Page 1 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

EVANGELINE

C hampagne always tasted like carbonated guilt if you held it in your mouth long enough. Evangeline Shaw knew that from experience, but she swirled her flute for the cameras anyway, smiling beneath the soft glare of a chandelier that looked like it had been imported straight from Versailles.

Outside the glass walls, San Antonio’s night air hummed with the drone of cicadas and distant honking, the scent of river mud and hot asphalt just creeping into the chilled marble foyer.

The Shaw Petrochemical gala was a black-tie only spectacle held in the building’s spacious and glamorous foyer.

It wasn’t a ballroom per se, but it could certainly double for one.

No one came for the shrimp cocktail. They came to see the crown princess—the one who glistened under the lights, all sleek satin and inherited polish.

Tonight, Evangeline wore navy silk that clung just enough to hint without scandalizing. Her heels were designer, her earrings borrowed from her mother’s vault, and her smile had been rehearsed so often it practically had its own business license.

She played her part flawlessly—Shaw Petrochemical’s golden girl. The polished face of the company’s so-called PR division, though calling it a division was generous. Her real job was to look good in quarterly reports and stand quietly beside her father, the CEO, during merger announcements.

With her father out of the country in Nigeria, negotiating a deal worth billions, it was up to her to keep up appearances—smiling for the cameras, managing the press, and representing the brand with practiced polish.

No one mistook her for the one running the company; that responsibility belonged to her father’s executives.

And that was fine—she knew her role, knew exactly what was expected of her…

even if it sometimes felt like she was performing more than contributing.

And tonight, to look very much in love with her fiancé, Peter Rhodes.

Two years ago, Peter had shown up as a so-called ‘consultant,’ brought in to streamline sales—recommended by a shadowy equity partner no one really knew.

But somewhere along the way, he'd become something else entirely.

He appeared at her side now as if conjured by the thought.

Tall, clean-cut, and infuriatingly handsome in that bland, corporate-approved way that put investors at ease, Peter slipped an arm around her waist. The cufflinks at his wrist caught the light—solid gold, stamped with the SP logo, of course.

“Picture perfect,” Peter murmured as a photographer angled for a shot. His tone was low and intimate, warm enough to make her smile feel almost real.

Evangeline tilted her chin toward him, letting the smile linger as the cameras clicked. He rested a guiding hand at her waist, the gesture proprietary but affectionate—exactly what the moment required.

“Just a few more minutes,” he whispered. “Then I’ll whisk you away for a proper celebration. Just us.”

“Such a romantic,” she teased, her laugh soft, sparkling like champagne bubbles. The flashbulbs loved that sound. So did Peter. Or so she thought.

“You deserve it,” he said against her temple. “Tonight’s your night. I want the whole world to see what I already know.”

The words curled around her like a promise, but something in her stomach fluttered—not nerves, exactly, just… pressure. The kind that came from being on display, from having everything ride on appearances, timing and precision.

Still, she leaned into him as more cameras snapped, his touch steady, his smile practiced and perfect. They looked the part. Said the right things. Moved like two halves of a whole.

And that had to be love, didn’t it?

Ten minutes later, while Stanley Squire, her father’s right-hand man, toasted the 'limitless horizon of Shaw Petrochemical,' Evangeline slipped behind a velvet curtain under the guise of lipstick repair. What she really needed was air—and to wrestle down the panic attack clawing at her ribs.

The corridor just off the public foyer was quiet and dim, lined with gilded sconces and the muted murmur of distant conversation. She’d just turned toward the powder room when Peter’s voice drifted through the half-open service door.

“...a matter of weeks, maybe days. Once the board signs off, Shaw steps aside and I take the helm. She’ll endorse whatever I hand her—marriage license, proxy, prenup addendum. All ribbon-tied.”

Evangeline froze.

A second man answered, his baritone wrapped in smoke. “Not bad for a temp spy gig.”

Peter chuckled. “Temporary? I told you—why siphon data when I can own the damn wellhead? After the wedding, the Shaws will be ceremonial at best... if they're lucky.”

Her stomach dropped. Spy. Coup. Marriage as acquisition.

She edged closer, careful not to disturb the door. Peter stood near the far wall, bourbon in hand, relaxed as a cat in sunlight. The other man’s back was to her—just another tuxedo in a sea of sharks.

Instinct screamed. Run.

Evangeline pivoted, heart ricocheting. Her heels clacked on marble, too loud, so she kicked them off mid-stride, hopping on one foot and then the other as she scooped them up, and bolted barefoot toward the foyer.

