Page 213 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Nothing moves.

But that feeling is back.

The one that’s lived under my skin for weeks now.

Watching.

I take a slow step backward.

Another.

Don’t panic.

Panic gets you stupid.

And stupid gets you hurt.

My fingers tighten around the coffee cup until the cardboard creases inward.

Think.

Think, Annie.

My gaze flicks toward the main house… then catches movement near the far barn.

My entire body locks.

A figure. Tall. Half obscured by the side of the building. Watching the house. Watching me.

Every instinct I have screams at me to go after them. Demand answers. Take the fight back.

But another voice cuts through the adrenaline.

Survival isn’t bravado. It’s strategy.

I learned that too late growing up. Too late with my parents. Too late at jobs where men smiled while figuring out how much they could get away with. Too late here.

But not this time.

My breathing steadies by force.

Slowly, carefully, I lower my coffee onto the hood of the car. Then I reach into my cardigan pocket and pull out my camera.

The familiar weight grounds me. My thumb taps once against the body.

Focus.

I lift it slowly, keeping my movements casual. The lens catches the barn. The figure.

Click.

Another.

Click.

Then video. The zoom trembles from my pulse, but I keep filming. The person shifts. Like they realize.

For one horrible second, I think they’re coming toward me.