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

TRACE

T he next morning broke with no fanfare, just a pale gray light pushing past the clouds and sliding through the slats of the window blinds. Trace was already up, dressed in worn jeans and a black Henley that clung to his shoulders, halfway through his first cup of coffee.

He stood at the kitchen counter, scanning the news feed, fingers curled around the thick ceramic mug, the weight of it familiar and grounding.

The coffee was hot, almost scalding, but he welcomed the burn.

Steam rose in lazy curls, catching the edge of the morning light that slipped through the blinds.

The rim pressed against his lower lip, and he took a slow sip, letting the bitterness coat his tongue.

Outside, the wind pressed against the house in occasional sighs.

Inside, the silence stretched until the soft creak of the upstairs landing broke it.

He didn’t look up from his laptop. Not right away.

His hand tightened slightly around the mug, and the air in the room shifted.

She hadn’t made a sound yet, but he could feel her behind him.

There was a distinctive ripple of energy, bright and aware, like a spark catching dry tinder.

Trace didn’t need to see her to know she was there.

He felt her in his chest, in the prickling tension across his shoulders, in the way the silence turned electric the moment she entered the room.

Macy’s energy came in like a current, disruptive and sparking, filling the space before she said a word. When she finally padded into the kitchen, it was barefoot and wearing the same damn tee shirt that had derailed his thoughts the night before.

“My guest room didn’t come with coffee,” she said, voice still husky with sleep.

Trace raised his mug and took a slow sip. “Not a hotel.”

“No, definitely not. Hotel rooms come with less glaring and better room service.”

He finally met her gaze. “Keep testing me, darlin’. See how long that attitude lasts.”His voice was calm, but his blood wasn’t. It beat hot beneath his skin, steady and slow like the draw of a trigger.

She was playing with fire and he knew it, could see it in the way her eyes glittered and her lip tugged into that half-daring, half-tempting curve she always used right before she stepped over a line.

And God help him, he wanted her to. Wanted to give her a reason to stop pushing and start surrendering.

But if he let himself go there now, he'd lose more than control. He'd lose perspective.

She grinned, pouring herself a cup from the pot he’d set to brew at five. “Was that a warning or a promise?”

“Both.”

Macy leaned against the counter across from him and took a sip. She grimaced. “Strong enough to stand a spoon upright.”

“Good. Puts hair on your chest.”

She blinked. “Funny, I seem to recall you liked your women bare everywhere but their heads. For those that chose not to be completely bare, God forbid there be a curl out of place.”

Trace groaned under his breath and turned back to his laptop, jaw tight and shoulders bunched with effort. It wasn’t just her voice or the way that damn shirt clung to her hips, it was the way she filled up the room like she had every right to be there.

His mind had wandered too easily last night, imagining her in his space, in his bed, skin flushed and wrists bound to the headboard with the tie he kept in his nightstand for moments he hadn’t allowed himself in years.

He needed distance. Discipline. A cold shower hadn't cut it last night, not really.

It sure as hell wouldn't cut it this time.

He refocused on the screen, forcing himself to scroll through the security feed and the encrypted message Jesse had flagged overnight.

Trace was trying to be professional, to stay in control. But the damn woman made it harder with every word out of her smart little mouth. A mouth that was too easy to envision opening under his or better yet, wrapped around his cock.

He refocused on the secure client dashboard Silver Spur used to track internal reports and chatter. Trace opened it with a tap.

No confirmed sightings. No law enforcement hits. No travel alerts. No movement. Whicheither meant Macy’s story had merit, or someone was playing a very patient game.

“Do you really believe I didn’t do it?”Her voice had dropped, quieter now. Sincere, more vulnerable.

Trace looked up. Her gaze was steady. No artifice. No act. Just a woman tired of being hunted.

“I don't believe you killed him,” he said.

“But you think I’m guilty of something.”

He took another sip of coffee. “Everyone’s guilty of something, darlin'.”

Trace didn’t just mean it as a throwaway line.

The words sat heavy on his tongue, a reminder of the choices he’d made, the lives he’d taken, and the woman he hadn’t stopped thinking about for three damn years.

