Page 24 of Ranger's Code

“They already know,” he murmurs. “They just don’t say anything because they’re smarter than they look.”

The next morning, just as the bakery opens its doors, Gideon’s radio crackles to life in his pocket. Gage’s voice comes through, clipped and tight.

“He’s back.”

Gideon’s gaze snaps toward the rooftop across the street.

The hunt is on. “You and Dalton get eyes on him and report back.”

CHAPTER12

GIDEON

The scent of flour clings to the air, warm and heavy, layered over butter and yeast—and something brighter that clings to Maggie like sunlight off of steel. She isn’t brittle today. She’s sharp, self-contained, humming with a kind of focused calm that makes my chest tighten in ways I don’t have names for.

I stand in the bakery kitchen, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour, watching Maggie work the bread dough with the kind of quiet concentration that always disarms me. Her motions are firm but graceful, a rhythm of push and fold that speaks of muscle memory and control. She has her hair twisted into a loose knot that’s already failing, a few golden strands escaping to cling to the soft skin along her jaw. My chest tightens at the sight—not with worry, but with something more grounded. Want. Awe. The sharp-edged need to step into her space and offer my steadiness to match hers.

She doesn’t glance at me, but I know she feels me. Her awareness of me is too acute to miss the weight of my gaze. She just keeps working, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll move first.

I step behind her. "You’re pushing too hard on it," I murmur.

Maggie doesn’t look up. “Are you going to mansplain gluten development to me now, Ranger? You do remember I'm the one who graduated top of her class at pastry school, right?”

“I remember. I'm just offering backup.”

I move closer, my chest brushing her back with slow, deliberate contact, body heat seeping into her spine. My hands slide around to cover hers, large and warm, a steady weight over her fingers. My touch doesn’t jolt—doesn’t startle. It folds over hers like it’s always belonged there, guiding her hands through the dough with practiced pressure. Not forceful. Just confident. Certain. Like a current she doesn’t have to fight, only follow. The rhythm changes as our hands move together, slow and grounding, like muscle memory re-learning intimacy one fold at a time. My breath is at her ear, not quite touching but impossibly close, and she doesn’t pull away. She leans in, steady and sure, letting the contact hold—not because she needs the help, but because something in the warmth of my presence whispers that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t have to hold it all alone.

The dough compresses under our touch, pliant and warm, a rhythm settling between us like a second heartbeat. Maggie isn’t brittle—she’s fire held in check, focused and sure—but her body leans into mine, drawn by something deeper than want. Her breath hitches as my hands slow, my thumbs brushing lightly over the sides of her wrists, a silent coaxing more than a command. I lean in, lips near her ear, the words threading into her skin like silk over wire, my voice low enough to blur the line between suggestion and promise.

“You’re tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” Her voice is clipped, but the way her body eases against mine says something different. It says she needs this. The steadiness. The connection. Me.

“You could tell me to stop,” I say.

“You wouldn’t.”

“No,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”

* * *

Dalton’s voice crackles through the comm clipped to my belt. “Perimeter clear. Gage is looping the west side.”

I answer with a low, “Copy.”

The team’s all in now—Dalton, Gage, Deacon, Rush. Full recon mode. Dalton and Gage are in San Antonio—in fact, they’re staying at Maggie's loft. Deacon and Rush are still at Team W’s remote ranch outside the city. Maggie’s sleepy bakery has turned into ground zero for something a hell of a lot bigger than spoiled sugar.

My phone buzzes.

Deacon: Confirmed. Chas Warren’s directing the operation under the Grangers’ order through one of their shell corps. Payroll hit last week.

Rush: Warehouse leased two blocks from the pier. Same shell. Same scent.

Maggie pulls back from me, dusting her hands on a towel. “So I’m officially a blip on the Texas Rangers’ radar, huh?”

I meet her eyes. “Not just a blip.”

She folds her arms. “Let me guess—I’m not a civilian in this anymore.”

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