She reached the back staircase before a hand caught her wrist.

“Whoa there, Evvy.”

Keely Malone—best friend, trust-fund rebel, the only woman who had once laced debutante champagne with ghost-pepper vodka for entertainment—blocked her path. Keely had the kind of courage that stared down smugglers and cartels for sport.

Emerald satin shimmered around Keely like defiance. One glance at Evangeline’s bare feet and wild eyes and she frowned. “You look like someone just fracked your soul.”

Evangeline yanked her into an alcove, still wielding her stilettos like daggers. “Peter’s a corporate spy. I heard him plotting a corporate coup. He’s using the engagement to steal the company.”

Keely’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s... aspirational villainy.”

“I knew he was ambitious. I didn’t know I was the oil rig he planned to drill through.”

Keely nodded, considering. “Option one: We drive his Maserati to the river, put it in gear and push it in. Option two: We pull every incriminating email and nuke him at the next board meeting—preferably while wearing sequined jumpsuits.”

“Option three?” Evangeline asked, still reeling.

Keely grinned. “Both.”

Behind them, the foyer erupted in applause—likely Stanley announcing her engagement to the company’s golden boy. Cameras flashed through the doorway like heat-lightning. Evangeline’s chest hollowed.

“You okay?” Keely asked softly.

“No.”

“Good. That means you’re done pretending.”

Evangeline barked a brittle laugh. “He called me a ribbon-tied signature. Like I’m a fucking party favor.”

“Well, he's wrong. You’re Evangeline freakin’ Shaw. You hold the master password to the investor portal and a Rolodex that makes senators sweat.” Keely fished into her tote and produced a flash drive like a dagger. “You in?”

Evangeline stared at the drive, then at the foyer gleaming with false promises.

Before she could answer, her phone vibrated. Unknown number.

WE KNOW WHAT YOU HEARD. KEEP QUIET OR WE’LL MAKE YOU.

A sharp pop cracked through the corridor a heartbeat later. One of the upper windows fractured in a sudden web of glass—clean, contained, almost too precise. Silenced gunshot. Or maybe a pellet round. Either way, the message was unmistakable.

Someone wanted to rattle her.

And it was working.

Keely’s gaze snapped to the fractured glass. “That was a warning shot.”

Panic flared, then crystallized into anger. Evangeline shoved her heels into Keely’s tote. “No shit Sherlock. I need traction if we’re going to burn this thing down.”

“We’ll need protection,” Keely said, voice steady. “Real protection—someone who doesn’t rattle when the bullets start.” She thumbed a contact on her phone. “Silver Spur Security."

"That's your brother's firm, and the one Jesse works for, right?"

"One and the same. All former military and Texas-tough. Reed will know who best to put on it. Their lead tracker I suspect,” she said with a grin.

Evangeline knew that grin all too well. It rarely boded well for those Keely was about to take on.

Evangeline swallowed. “Tracker?”

"Dawson Hart.” Keely’s eyes sparkled with mischief and something like faith. “Former Texas Ranger, and Army CID."

"CID?"

"Criminal Investigation Division. The Army's answer to NCIS. Cold eyes, bulletproof calm. If Peter’s playing spy games, Dawson will know how to sniff him out and make him run for cover.”

The shattered pane rattled again as security scrambled. Peter’s voice drifted down the hall—smooth, affable, rehearsing damage control.

Evangeline inhaled the scent of gardenias—sweet, heady, and undisturbed by the faint whisper of the silenced shot. “Text him.”

Keely sent the message. “Done. He’s already at the club.”

'The Club'—Evangeline knew she meant The Iron Spur, San Antonio's most famous and exclusive lifestyle club. Evangeline had always been intrigued by the images that arose when she thought about it but had never dared to cross over its threshold.

Stepping deeper into the shadows, Evangeline was no longer panicked but purposeful.

Her silk gown whispered around her legs; her bare feet met the cold tile with a clarity she hadn’t felt in years.

She’d always sensed there was something 'off' about her engagement, but discovering it was nothing more than a PR stunt—and that the man she was supposed to love had just painted a target on her back—was almost too much to process.

Evangeline didn’t know exactly where this new path would take her—only that it pulled her fast and hard from the glittering lie of this life, from the diamond-studded future she'd never wanted. It led somewhere west, toward a man she hadn’t met, but whose name already whispered like a promise.

And for the moment, that would have to be enough.