Page 1 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

MACY

T he Iron Spur

San Antonio, Texas

Three Years Ago

The Iron Spur glowed like sin wrapped in velvet.

Low golden lighting bathed the dark wood interior in decadent warmth, the scent of leather and expensive bourbon hanging in the air like a promise.

Macy Dane leaned against the polished bar, sipping something smoky and overpriced, dressed to distract in a black leather corset cinched to perfection, and a skimpy black thong.

The outfit showed off the results of her weekly yoga torture sessions.

Around her, San Antonio's elite kink crowd prowled the club, polished and perfect, all hush-voiced and rule-bound. It was all so very... orderly.

Which was, of course, Macy’s problem.

Order had never been her thing. Neither had obedience.

She still questioned why she identified as a submissive and not a Domme, but she had no interest in dominating anyone and while she often chafed against the rules, she found peace in submitting to a Dom who knew how to exercise his authority in a way that ultimately served the sub.

"You know you’re not supposed to be behind the bar," Keely Malone muttered beside her, voice dry as Texas dust.

Macy flashed her a saccharine smile. "And yet, here I am. Living dangerously."

Keely’s eyebrow rose. "You live irritatingly. There’s a difference."

"Semantics," Macy murmured, then nodded toward the crowd. "Besides, this whole place could use a little shaking up. Everyone’s just so..." She trailed off, lips quirking. "Well-behaved."

"It’s a BDSM club, Macy. That’s kind of the point."

"Right, but where's the fun in all these rules?"

Keely gave her a look. "The fun is in the submission. Something you’d know if you ever stopped being such a damn brat."

Macy winked. "Never gonna happen, honey."

It was supposed to be harmless. A little prank to liven up the annual charity auction—at least, that's what Barb had said with a giggle and a wink before slinking off to hide in plain sight.

Macy had caught the bratty little sub eyeing the paddles for the scene setup, and she'd known something was up.

But before she could intervene, it was too late.

The switch-up happened. A display scene turned chaotic. What should've been a playful demonstration ended in sprained wrists, a mild concussion, and a dozen furious members.

And when the dust settled, all eyes focused on and fingers pointed to Macy.

She had the reputation. The sass. The history of pushing limits and thumbing her nose at protocol. No one wanted to believe it wasn’t her—and Barb sure as hell hadn’t stepped up to take the heat.

Including one very grim-faced Reed Malone.

"You could just take your punishment," Keely said now, glancing at her sideways. "Everyone would forgive you."

"I didn’t do it."

"But you always do it."

"Not this time."

Keely sighed. "You realize how that sounds, right?"

Macy downed the rest of her drink. "Like the brat who cried wolf. Yeah, yeah. Trust me, I get it."

The soft click of cowboy boots on hardwood cut through the lounge noise.

Macy didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Trace McRae had a presence. The kind that prickled your skin and made the air feel heavier. Like the whole room shifted slightly just to accommodate him. The Silver Spur's enforcer. The Club’s disciplinarian. The man who could make grown women tremble with a look.

And the only Dom Macy had ever actually wanted to kneel for.

Not that she’d ever admit it. Hell no.

Trace came to stand beside her, all broad shoulders and silent judgment. She refused to look at him. If she did, she might fold. And Macy Dane never folded.

"You’re late," she said lightly. "I was expecting my executioner an hour ago."

He didn’t reply right away. When he did, his voice was calm. Deep. Controlled.

"You were given a choice, Macy. Discipline, or departure."

"I didn’t do it."

"Doesn’t matter. Not anymore."

She whirled around, finally meeting his eyes. Stormy blue. Unflinching.

"It matters to me," she said.

Something flickered behind his gaze. Brief. Then gone.

"You want vindication. I want order. The club believes you did it, and they chose stability over your protestations. All the evidence points to you."

"Of course they did," she said, too brightly. "Why would anyone believe the sassy little troublemaker?"

He stepped closer. Not touching. But close enough to make her breath catch.

"Because I wanted to," he said, voice low. "But you made it impossible."

Macy looked away.

That night, they banned her. Formally. Publicly. A decision read aloud in the presence of the owners and members. She didn’t cry. Didn’t argue. Just walked out in four-inch heels and a smirk painted across her face.

But later, alone in her car, she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white as the tears began to fall.

Present Day

Rain slashed sideways across the windshield like a threat.

She hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Not since the call from HR asking her to 'come in for a chat.' The kind of chat that came with lawyers and security guards. That had been her first warning.

The second had come hours later, when she’d arrived home to find her apartment door ajar and Chet Wrigley, her company’s lead researcher and a notorious asshole, standing in her kitchen with a look that said he knew everything.

“Should’ve taken the deal, Macy,” he’d sneered. “You’d have been well paid for keeping your mouth shut.”

She hadn’t even had time to respond before he lunged.

They struggled. She fought like hell. Knocked over a lamp. Left a bruise on his jaw that would’ve made her proud—if he hadn’t gone down hard and stayed down.

Bleeding. Still. Unmoving. After toeing him and watching his chest rise and fall, she leaned down to check for a pulse.

By the time the news broke that he was dead, her face was already on every station as a person of interest.

Only thing was, she hadn’t done it. The last time she'd seen Chet, he'd been alive, butsomeone had made damn sure it looked like she'd murdered him.

A file full of damning emails had appeared in her sent mail, all supposedly written by her.

Deleted access logs showed her badge in restricted labs.

Her apartment had been searched, and the flash drive they’d found was the same one she’d refused to plant when the corporate intel unit asked her to spy.

It was all too perfect.

Macy shoved her foot harder onto the gas pedal, cursing as the old Honda Civic hydroplaned over a stretch of standing water.

She righted it with a jerk, heart pounding, hair plastered to her forehead.

The little blue dot on her GPS blinked toward a private access road marked with a wrought-iron gate and a familiar logo: The Iron Spur.

She’d sworn she'd never come back.

Hell, three years ago she’d sworn she wouldn’t. Not after they tossed her out like bad bar stock. But desperate times call for desperate solutions.She was out of options. Framed, hunted, and scared out of her damn mind.

And Trace McRae? He might be her only shot at survival.