Boyd passes behind us carrying a plate stacked with pancakes like he’s delivering holy offerings. He sets them down with a quiet thunk and rumbles, “Stop antagonizing Rhett.”
Chase clutches his chest. “Boyd defending him? Wow. It’s like the whole mountain is healing.”
Boyd doesn’t even blink. “It’s not healing. It’s annoying.”
Harlan, sitting at the end of the table like a statue carved out of silence, adds, “He’s distracted.”
I glare at Harlan. “I’m not distracted.”
Harlan’s eyes flick once toward Emma, then back to me. “You are.”
Great. Even the quiet one is chirping in.
Before I can tell them all to shut up and choke on their pancakes, Silas walks in. He’s got his sheriff jacket on, hat in hand, and that look in his eyes that means he’s not here for breakfast.
He’s here for business. He motions once at me. “Rhett. Outside. Now.”
My gut tightens. I set my coffee down and follow him out into the cold, the warmth of the clubhouse fading behind us. Snow crunches under my boots. The air bites like it’s personally offended I exist.
Silas stops beside the railing overlooking the main yard. His gaze tracks the tree line as if Mark Renshaw could pop out from behind a pine and wave.
“We’ve got a lead,” he says.
My entire body goes still. “On Mark?”
Silas nods. “Maybe. A vehicle tied to one of his known associates pinged near a cabin rental by the county line. Could be nothing. Could be him laying low.”
“Could be bait,” I say.
“Could be,” Silas agrees. “Which is why Gavin and Rafe are working angles with the field office contact. Wyatt’s running digital trails. Thorne and Boyd are doing a sweep of likely approach routes. We’re splitting the net.”
He looks at me then, serious. “Your job is Emma.”
I bristle automatically. “I know.”
Silas’s tone softens just a fraction. “She’s a magnet for trouble.”
“She’s a civvy with a mouth,” I counter.
Silas’s mouth twitches. “Same thing.”
I exhale sharply. “We have anything on Mia?”
“Not yet,” he says. “But the lead on Mark might lead us to her. If she’s being held somewhere, he’s connected.”
My jaw tightens. The thought of someone hurting Emma’s sister makes something in me go cold.
Silas continues, “You keep Emma on property. No wandering. No solo missions. No ‘I’ll just check something’ nonsense.”
“You don’t know her,” I mutter.
Silas gives me a look. “I know her type. Smart, stubborn, and fueled by fear. That’s a dangerous combination.”
He’s not wrong.
I glance back through the clubhouse window and see Emma laughing at something Kayley said, her hands moving animatedly as she talks. She’s alive in a way most people aren’t when they’re afraid. Like humor is her armor and she refuses to take it off even when the bullets start flying.
“Copy,” I say, because that’s the only answer Silas wants.