Page 10 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)
MACY
T he knock on the door came hard enough to rattle the frame. Trace had her pressed behind him before she could blink, gun already drawn, eyes scanning. When he opened it, a wiry man in a tailored charcoal suit stood on the threshold. Trace let out a breath that sounded of relief.
"He's one of the Silver Spur runners."
The man had wind-chapped cheeks and a sharp-eyed glance that swept the room and dismissed Macy in the same breath. He handed Trace a drive and said, “Signal's dirty. Someone might be listening in. We've scrubbed it and changed the codes, but you're not as invisible as you were an hour ago."
"And the evac vehicle?"
The runner nodded. "Camo netting held. Still hidden. But you’re gonna want to use the other one when you move out."
Trace gave a short nod and took the drive without a word.
The runner didn't wait for thanks. He didn’t speak until the man was gone, disappearing down the road on foot.
He watched the camera waiting until he saw the camo netting covering the vehicle shift slightly in the breeze.
It confirmed the vehicle was positioned in a dry wash a few ridgelines out.
Trace had known where the vehicle would be thanks to the hidden surveillance grid Silver Spur maintained across their safehouse network. The relay hadn’t just scrambled their signal, it had delivered a one-time location ping buried deep in the encryption layer. Clean. Untraceable. Silent.
Only once the vehicle had vanished from sight did Trace lock down the compound and holster his weapon. His shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension shifting from external threat to something more personal. He turned to Macy, who hadn’t said a word since the runner arrived.
Trace turned on his heel and headed for the back of the house without another word, his tension evident in the tight set of his shoulders.
Macy followed, keeping pace as he moved past the kitchen and toward a narrow alcove that housed the utility systems. He didn’t glance back, but she stayed close, noting the shift in his energy—focused, grim, controlled.
He crouched by a small storage shelf, pushed aside a stack of emergency rations, and snapped open a discreet panel embedded in the wall. Neatly arranged tools gleamed under the overhead light. He grabbed a diagnostic scanner and turned to the side door leading to the covered breezeway.
"We going somewhere?" she asked, arms crossed.
"Not we, me. I need to check the relay manually. Stay inside."
That wasn't a request.
Curiosity prickled under her skin, but she nodded and lingered near the window.
The faint rattle of tools carried through the glass as she watched him crouch beside the weatherproof housing, swing the panel open, and bend over the tangle of fiber connections.
His movements were steady and unhurried, the kind of precision that came only from years of doing this work under pressure.
The smooth sweep of his hands was almost hypnotic, practiced and sure, each adjustment made with quiet authority.
The scanner flickered to life in soft green pulses, casting a faint glow across his face as he muttered under his breath, testing and recalibrating, fingers moving with quick efficiency.
The rhythm of his work was oddly soothing, mechanical hum blending with the steady drum of her heartbeat as she watched.
After a subtle adjustment deep inside the junction, he slid the scanner free, shut the housing with a muted click, and locked it into place.
Straightening, he gave a short nod of satisfaction, shoulders easing as if a weight had been lifted. Whatever had glitched, he’d fixed it.
When his gaze lifted, he caught her watching.
For a moment their eyes held through the glass, a silent current running between them.
Then he tipped his chin toward the interior in a small motion.
She stepped back from the window, but she didn’t move far, unwilling to lose sight of him, her pulse still stirred by equal parts curiosity and the steady confidence in every move he made.
When he returned, dust still clinging to his knees, he gave a curt nod.
"Interference amplifier was misaligned. Could’ve been heat shift or intentional sabotage.
Either way, it's stable now. But we need to keep our eyes open." He closed the casing, wiping grit from his palms. “This kind of breach isn’t Nexus-level work. They don’t have the expertise. Someone with more money and reach is bankrolling them.”
Macy felt her stomach tighten as that name resurfaced in her mind—Kells.
"Doesn't this place have a security system?"
Trace barked a laugh. "One that most secure facilities would envy, but you never rely solely on any electronic system. Trust but verify."
The adrenaline had faded, but the ache in Macy's limbs remained. Not pain exactly, but a taut awareness winding through her muscles like she’d been strung too tight for too long.
