Page 22 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

TRACE

S ix months later, the Texas heat shimmered across the pastures of Trace McRae’s ranch, but inside the stone house on the hill, life had taken on a steadier rhythm.

The chaos of Meridian’s downfall lingered only in headlines and court transcripts.

Haines and Kells had been dragged through trials that made national news, their empire dismantled piece by piece under Silver Spur’s relentless pressure.

Macy Dane’s name was not just cleared but celebrated.

No longer the scapegoat, she was recognized as proof that survival could mean standing unbowed, a symbol of strength instead of shame.

She had walked through fire and come out with her head high, refusing to kneel or break, and the world had finally been forced to recognize her strength.

Trace leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table, boots crossed at the ankle, a mug of coffee cooling in his hand.

Through the open window he watched Macy stride across the drive toward the barn.

She was all confidence and motion, snug jeans hugging her hips, a Silver Spur tee clinging in ways that tested his focus before breakfast. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, her messy bun as defiant and sexy as she was.

Reed and Gavin had officially hired her as the office manager.

She ran meetings with a raised eyebrow, a sassy mouth and a wicked smile.

The best part was that half the time the men obeyed before even realizing they had.

She owned every space she entered, not by demanding it but by filling it with a quick wit, fearless energy, and the kind of authority that came from knowing exactly who she was.

Her first official day proved it. At nine sharp, Macy walked into the ops bullpen and clapped once. Conversations snapped shut. “Stand-ups in two minutes,” she said. “If you’re late, you run the stairs.”

Hawke slouched in his chair. “I am allergic to cardio.”

“You are allergic to accountability,” Macy shot back. “It clears up with practice.”

Reed arrived with a folder under his arm and a smirk. “Do I report to you now?”

“Only if you want the lights to stay on,” she said, plucking the folder. “Two overdue incident write-ups and a vendor dispute that is not going to fix itself.”

Jesse slid into the doorway with coffee. “She scares me.”

“She scares me more,” Trace said from the back wall, unable to hide the way pride settled deep in his chest.

Macy pointed to the whiteboard. “Three items. Kells sentencing calendar, Haines’s appeal filings, and community liaison requests. We are not a PR firm, but we are not ghosts either. Reed, you’re on liaison rotation this month. Hawke, settle your bar tab with the bookkeeper today.”

“I do not have a bar tab,” Hawke said.

“You have six,” Macy replied. “Color-coded. I like your confidence, though.”

Laughter hit the room like a pressure valve opening. Orders went out. Work started. And for the first time since the bullets stopped flying, Trace felt the shape of what came next.

Trace listened, pride pressing hard against his ribs. For years he had believed love fragile. Macy proved him wrong daily. She wasn’t fragile. She was fire.

Trace’s hand closed around the mug again, though the coffee had gone cold. He didn’t need heat from the cup when Macy appeared at the foot of the stairs wearing one of his old shirts. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her legs bare, eyes already sharp as if she knew she’d walked into a test.

“Morning,” she said, voice roughened by sleep and the faintest hint of challenge.

Trace tipped his chin toward the counter. “Food. Eat.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Good morning to you, too, Sir.”

The word hit him like a match to dry tinder. She’d used it deliberately, drawing out the edge between respect and defiance. He didn’t move, just studied her, letting the silence stretch until her toes curled against the stone floor.

Finally, she huffed. “You know, at the office you probably have people scrambling when you give an order. Here, you’ve got me. And I’m not exactly your compliant employee.”

“True.” He set the mug down and rose, crossing the kitchen slowly, letting the weight of his presence press against her. “At the office I help keep order. Here, I keep order over you.”

Her breath caught, quick but not frightened. She tilted her chin higher, daring him. “That a promise or a threat?”

He closed the last of the distance, fingers hooking lightly under her jaw. “A rule. Don’t confuse the two.”

Her eyes flashed, and he knew she wanted to argue. She lived to push lines, to see what would break. At the office, that streak made her a force to be reckoned with.

Anyone who thought Macy limited herself to paperwork had never seen her order Reed to finish his reports or Hawke to account for his liquor tab. She owned every room she walked into.

