Page 28 of Roots of Redemption (Hicks Creek #4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wade

I jolt awake later that night, heart pounding, before my brain has a chance to catch up.

The house is dark, but I hear the sound of the door, the faint creak of hinges that finally registers.

My hand instinctively reaches for the rifle leaning in its usual spot in the gun safe by the nightstand.

Not a soul should be coming or going at this hour.

I slip out of bed quietly. The floorboards groan under my weight as I step into the hallway, my ears straining for any sound.

The door is barely cracked open, just enough to let a thin ribbon of moonlight stretch across the kitchen floor. My gut twists as I grip the rifle tighter as I move toward the door, catching the shuffle of boots just outside. My pulse kicks up another notch.

“Who’s there?” I demand, voice low but firm, the kind of tone that cuts through any nonsense.

“It’s me, Dad,” Caleb’s voice whispers back, shaky. He’s halfway through the door when I see him fully, his frame too small yet too familiar in the moonlight. He’s clutching his boots in one hand, like he’s trying not to make noise.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-yell, my anger fueled more by fear than anything else.

“I heard something out by the barn,” he says quickly. “I just…I thought maybe I should check it out.”

“In the middle of the damn night?” I glare at him, but there’s no time for a lecture now.

As if on cue, the sounds that woke him—and now me—filter in. The distant, panicked barking of the dogs. High-pitched yelps cut through the night, followed by something else. Low. Guttural. A growl that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. My jaw tightens.

“Get back in the house. Now,” I order, my voice leaving no room for argument.

“But, Dad—”

“I said now, Caleb.” I lock eyes with him, and he must see enough in my face to think better of arguing. He nods reluctantly, slipping past me and into the house. I shut the door behind him, bolting it for good measure. He’s brave—too brave for his own good sometimes. But he’s still just a boy.

The barking escalates, a frenzy of snarls and whimpers that cuts through the night.

My chest tightens, the adrenaline surging as I step onto the porch.

The moon hangs high, casting enough light for me to see the barn in the distance.

Shadows move in the faint glow of the yard light, indistinct but wrong.

My boots hit the dirt, steady and deliberate, as I cross the space between the house and the barn. Every step feels like a countdown.

I reach the barn and press my back to the side of the structure, taking a moment to listen. The growling is louder here, a predator’s challenge. One of the dogs—Lucky, I think—yowls in pain, and my grip on the rifle tightens.

I swing around the corner, raising the rifle to my shoulder as my eyes adjust to the low light. The scene in front of me is chaos. The dogs are circling something, their barks sharp and frantic. In the middle of the fray, a large shape moves. Feline. Too big to be a stray cat—and too bold.

A cougar.

It’s lean, all muscle and menace, with eyes that glow like molten gold in the dark. Its attention snaps to me the moment I appear, a low growl rumbling from its chest. The dogs hesitate, caught between their instinct to protect and their very real fear of the predator in front of them.

I steady the rifle, my finger brushing the trigger. “Back off,” I mutter, more to the dogs than the cougar. They’ve done their job, brave as they are, but this is my fight now.

The cougar lunges, not at me but at one of the dogs. Lucky barely dodges, yelping as he scrambles back. The sight ignites something primal in me—an anger, a resolve. I aim, exhale, and fire.

It’s a warning shot more than anything, and I aim high above. The cougar snarls. It paces, circling, its eyes locked on me now. My hands are steady as I chamber another round.

“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

I fire another shot off and this time he leaves, darting off into the thick woods. I lower the rifle, my arms trembling now that the danger has passed.

The adrenaline fades, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I straighten, taking in the scene. Hopefully, that will keep him away. Benny rushes out behind me in just his boxers and cowboy boots.

“What the hell, boss?” he asks breathlessly.

“Thanks for throwing on some clothes,” I chuckle sarcastically.

“What were you shooting at?”

“Cougar.”

“What the fuck?” he breathes. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I got a good look at him. I’m certain if we get a hold of some of the trail cams around, we’ll see him better. He’s probably looking for food.”

“Being so close to the delta, sometimes they might find their way here if they’re desperate. I have heard rumblings about drug dealers using them and wolves, panthers, or tigers to keep the federal agents away from their property,” he explains.