She stood in the center of the safe house, taking in the minimalist layout—concrete walls, reinforced windows, tactical supplies lining a metal rack, and that damn single bed.
Trace moved through the space like a man born for it. Controlled. Alert. Dangerous in a way that made her breath catch and her thoughts spiral into territory that had nothing to do with safety.
He re-secured the locks, rechecked the perimeter sensors, then turned to face her, face shadowed with tension. "Sit. You need rest."
"You need a better bedside manner," she shot back, but eased onto the couch anyway with the first-aid kit she’d found earlier. She applied a bandage to the cut she had first thought was merely a bruise. Her body welcomed the cushion, even if her pride bristled.
He crouched in front of her, his gaze scanning for injuries. "You took a fall back in the barn. Let me see."
"I’m fine, cowboy. Just a little bruised pride and a messed-up ponytail."
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. Macy narrowed her eyes, biting back the urge to roll them. Well, aren't you just a walking Hallmark card, she thought, crossing her arms with theatrical flair. Maybe I should’ve brought flashcards labeled joke and laugh here.
Instead, he reached for her leg, gently lifted the hem of her jeans, and inspected the skin beneath with the kind of focus that should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t.
Macy swallowed. "You always this hands-on, or am I just lucky?"
"You jumped in front of a bullet for me. That earns you a little attention."
She didn't think he'd meant for anything to slip, but the words came out raw, his voice low and edged with something rougher. It was an unguarded fracture in his carefully built control.
Trace’s attention lingered on her work. His jaw tightened as he studied it, the hard line flexing in a way that made her pulse trip.
Something flickered in his eyes, a flash of heat that unsettled her.
The intensity of it made her wonder if the tension coiled through him was from pain or something far more dangerous.
Whatever it was, she could see how thin his restraint had become, a thread stretched tight enough to snap.
His gaze drifted to her lips, still slightly parted from whatever retort she’d been holding back.
She watched as his chest rose, then held steady like he was bracing himself for impact.
There was a deliberate pause, the kind that came before a plunge into deep water, or a decision that couldn’t be undone.
His focus shifted entirely to her, to the proximity of her body and the pull between them that made the rest of the world disappear.
She met his stare, and something sparked. Not in him. In her. Warmth coiled low in her belly, her breath hitching as awareness swept through her. The man before her wasn’t only danger contained in muscle and control; he was temptation made flesh.
She hated how much she liked it. Hated that even now, post-firefight, part of her still wanted to straddle him right there on the cold concrete floor and ride the storm out.
Instead, she leaned back and studied him. "Your turn. You’re favoring your left side."
Trace hesitated.
She arched a brow. "You planning to be stubborn or smart?"
"It’s an old injury."
"And now it’s a re-aggravated one. Take your shirt off."
He raised a brow. "You giving orders now?"
"If it means I don’t have to drag your unconscious ass to the ER later, yes."
He grumbled something under his breath but stood and peeled off the tactical shirt. The moment he did, Macy sucked in a breath.
His chest was a roadmap of scars—some faded, others angry and fresh. A brutal tapestry of battles won, survived, and buried.
One in particular curved under his ribs, red and swollen.
Macy stepped in, letting her fingers trail lightly above the wound.
His skin radiated heat, taut and smooth under the pad of her thumb, and she could feel the tightly wound tension beneath it—not just from pain, but restraint.
The bruise was tender to the touch, blooming across muscle that flexed as he moved.
Her breath hitched slightly, not from fear, but from the unexpected rush of awareness.
Every inch of him was carved like purpose, and touching him like this unraveled something sharp and intimate inside her.
She stepped closer and pressed her fingers just above it, careful but firm.
He didn’t flinch. Just locked eyes with her. "Bet your friends at the club never told you I walked away, did they?"
She shook her head. "No. They painted you as a legend. The kind of warrior Dom who’d survive a nuclear blast and still have time to save the dog."
He huffed. "Got hit on the last op. Took longer to get back than I expected. By the time I was healed up, I realized I needed to step away, so I did."
"So you helped build Silver Spur and the club?"
"Had to do something with the second life."