it because I mean it.”

He straightens like I handed him a medal.

I keep going. A board member arrives early with opinions and a hair appointment that ran long.

She wants to change her table to table one.

“We can't,” I say with a smile that doesn't budge.

“Table one is reserved for the family who underwrote the coastal restoration project.

You'll be celebrated at table three and have better sightlines for the stage.

It'll look deliberate and exclusive. Trust me.”

The board member flushes, then nods. Of course she nods. This is what I do. I read the room, move the pieces, get the money.

In the kitchen corridor a line of catering staff passes like a river.

That's when I see him. He carries a tray of glassware with the same balance as the others, but his eyes don't track where he's going. They scan faces. Mine. Gage’s.

He sees me see him, and for an instant something like recognition dawns.

He turns his head too quickly and slides through the service door.

A cold ripple moves across my shoulders.

Gage notices the change in my posture. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say lightly. “Production adrenaline. I need the live auction lots checked again.” I step away before he can pin me with questions.

He lets me go, but I feel his attention follow like a hand at my spine.

By the time we finish the walk through, I've solved twelve problems and invented three backups for the ones I couldn't. The seating chart sings. The auction items gleam. The dessert course will arrive on cue like dancers.

In the car, Gage studies me. “You're very good at this.”

I allow myself a small smile. “I am.”

The night of the gala I dress in silver.

The gown moves like water over stone. My hair should have been styled into something architectural and perfect.

But Gage wouldn't allow a stylist, hairdresser, or makeup artist in the penthouse so I was left to my own devices.

I set my lipstick with a steady hand and slide a cuff around my wrist that was a gift from the board chair.

As I step out of the bedroom, Gage watches with a look that makes my skin heat, a look that says mine even if he refuses to put a word to it.

“Turn,” he says. I do. He takes in the gown, the slit that climbs my thigh, the way the neckline frames my collarbone. His throat works. “You need a wrap. It's cold.”

“It's Texas, not Antarctica,” I say, but I find a wrap anyway because I hate that it pleases him and I love that it pleases him.

When we step from the car the cameras find me in a heartbeat. I smile with my whole face. I hug donors I can stand and air-kiss the ones I can't. I whisper to the PR team where to position the step-and-repeat and which journalists get quotes. I'm the problem-solver people pay to be near.

Gage stays one breath behind me. His palm settles at the small of my back every time we move through a cluster. The contact should feel like control, but it doesn't. It feels like a lifeline, steady and hot through silk. It annoys me how much I rely on it, and it thrills me that it's there.

“Left balcony,” he murmurs as we enter the ballroom. “Two watchers, not staff. One keeps patting his jacket.”

“Donor with a nicotine patch,” I whisper back, lips barely moving. “He tried to quit for his wife and failed four times. He touches it when he's anxious. The other one with him is his son-in-law who feels ignored. Invite the son-in-law to the VIP bar and he'll stop glaring at the stage.”

Gage is quiet for a beat. “You’re like me, you see things I don't. It's part of what makes me good at what I do.”

I smile without looking at him. “Ditto.”