Page 16 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

DAWSON

D awson stood in the shadows of his loft, one shoulder braced against the bedroom doorframe, the dim streetlight behind him casting long, fractured lines across the floor.

The hour was late—too late for this kind of stillness.

The city outside had gone still, punctuated only by the faint stutter of tires on wet asphalt far below.

But inside, silence wasn’t peace. It was a chokehold.

Evangeline sat cross-legged on the bed, shoulders hunched, fingers drifting over the edge of the jersey she wore—soft with age and still holding the faint warmth of his skin.

One side had slipped off her shoulder, the fabric grazing her thighs and pooling loose around her hips.

There was nothing deliberate in the way it clung and fell, but it still made Dawson’s gut knot.

She worried a loose thread, every muscle pulled taut as if she was bracing for impact.

Her hands balled into fists, pale crescents rising where her nails bit down.

The air pressed in, hushed and dense, like the room itself waited.

Her silence wasn’t fragile—it was tempered steel, wound tight and ready to ignite.

The laptop beside her had long since gone dark. Forgotten.

Dawson’s gaze traced the tension etched in her jaw, the way her shoulders curled in, bracing against some unseen blow.

All day she’d been like this—distant, unreachable, a shadow behind guarded eyes.

Not shattered by shock, exactly; more hollowed out, as though the emptiness had settled before the grief could even arrive.

Even when he’d showed her the phone, she hadn’t flinched.

Numbness had moved in, quietly taking root where feeling should have bloomed.

He watched her falter, catching the fleeting shadow across her face, and felt a hesitant relief when she finally looked to him for support—not out of surrender, but a deliberate act of trust. That was what he craved most: not some fragile compliance, but these quiet moments when a person chose, despite everything, to lower their guard.

Old ghosts stirred beneath Dawson’s skin.

He remembered Sheila—her practiced smile a mask for every betrayal, her tenderness always a calculated move.

The memory of how she’d ruined him—her father’s connections with CID, the career they’d burned to ashes together, never once looking back—still haunted him.

Now, facing Evangeline, he saw a different kind of vulnerability flicker across her features—a raw uncertainty that left his gut twisted with warning, yet hope. He braced himself, wary of being fooled again.

But when Evangeline finally met his eyes, the honesty there unsettled him.

Her gaze was clear, frightened but genuine.

Unlike Sheila, who had always manipulated, Evangeline simply trusted.

It was that trust—her willingness to be seen, weak and wounded—that undid him more than any calculated seduction.

He shifted, boots anchored to the floor, hands clenched at his sides. “Say something,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t blink, didn’t turn—just stared ahead, unmoving.

“I need to know you’re still in there, Evvy.”

Still, only silence.

“I think I recognized the blinds,” she whispered, gaze still fixed on some point beyond the room. “The angle of the light. It’s Peter’s office. Late. He always stayed too late.”

Dawson swallowed against the grit in his throat. “That’s where they found him. No signs of forced entry. Security footage wiped. Clean job.”

“Too clean.”

“Yeah.”

Her fingers twitched in her lap, loosening for just a breath before tightening again. “The letter opener… it’s mine.”

“I know.”

“They wanted me to know.”

“I know that too.”

The image etched itself into Dawson’s mind—Peter slumped over the desk, his face resting on a scatter of paperwork, the scene almost peaceful but for the unmistakable protrusion of a silver hilt, embedded cleanly between his shoulder blades. The weapon wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Personal.

There’d been no overturned chair, no scattered files, no evidence of a struggle. Just the eerie calm of a man posed like he’d fallen asleep—until you looked closer and saw the message for what it was: not chaos, but control. A silent signature rendered in blood.

“Peter gave me that opener as a gift,” she said, voice going glassy.

“It wasn’t about Peter,” Dawson said. “This wasn’t retribution. It was precision. Targeted. You.”

Her jaw worked, a tiny twitch beneath the cheekbone. “Whoever did it, they knew how to hurt me without making a mess.”

His chest hollowed. “That’s not the kind of message someone sends unless they want you off balance. Vulnerable.”

She turned to him fully then, finally. “Then they picked the wrong woman.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—barely—but there was no humor in it. “Damn right they did.”

For a moment, just a flicker, she looked like herself again. Not the fragile thing in borrowed cotton and silence. But the steel underneath. The woman who’d refused to fall apart.