He carried guilt in layers—the kind that didn’t show on the outside but left scars in the silence.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to project that onto her.

Maybe it was the only way he knew how to keep her at a distance.

And for reasons he didn't want to admit, he hated that he cared enough to try.

She stared at him a long moment. “That was philosophical as hell for a cowboy.”

Trace didn’t smile. Not really. But his face altered slightly, just enough to register.

“All cowboys are philosophical," he said closing the laptop. "Get dressed. We’ve got work to do.”

Macy frowned. “What kind of work?”

“The kind that keeps you safe. The kind that finds out who’s really behind this.”

She pushed off the counter, eyes narrowed. “And I get to help?”

“You get to stay on the ranch, follow my rules, and not make this harder than it already is.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“You want to stay alive?”

“I’d like to do that with a little dignity.”

Trace stood. “Then lose the attitude, put on real clothes, and meet me outside in twenty.”

Macy’s brow arched. “You giving orders now?”

“I’ve been giving them since the moment you walked in the door of the Iron Spur the first time. You’re just now starting to listen.”

She didn’t argue.He wasn’t sure if that was a win—or a trap.

Outside, the rain had finally broken, but the air still clung to the morning chill. Trace walked the perimeter of the property, checking the gates and sensor lines himself, even though the cameras had confirmed all was secure.

He didn’t trust comfort. Never had.

By the time Macy came out, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, he’d already reset the west boundary’s pressure strip and run a systems diagnostic from the barn.

“You look like someone shot your horse,” she muttered, falling into step beside him.

“He’s fine.”

“You, on the other hand, look like someone replaced your personality with gravel.”

He glanced at her. “You always this mouthy before breakfast?”

“Only when I’m around men who growl more than they talk.”

He stopped abruptly. Macy nearly walked into him.

“You’re pushing it,” he said, low and calm.

Her pulse jumped, just enough for him to see it at her throat. But she didn’t back down.

“I’m trying to understand the rules.”

“You already know them. You just want to see what happens when you break them.”

Her lips parted.He reached out, gripped her jaw with two fingers, and tilted her face up.

“Keep testing me, and you’ll find out exactly how I enforce them... or maybe that's what you really want. Is that it, Macy? Do you want someone to ensure that when you step out of line...”

"If..." she started, lifting her chin.

Trace shook his head. "When. Someone who will hold you accountable so you have boundaries you feel will keep you safe."

She swallowed, said nothing, and looked away.

“Now go help with the horses,” he said, releasing her. “If you’re staying here, you’re going to pull your own weight.”

“You want me to muck stalls?”

“I want you to remember what consequences feel like.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then spun on her heel and stalked deeper into the barn, boots striking the packed dirt with sharp, defiant steps.

Trace watched her go, her hips swaying with every furious step, and let the silence settle back over him.

His jaw tightened, the ghost of her defiance still pulsing beneath his skin.

Part of him wanted to drag her back by the wrist and show her exactly what happened when a brat tested a man like him.

Another part wanted to give her space in order to keep his professional distance.

He wasn’t sure which instinct infuriated him more.

He exhaled through his nose, then pulled out his phone and dialed Jesse again.

“Anything new?”

“Nothing on the surface,” Jesse said. “But we're combing the back end of their digital logs. We’re running a forensic audit on the servers for anomalies.”

“Good. I want eyes on the research files and internal communications. Look for inconsistencies, forged entries, anything timestamped post-incident that implicates Macy.”

“She really get to you that bad?”

“She’s not the problem. Whoever might be coming for her is. Where are the cops?”

"Still looking for her. They haven't contacted us, and we haven’t seen any surveillance. I've got our techs monitoring your security feed. So far. so good."

By noon, the tension in the house had settled just enough to breathe. Macy had spent the morning cleaning tack under Trace’s watchful eye. She hadn’t complained. Much. But more importantly to him, she'd done a good job.

She came in just before lunch, dirt smudged across one cheek and her ponytail sliding sideways. Trace handed her a towel.

She took it without comment.

He stepped behind her and plucked the elastic band from her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders.

“You don’t tie it back right, it pulls.”