Her voice carried a moment later, snark wrapped around authority. Reed grumbled, Hawke fired back, and Macy cut them both down with a laugh and a snarkyretort.

But, here in his house, it was fire he meant to harness.

“You’re staring again,” she said, softer now, lashes lowering as if the heat between them unsettled her as much as it did him.

Trace let his thumb trace the curve of her jaw before dropping his hand. “I’m deciding whether you need breakfast or discipline first.”

Her laugh came fast, nervous and genuine all at once. “And which way are you leaning?”

“Both.” He turned, opening the fridge with deliberate calm. “Sit. Eat first. You’ll need the strength.”

She hesitated, then slid into the chair he’d just left, tugging at the hem of his shirt as if that thin cotton offered any protection from his gaze.

As he set eggs and bacon in the skillet, Trace let his mind drift again to the Riverwalk offices.

There, discipline was procedure—timelines, encryption keys, field ops flowing from command.

At the ranch, discipline was simpler. One woman.

Clear rules. Immediate consequences. Yet the stakes felt higher.

If he lost control here, he wouldn’t just risk an op. He’d risk her.

The sizzle of bacon filled the kitchen, grounding him. He plated the food and set it in front of her. Macy’s eyes lifted, a mix of gratitude and mischief.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, then added with a grin, “Sir.”

Trace arched a brow. “Eat. Then we’ll settle the rest.”

She picked up her fork, but her gaze stayed locked on his, daring him again, testing how far she could push before he snapped.

And he knew, with the same certainty he felt when he’d walked into firefights, that before this day was over, he’d have her bent over his knee again—reminding exactly who held the control she craved.

By afternoon the ranch was quiet, the team gone, chores finished. Trace found Macy in his office, feet propped on his desk, flipping through files like she already owned the place. She looked up when he entered, lips curving.

“Careful, cowboy. Leave me in charge much longer and I’ll add your name back to the payroll.”

He set a small black box on the desk beside her boots. “Already feels like you own me.”

Her eyes flicked to the box, suspicion sparking. “That better not be sparkly. I don’t do tiaras.”

“Not sparkly.” He tugged her boots off the desk and pulled her upright until her chest brushed his. Her sass flickered but didn’t vanish. It never did.

“You look like a man about to issue orders,” she teased. Macy studied his face, the small lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. “You’re not just thinking about tonight,” she said softly.

He studied her like a man checking a horizon for weather. He had spent years calling love a liability. With her, it felt like armor.

“I’m thinking about all of it,” Trace answered, and the truth of it steadied the air between them. “Always.” His mouth grazed her ear. “Upstairs. Now.”

Her shiver betrayed anticipation. “Yes, Sir.”

The playroom above his bedroom breathed shadows and promise.

Trace lit candles one by one, letting the glow soften the edges of steel and wood.

He guided Macy to the center, stripped her slowly, every button and zipper peeled away until she stood bare, chin high, eyes steady. She didn’t flinch. She never did.

“You trust me?” he asked.

“Always.”

He laid her back on the bondage table, muscles steady as he tipped a spoon of melted wax onto her shoulder.

The heat struck and she hissed, then exhaled in a long sigh as it spread like fire across her skin.

He carved deliberate lines over her chest, looping circles around her navel, then dragged a molten trail down her thighs.

Each drop branded, both sting and possession, both pain and devotion.

Her body shivered beneath his control, not from fear but from the rush of sensation that rolled through her nerves.

Her gasp tore free when his path lingered just outside her breast, every nerve tightening with the torment of denial.

The untouched peak throbbed with urgent need, her body arching as he drew a molten line into the tender hollow where thigh met pelvis, the mix of pain and pleasure snapping through her with brutal clarity.

“Color?”

“Green,” she breathed, voice husky.

He painted her like a secret map only he could decipher, every stroke a claim written in molten heat. When he finally set the candle aside, he worked the cooling wax away with oiled palms, the contrast of slick warmth soothing where the sting lingered.

His aftercare was as deliberate and commanding as the scene itself, steady hands easing her trembling flesh until she melted against him. He wrapped her snug in a blanket, pulled her tight against his chest, and let the cadence of her heartbeat align with his own, a tether of comfort after fire.