Page 95 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

I stop, because I don’t want to say it, because once I do, there’s no taking it back.

Annie’s eyes stay on mine.

“Whoever is doing this,” I say, “knows Ironwood’s system. Which means… it’s someone close.”

I built this system to protect the ranch from inefficiency, from loss, from sloppiness, from the kind of preventable failure that comes when people mistake discipline for habit.

And someone has been inside it, using that discipline against us.

“This stays between us for now,” I say.

She studies me. “You’re sure?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not sure of anything except the pattern. But I think it’s for the best.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Annie

Larsen’s General Store smells like wood polish, old paper, and honey.

The bell above the door rings when I step inside, all cheerful, and immediately three heads turn.

Of course they do.

Small town rule number one: entrances are events.

I give a casual half wave like I’m not already calculating how long I need to be here and what I can grab without getting pulled into a full conversation about my life choices, my job, or my hair.

Spoiler: not long.

I’ve got a list in my head.

Coffee beans, a notebook, batteries, and something resembling real food that doesn’t come out of Ironwood’s kitchen, because if I have one more meal under Duke’s watchful eyes I might actually combust from the combination of attention and whatever he does to pancakes that should probably be illegal.

Also…

My brain stutters.

Also distance—from the ranch, the house, from three men who seem determined to exist in every possible corner of my thoughts.

I push that firmly aside and head for the shelves.

“Annie!”

I look up to see Dakota Fletcher waving at me from near the back of the store, her smile bright and genuine in a way that still surprises me.

Because she doesn’t have to be nice to me. Most people in Colter Creek seem more interested in figuring me out than actually knowing me.

And yet…

“Hey,” I say, heading over.

She pulls me into a quick hug before I can decide if I’m the kind of person who does that now.

Apparently, I am.

“How are you? It’s been a while since the last potluck.”