Page 6 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

EVANGELINE

S he blinked awake just after dawn, light spilling across the bedroom in soft bands of gold.

For a moment, she remained still, cheek pressed to the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of cedar and something unmistakably male.

The sheets were cool against her bare skin, his presence embedded in the fibers—both grounding and unsettling at the same time.

Evangeline stretched slowly, legs brushing the linen as she took in the silence.

It was disorienting. Most mornings started with blaring alarms and buzzing notifications.

There was always noise, always motion—calls to return, meetings to prepare for, staff to manage.

But here, now, she lay wrapped in cool sheets and unfamiliar quiet, a stillness so complete it pressed against her skin like a presence all its own.

The absence of sound pressed in like a held breath.

It made her feel exposed. Off-balance. Like the world had paused around her, waiting to see what she’d do next.

No buzzing phone. No champagne flutes. Just stillness.

Her pulse eased as her gaze shifted toward the bedroom door, left slightly ajar.

For a moment, she hesitated. What if he was gone?

What if the calm she'd woken into was a lie, already fractured?

The quiet made her chest tighten, like the moment before a storm broke.

She drew a slow breath, forcing herself to move.

She slipped from the bed and padded barefoot to the doorway, peeking into the loft beyond.

Dawson was stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting flat on his chest. Even asleep, he radiated control. Muscles taut beneath a worn T-shirt, blanket pushed low across his hips. She smiled and repressed a small laugh. His boots were still on. Of course they were.

She watched him for a long, quiet moment, unease rising in her chest like smoke curling beneath a closed door.

The last time she’d seen someone hold themselves that still, it had been at her mother’s funeral—her father standing beside the casket, too composed, too perfect in his grief, already mapping out his next move.

Dawson was different. Still and powerful, but not cold.

Just... contained. As if he only allowed the world to see what he permitted, and not a flicker more.

That kind of restraint both intrigued and terrified her.

Because it mirrored her own. And somehow, he saw that.

How could someone forged for violence, trained for danger, make her feel like the safest place she could stand was behind him?

Gently, she pulled the door closed and leaned against it, heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.

After a long minute leaning against the door, she finally pulled herself together and padded back toward the bed.

She crossed to the en suite and started the shower, letting the water heat while she stretched and tried to work the stiffness from her shoulders.

Behind the bathroom door, a robe hung on a metal hook—clearly his, oversized and retaining a faint trace of his scent.

She left it there for now and stepped beneath the spray, welcoming the rush of heat and steam that began to melt the tension lodged deep in her spine.

The hot water helped. Not enough to completely erase the tension knotting her shoulders, but enough to make her feel almost human again.

She took her time—washed her hair, scrubbed off the clinging remnants of adrenaline and dread.

When she stepped out, steam curled around her ankles, and she toweled off with methodical care, grounding herself with each movement.

The slouchy sweater and leggings she'd changed into the night before were folded neatly over the back of a chair, the cowboy boots tucked beneath them. Beside the pile was a neatly folded outfit—a soft, slouchy silk sweater, skin-tight black jeans, and her red cowboy boots she hadn’t seen since the last company retreat.

Her brow furrowed. Dawson—or someone in his orbit—had done their homework.

By the time she was dressed, hair pinned up and face lightly made up—thanks to a slim cosmetics bag she found laid out beside the clothes on the dresser—the armor was back on.

But it didn’t feel the same. Maybe because she was already thinking about the man in the other room.

And she wasn’t entirely sure what that meant or which of them the mask was meant to fool.

When she stepped out of the bedroom, Dawson was already up, coffee in hand, dressed in jeans that look liked they’d faded from sun and hard work and a plain, black T-shirt.

Even dressed casually, he still managed to look dangerous.

He didn’t speak—just nodded once, then handed her a steaming travel mug.

She took it, grateful, then glanced toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, now glowing with the soft gray of early morning. "How long do I have?"

"Fifteen minutes," he said. "Maybe twenty if you skip breakfast."

