Reaching for my cup, I take a swig of coffee. It’s cold and bitter, and I wince the second it hits my mouth.
“Ace”—Luke moves me out of the way as he reaches for the controls—“you need to get laid.”
“Fuck you,” I reply. He’s wrong. I don’t need to get laid. I just need Lily.
47
LILY
Nerves ratcheted, I turn onto the long gravel drive leading to the ranch. The morning sun is climbing higher now, burning off the last of the fog that clung to the valley. It's almost noon—late enough that I can pretend this is a casual visit if things go wrong.
My truck kicks up dust as I navigate the winding road. Blackthorn Ranch spreads out before me: the main house with its wide porch, the barn with its weathered red paint, the corrals and outbuildings. It's beautiful in a rugged, functional way—nothing wasted, everything purposeful.
I park near the barn and kill the engine.
For a moment I just sit there, hands still on the wheel, trying to convince myself to turn around and leave.
This is a mistake. I came to Iron Ridge for a purpose—justice and closure. After all these years I finally found my target. I shouldn’t mess any of that up with whatever this thing is with Mason—this pull that's gotten under my skin and won't let go. But my body doesn't care about logic, not where he’s concerned.
I want more.
Exhaling, I get out of the truck before I can talk myself out of this.
The yard smells like hay, horses, and Montana earth. The cottonwoods whisper in the breeze, and the horses stir at my arrival. It's peaceful here in a way that makes my chest ache—the kind of peace I haven't felt since before Mandy and I were taken.
On instinct, I walk toward the barn, my boots crunching on gravel.
That's when I see him.
Mason's in the corral behind the barn, working with a horse—a bay mare with a white blaze down her face. She's skittish, dancing sideways every time he moves, her ears pinned back in distrust.
Mason doesn't rush her. He stands in the center of the corral, one hand extended, his posture open and non-threatening. He's not looking directly at the mare—his gaze is angled just past her, giving her space to decide.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “Nobody's going to hurt you.”
The mare snorts, tosses her head.
I know how she feels.
I stop at the fence, one boot on the lower rail, and watch. Mason turns his head slightly, registering my presence.
His body doesn't tense—he's too controlled for that—but there's a shift in his awareness, a sharpening of focus. The mare feels it too. She skitters back a few steps, breaking the fragile connection.
Mason doesn't chase her. He holds his hand steady, waiting for her to come to him.
There's something mesmerizing about the way he works—the patience in every movement, the quiet certainty that she'll come to him when she's ready. He's not trying to dominate her or force compliance. He's offering trust and waiting for her to accept it.
The mare takes a tentative step forward. Then another.
“That's it,” he croons, extending his arm out. “You're safe here.”
His voice is husky and intimate, and I feel it like the caress he didn’t actually give me Monday night. The mare feels it too—she stretches her neck, nostrils flaring as she scents his palm.
“Good girl,” Mason says softly.
The mare's nose brushes his hand. Mason doesn't grab for her halter or try to claim the victory. He just lets her explore, lets her decide how close she wants to be.
My throat tightens.