“Thanks, Dad.”She grinned, drying her hands.

“Careful.You hungry?” he asked.

She nodded.He turned to the stove and began pulling out ingredients.

“You cook too?” she asked, surprised.

“Beats starving to death or take-out.”

They moved around each other in the kitchen with a simmering tension that clung to every brush of skin and shift in the air.

When her shoulder grazed his body, Trace felt a sharp pulse that gripped low in his gut and tightened across his chest. Her arm slid past his as she reached for a spoon, her fingers grazing his forearm.

His pulse kicked in response, low and steady, building heat beneath his stern composure.

Every accidental touch felt intentional.

Every inhale too sharp. Every exhale too measured.

He knew she felt it too. There was an unspoken dare between them, tempting him to drop the rules and take what they both knew was already his.

.. if he'd admit that he wanted it. The tension didn’t ease.

It changed. Twisted into something hotter.

When Macy reached past him, her chest pressed flush against his back, the soft weight of her breasts catching him off guard.

The contact lit up every nerve ending, a burst of heat that surged down his spine and coiled tight in his lower belly.

Her breath ghosted against the back of his neck, slow and deliberate, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

She didn’t move away. Her body lingered against his, unapologetic. And he didn’t shift either, locked in place by the sudden, visceral ache to turn, pin her to the counter, and taste everything she kept daring him to want.

“Is this what domestic bliss looks like?” she murmured.

He set down the spoon and turned.Her face was inches from his.

“Macy.”

She looked up at him, heat simmering in her eyes.

For a breathless second, all he saw was desire, raw and barely bridled, right there for the taking. He could have kissed her. Should have. Wanted to. But he didn’t.Instead, he stepped back.

“You should eat.”

She blinked. “If that's the best that's being offered."

She sat at the table while he plated thick slices of grilled steak, roasted sweet potatoes, and a medley of blistered peppers and onions.

The sizzle still clung to the air from the cast iron pan, and the heat rising off the plates matched the heat simmering between them.

They ate in silence for a while, each bite punctuated by the clink of forks and the hum of tension that hadn’t dulled in the slightest.

Finally, she set her fork down.“You pull away from me like I’m fire.”

He didn’t look up.“You are.”

“I thought you liked fire.”

“I do.”He met her eyes then, calm and impenetrable.“But I’m not stupid enough to play with it in my own house. I only play with fire under the controlled environment of the club with the proper safety measures present.”

She stared at him, wounded pride flickering behind her lashes. "You're all about control and safety. Boring." She dragged the last word out in a sing-song tone.Then she pushed back from the table and stood.“I’m going for a walk.”

“I don't want you anywhere you can't see the house or I can't see you from the front porch.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“No, but you are my protectee, which means you’re not free, either.”

She didn’t answer. He could see her thinking about it and deciding to hold her tongue. She shook her head,turned and walked out the back door.

Trace didn’t follow. His body tensed like a wire pulled too tight, every instinct screaming at him to go after her, to make her come back, to bend her over the porch rail and remind her what obedience looked like.

But he stayed rooted, jaw locked, his stance wide, arms held rigid like he was barely keeping himself from striding after her and dragging her back inside.

Chasing her now would mean giving in to all the things he couldn't afford.

His job was to protect her, not indulge in the fantasy of owning her.

Not yet. Not like that. Not when every nerve in his body screamed to take what she kept offering with her eyes, her mouth, her whole damn presence.

He stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame, watching as she reached the edge of the clearing and stopped short of the trees.

Good girl. She knew better than to test his limits.

The wind tugged at her hair, and even from this distance, he could see the tilt of her chin, proud and unrepentant.

A dense pressure gathered in his chest, hot and insistent, pressing against the inside of his ribs like a brand he couldn’t shake. She was a temptation he couldn't afford to chase. Not now. Not when the line between protecting her and possessing her blurred more with every breath.

She thought this was about control. She didn’t see the predators circling, or the trap she was close to springing.

She didn’t see what it cost him to keep his hands off her, to treat her like a mission instead of a need.

And she sure as hell didn’t see that he wasn’t just trying to protect her from the danger outside—he was trying to protect her from himself.