She gave him a sidelong look. "That a threat or a time check?"

"Neither. Just logistics."

They moved through the loft in a strange sync, like two people who had been together for years instead of strangers who had only met the night before.

The comfortable rhythm unsettled her, making her wonder if she was slipping into someone else’s life by mistake.

She set her coffee down, watching Dawson quietly butter toast at the kitchen counter, his movements so unhurried it almost calmed her.

She took a seat on one of the barstools, the hush stretching between them like a fragile thread.

“Do you always get up this early?” she asked, meaning it as a joke but surprised by the curiosity in her own voice.

Dawson shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Never shook the habit. Army mess halls don’t care if you’re tired. Out here, I like to catch the quiet before the city wakes up. Reminds me I’m still my own man.”

There was a softness to him in the half-light she hadn’t seen before, and it cracked something open inside her.

“My dad used to make pancakes every Sunday,” she offered quietly, surprising even herself. “Even after my mom died. He’d burn them every time.”

Dawson glanced over, warmth flickering in his eyes. “Maybe you’ll teach me how not to ruin breakfast. We’ll call it even for the coffee.”

For a moment, the tension drained away, replaced by a simple, unexpected comfort. She wondered if this was what real safety felt like—not armor, but understanding.

She checked her bag—intact, exactly where she’d left it.

Flash drive? Still in Dawson’s care, safer with him than anywhere else.

Lipstick? Not a scratch, the casing gleaming like armor in her hand.

The simple, familiar routine steadied her.

If she could manage these small checks, she could manage anything.

She could face a panel of executives and not blink.

She could walk into a room full of reporters and keep her voice steady.

She could handle any boardroom or power play the day might throw at her.

As Dawson picked up his keys, he also picked up the lethal-looking handgun and its holster and strapped it onto the back of his waistband.

“SIG?” she asked casually.

“SIGs are for sissies. I use a Glock.”

When they stepped into the elevator, Dawson keyed in his security code again. As the doors shut, she turned to him. "So what’s the plan? You play bodyguard while I act like nothing’s wrong?"

"Exactly."

"You suck at reassuring pep talks."

He glanced down at her. "You don’t need a pep talk. You need protection."

The elevator dinged, and they emerged into the underground garage. Dawson's black truck waited like a silent sentinel. He opened her door without flourish, and she climbed in, crossing her legs, slipping into her public face as she sipped the hot, dark brew.

The ride to Shaw Petrochemical’s headquarters was quiet, more businesslike than the night before. Traffic was light, but the business community was starting to come awake. She stared out the window, the buildings familiar and suddenly foreign all at once.

Dawson pulled into the underground lot and rolled down the window so security could see she was with him then drove to her spot and parked, climbed out, and opened her door without a word.

She expected a quick escort to the door.

Instead, he fell into step beside her, shadowing her all the way into the marble atrium.

She could feel the weight of his gaze as much as the sharp clicks of her boots.

The executive elevator ride was swift and suffocating. At the top floor, the doors parted—and the war began.

She was back in her world—glass walls, judgment, and sharp eyes waiting for her to stumble—and none of the armor she’d layered on felt like enough.

Dawson trailed behind her like a shadow carved from steel, every inch of his silence drawing attention.

And though he said nothing, his presence alone seemed to disrupt the careful performance she’d spent a lifetime perfecting—turning her from the poised, ornamental figure she was always meant to be into something far more conspicuous.

Suddenly, she wasn’t just part of the backdrop. She was the focal point.

The rest of the morning was worse. Not because of the surreal quiet of waking in a stranger’s loft.

Not even the unsettling convenience of finding her own clothes—somehow cleaned, pressed, and laid out without explanation.

Or the way Dawson’s steady, protective presence made her feel both safer and unbearably exposed.

No, it was worse because, for the first time, she didn’t know who they expected her to be—or who she was pretending to be just to make it through.

Dawson shadowed her like a bodyguard with an agenda, his presence bristling through every space she entered.