Page 26 of Playing Dirty
He grinned. “Oh-dark-thirty.”
I gave a dry chuckle and reached for another beer. “You and your damn Navy timing.”
“It’s how we win,” he said, and for once, I believed him.
Sawyer cracked his knuckles and leaned back in the chair like this was just another day. “Reminds me of a recon I did inKandahar,” he said. “Hotter than hell, I was crammed in a goat shed with a busted radio and a thermal scope that only worked if you smacked it twice and whispered sweet nothings.”
I raised a brow. “Were you spying on livestock or insurgents?”
He shrugged. “Little of both. Goats had better alibis.”
I huffed a laugh and shook my head. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe. But I know how to wait. And watch. And I don’t blink when the target steps into the frame.”
He stood then, nodding toward the box of trail cams. “We got this, brother. And when that son of a bitch shows his face, we’ll have what we need.”
I looked out the window, past the snow and the moonlight spilling across the ranch, and wondered—why hadn’t I walked away from this mess when I had the chance?
Because Callie was still tangled in it, and I wasn’t done fighting for her.
Not even close.
Chapter Eight
One Horse Town
Callie
After breakfast, the kitchen looked like a crime scene: crumbs on the floor, sticky syrup handprints on the highchair trays, and an abandoned sippy cup leaking some unholy combination of juice and milk. I wiped the granite countertops down for the third time, mostly just for something to do. I could hear the twins shrieking with delight down the hallway, Delia reading the Bible to herself on the porch, and the deep rumble of Colt’s voice layered under Tessa’s laughter.
This was life at the Bennetts’ home on Lucky Ranch—sprawling, warm, and way too fancy for someone who still double-checked price tags before buying dish soap. A farmhouse kitchen with a commercial-grade range. Shiplap walls and brass hardware. A refrigerator that probably cost more than my high school car. Millionaire cowboys. Who knew?
I shook out the dish towel and draped it over the sink just as the soft pad of paws clicked against the tile.
Pixie.
She trotted in like she’d been here all her life, tail straight up in the air like a flag announcing her arrival. Pixie paused only to glance at me—more of a regal acknowledgment than anything else—before heading straight to the bowl I’d filled earlier. No hesitation. No questions. Just confidence.
"Pretty comfortable for a temporary guest, aren't you?" I said under my breath, crouching to her level.
She didn’t dignify me with a response. Just kept eating, loud and content.
I rubbed between her ears, and her purring revved up like an engine. “Don’t worry. You’re staying with me now. Permanently.”
The words left my mouth before I realized they mattered. Before I realized they were a confession.
I wasn’t waiting for Matt to come pick up his cat.
Or me.
I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, thumb hovering over the screen. No new messages. I typed out a quick text to Matt:
Me:Everything ok?
Simple. Non-accusatory. Safe.
I hit send. Nothing happened. I stared at the little delivered status and felt... nothing. No spark. No hope.