But it didn’t last. Her eyes drifted back toward the shadows beyond the bed.

“Did you tell Gavin and Jesse?” she asked. “What about the police?”

Dawson nodded. “I called it in this morning. The team is already working on it. They’re scrubbing feeds, tracing any digital footprints. So far, nothing.” He paused. “They’re staying close.”

Her chin dipped in a near nod. “Good.”

Dawson stepped farther into the room, careful. Slow. His boots barely made a sound across the hardwood. He crouched beside the bed, close but not touching. Her hands remained knotted. So did his chest.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s just started.”

The silence stretched, not in discomfort but in solidarity—two warriors bracing for the next move. Dawson rose slowly, one last glance at Evangeline anchoring him as he crossed to the desk.

His comm crackled to life.

“Dawson, what's your status?” Gavin’s voice came online, crisp and clipped.

Dawson shifted his weight, eyes scanning the dim corners of the loft like a man waiting for a breach. “Loft is clear. Evangeline’s quiet, but alert—holding her ground. Keep the perimeter tight and eyes sharp—I don’t want any surprises.”

“Understood. Perimeter One is holding. Thermal readings clean.”

Jesse chimed in, a grin audible in his voice, breaking the tension just slightly with his trademark swagger. “Tell the princess we’ve got her castle locked down. Lachlan’s covering the back of Shaw HQ—he's posted like a statue.”

Dawson grunted. “You on comms with him now?”

“Affirmative. I’m in the server logs—integrity checks are all green, nothing’s been tripped,” Jesse reported. “Gavin’s got med kits, satellite comms, and backup hardware staged two blocks out in the truck.”

“Any vulnerabilities?” Dawson’s tone was tight.

“Just one. Service hallway behind the executive wing—narrow angle, low visibility. Lachlan’s covering it solo, but he’s tighter than Fort Knox. Reed’s team is five minutes out if we need backup.”

Gavin chimed in, “Drone sweep is already airborne—nothing overhead yet. Metadata from the photo was routed through Curacao and masked through Baton Rouge. Whoever sent it knew what they were doing.”

Dawson’s jaw flexed. “Send the drone feed to my secure line. And if either of you breathes a word about Evangeline to Reed before I clear it, I’ll gut your comms access myself.”

Jesse gave a low whistle. “Relax, cowboy. Nobody’s saying a word. Though I gotta admit—watching you go full alpha for her? Kinda hot.”

Dawson addressed the team. “We’re here. Evangeline’s holding, but this rattled her. Stay sharp. No room for surprises.”

Jesse confirmed, “Server logs are clean, and Gavin’s truck is ready if we need it.”

Dawson asked, “Any breach?”

Jesse shook his head. “No breach. Just the photo. Whoever did this didn’t want the system—they wanted her to see it.”

Gavin added, “Lachlan’s thermal scans are coming through now. I’m sending them to your secure channel.”

“Done.”

Dawson ended the call and crossed back into the bedroom. Evangeline still hadn’t moved. There was a heaviness to her stillness—something more than shock, sharper and edged with intent.

“I keep thinking about the message,” she said quietly.

He waited.

“It wasn’t just meant to scare me. It was curated—the setting, the timing, the weapon. My letter opener, in Peter’s office, at night. Every detail was chosen to cut deeper than fear—to dismantle me, piece by piece. They wanted me to feel it.”

He moved closer, bracing one hand on the mattress as he sat beside her. “You’re not responsible, Evvy.”

“I know, but my overhearing him, taking the data, involving Silver Spur was enough to get him killed.”

He cupped her face, thumb gently tracing her cheek. “They’re trying to break you, not hurt you. Not yet. This is about control. They want you isolated, shaken—but you’re not giving in.”

She looked up at him, her facade beginning to crack. “Then they’re already halfway there.”

“I’m not leaving the loft,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll be ten feet away, coordinating. Still in your sight.”

She gave a faint nod. “Go hunt.”

He set up at the dining table, close enough to watch her, and began working.

The news was worse than before. Jesse and Gavin had traced badge swipes at Shaw HQ—Peter’s badge, then Squire’s, logged less than a minute apart.

Dawson pulled the footage and saw the stiff body language, the forced smiles, and a fleeting reflection of movement behind the blinds.

Conspiracy unfolded before his eyes—not theory or guesswork, but a chilling pattern threaded through still frames and silent footage.