Page 19 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

Down in her father’s private office, the air smelled the same—aged leather, cedar polish, and a faint metallic tang beneath it, like the ghost of tension clinging to the walls.

Her fingers drifted over the edge of the old desk, brushing against a brass paperweight shaped like a compass—her father’s favorite, always perfectly aligned to true north.

It still bore the fine scratches from his restless hands during late-night strategy sessions.

She closed her eyes for a moment, the scent of his cologne—a warm sandalwood blend—rising faintly from the top drawer.

Every sensory detail pressed against her chest, sharp and urgent, dredging up memories she didn’t have time to process.

The antique desk stood untouched. Except… she paused.

The drawer where her father kept his personal files—the one she’d only ever opened with his permission—was slightly ajar. Her breath caught. She crouched beside it, the familiar scent of cedar and aged paper rising to meet her. Her fingertips brushed the smooth wood.

“Dawson.”

He was already moving, silent and lethal.

Evangeline reached for the drawer, slid it open. The files were there. But not all of them.

Her stomach dropped—a sharp twist low in her belly, as if the floor itself had tilted beneath her. Her pulse skipped, breath catching as cold realization crawled up her spine. She looked up at Dawson. “We’ve got a breach.”

He spoke into comms without hesitation. “Lachlan, seal the floor. No one leaves.”

Evangeline stared down at the empty space in the drawer, the faint ghost of dust outlines where papers had been. This wasn’t sloppy. It was strategic. Just enough taken to send a message. Just enough left to make her wonder what she didn’t know.

The pressure behind her eyes sharpened.

They were inside. Inside her company. Inside her life. Inside her trust.

She turned toward the bookshelf, fingertips trailing lightly along the spines—rows of tomes once off-limits when she was younger. Her father still kept those same books here, untouched but not forgotten. The dust whispered of neglect, but also of secrets.

Evangeline remembered sneaking into this office once, years ago, and being caught thumbing through an old ledger—how her father had gently taken it from her hands, smiled, and said there was nothing in it she ‘needed to worry her pretty little head about.’ The memory surfaced now, drawn up by something in this moment that felt like a hinge between past and present—a quiet reminder of the unspoken boundaries that had always defined her place in the company, and the careful, distant trust her father maintained, even now, unreachable on the far side of the world, chasing a deal worth billions.

She hesitated at a familiar volume—dark leather, its edges worn smooth from years of handling.

Her breath caught. Her father had always favored this one, often pulling it out when they’d talked strategy late at night.

Was she reaching for it out of habit—or instinct?

Her pulse quickened as she pulled it free, the weight grounding her even as adrenaline surged.

Inside was a flash drive. She popped it into the USB slot on the encrypted terminal and keyed in the password.

A file tree appeared. Dozens of folders. Surveillance logs. Financial transfers. Personal correspondence—encrypted and flagged.

Dawson stepped closer. “Was that there before?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

A video thumbnail blinked. She clicked.

Peter’s voice crackled through the speakers, low and distorted, mid-sentence. "—deadline’s moved. Tell him we’re pulling the files tonight. Evangeline’s getting too close." It wasn’t a message meant for her—it was a slip, a leak, something he never meant her to hear.

She recognized the voice with cold fury, not grief.

The betrayal still burned at the edges of her thoughts, but it only sharpened her focus.

Recorded message left behind before his death.

The sound cut through the air like a blade, sending a shiver across her skin.

Evangeline flinched. Her fingers clenched around the armrests, nails biting into the leather.

The sound of his voice—so familiar, so final—made her stomach twist. The room seemed to shrink around her, air thick with the scent of cedar and tension, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Her blood turned to ice.

“I thought I could control him,” Peter’s voice continued. “But I was wrong. He’s not working alone.”

The file cut out.

She turned slowly toward Dawson. “This just became a war.”

He nodded. “We’ll handle it. Together.”

She sat down hard in the leather chair, her pulse a low roar in her ears.

She remembered the first time she’d stepped into a room like this, fresh from grad school, trying to prove she belonged.

One of the senior VPs had called her 'kiddo' in front of the whole department. Her cheeks had burned, but she’d smiled through it, tucked it away. She’d turned that insult into fuel.

Every underestimation since then had been cataloged, measured, converted to momentum.

Now, that memory rose up—not as pain, but as armor.

They had no idea what she’d survived to sit here.

And she wasn’t done surviving yet. Her hands clenched into fists, then slowly relaxed, though the tightness in her chest refused to ease.

The pulse in her throat thudded against her skin, a visceral reminder that rage and resolve were twin fires burning just beneath her surface.

This wasn’t just about a corporate takeover or a message sent in blood. This was personal. Layered. Old.

And if they thought she’d fold?

They didn’t know her at all.

Her phone vibrated, startling her. She glanced down. There was static. Then, a single message appeared.

You were never meant to be more than a pretty face. Stop digging, Evangeline.

She stared.

And smiled.

“Fuck that.”