“I’ve heard the same. I’ve also heard rumblings about one with a house out yonder,” I say, pointing toward the bluff. “The old Harvey plantation, right on the delta. Harvey’s transported slaves to freedom with the waterways on their property.”

“I heard they hid some mobsters out there, too. Law enforcement doesn’t want anything to do with that swamp land out there, or the gators and wild pigs.”

I suddenly realize that we’re hashing out conspiracy theories of sorts while he’s in his underwear.

“Benny, go back inside before Sutton or Mama sees you in your underwear,” I laugh as I shake my head.

“Worried I’ll steal your woman?” he teases before he starts back for the bunk house.

I roll my eyes and go back to the house. Caleb is in the living room.

“Did you get him?”

“Nah, I think I scared him off, though. Get to bed, no sleeping in on the ranch.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walk into the kitchen while Caleb scurries off to his bed. Once I hear him close his bedroom door, I grab a tumbler out of the cabinet and pour two fingers of whiskey into it.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and will my body to get out of fight-or-flight mode. I take a pull from the glass, letting the amber liquid do its job.

I go back to my room, but I don’t know that I’ll sleep tonight.

The sun’s barely cresting over the hills when I step out of the house, the morning air crisp and laced with the faint smell of dew-soaked hay. My boots crunch against the gravel as I head toward the barn, the routine as ingrained in me as breathing.

Everything is overly quiet. There’s still the lowing of the cattle, the horses moving around, but there’s an absence of the pitter-patter of the dogs.

By this time, the dogs are normally terrorizing the horses and cattle.

I had made it a point to grab my nine-millimeter and holster it this morning.

I may have scared that cougar off, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be dumb enough to come back.

But nothing.

“Shit.”

I call out for the dogs, but they don’t come running like they normally would. They’d be close to the house even if they got spooked last night.

As I walk to the different pens of quarantined cattle, I see that two of them have died in the middle of the night. With all the chaos of the cougar, I hadn’t thought to check any of them.

“Shit.”

I take a look throughout the pasture and see one of my older and biggest steer lying motionless. I blow out a breath and scurry over to the hazmat station that we had set up and throw on personal protective equipment.

I can feel it in my gut before I even see it. The air hangs heavy, thick with a sense of wrongness.

There he is—Big Red—my oldest, strongest steer.

The backbone of my herd. His massive body lies crumpled in the dirt, twisted in a way that doesn’t seem real.

His once proud, hulking frame is now lifeless, the deep crimson of his coat matted with blood and dirt.

The marks are clear, the long, ragged slashes of a big cat’s claws across his hide, and the torn flesh where it went for his throat.

For a moment, all I can do is stand there, staring.

My hands ball into fists at my sides, my breath coming short and shallow.

Anger rises up in me like wildfire—anger at that damned cougar for daring to come onto my land, anger at myself for not protecting the herd, for letting this happen under my watch.

I’ve got to fight off illness, and now wild animals? What next, a drought?

Big Red wasn’t just any steer. He was a legend on this ranch, the kind you could rely on year after year. He kept the herd strong. His bloodline ran through so many of my cattle, and his semen was used in a lot of the cattle throughout Hicks Creek.

I crouch down beside him, running a hand over his flank.

The fur is cold beneath my fingers, and I can feel the weight of it settle on my shoulders.

My jaw tightens, and I force myself to take a deep breath.

There’s no time to wallow. The herd’s spooked; I can hear the nervous lowing in the distance.

If that cat comes back, it won’t stop with Big Red. I need to act, and I need to act now.

“I can’t find either of the dogs,” Caleb says as he jogs up behind me, fully dressed in the required protective equipment.

“I’ll send Benny out on horseback.” I curse under my breath, running a hand through my hair. “Have you seen Sutton yet this morning?”

“Haven’t seen her,” he says, glancing toward the small building nestled near the main house.

I nod, already moving. “I’ll go get her. I’ll send Tommy over to check on Frank. Might not hurt for someone to drive over. Whatever got ours might have gone after some of his. You can go with him, but you stay close.”

The gravel crunches under my boots as I jog toward the guest house.

My mind’s racing, trying to piece together why I hadn’t heard that cat come back.

Sutton’s stepping out onto the porch just as I reach the steps, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, her expression shifting from sleepy to alert the moment she sees me.