Page 11 of The Foreman
No confirmed sightings. No law enforcement hits. No travel alerts. No movement. Whicheither meant Macy’s story had merit, or someone was playing a very patient game.
“Do you really believe I didn’t do it?”Her voice had dropped, quieter now. Sincere, more vulnerable.
Trace looked up. Her gaze was steady. No artifice. No act. Just a woman tired of being hunted.
“I don't believe you killed him,” he said.
“But you think I’m guilty of something.”
He took another sip of coffee. “Everyone’s guilty of something, darlin'.”
Trace didn’t just mean it as a throwaway line. The words sat heavy on his tongue, a reminder of the choices he’d made, the lives he’d taken, and the woman he hadn’t stopped thinkingabout for three damn years. He carried guilt in layers—the kind that didn’t show on the outside but left scars in the silence. Maybe it wasn’t fair to project that onto her. Maybe it was the only way he knew how to keep her at a distance. And for reasons he didn't want to admit, he hated that he cared enough to try.
She stared at him a long moment. “That was philosophical as hell for a cowboy.”
Trace didn’t smile. Not really. But his face altered slightly, just enough to register.
“All cowboys are philosophical," he said closing the laptop. "Get dressed. We’ve got work to do.”
Macy frowned. “What kind of work?”
“The kind that keeps you safe. The kind that finds out who’s really behind this.”
She pushed off the counter, eyes narrowed. “And I get to help?”
“You get to stay on the ranch, follow my rules, and not make this harder than it already is.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“You want to stay alive?”
“I’d like to do that with a little dignity.”
Trace stood. “Then lose the attitude, put on real clothes, and meet me outside in twenty.”
Macy’s brow arched. “You giving orders now?”
“I’ve been giving them since the moment you walked in the door of the Iron Spur the first time. You’re just now starting to listen.”
She didn’t argue.He wasn’t sure if that was a win—or a trap.
Outside, the rain had finally broken, but the air still clung to the morning chill. Trace walked the perimeter of the property, checking the gates and sensor lines himself, even though the cameras had confirmed all was secure.
He didn’t trust comfort. Never had.
By the time Macy came out, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, he’d already reset the west boundary’s pressure strip and run a systems diagnostic from the barn.
“You look like someone shot your horse,” she muttered, falling into step beside him.
“He’s fine.”
“You, on the other hand, look like someone replaced your personality with gravel.”
He glanced at her. “You always this mouthy before breakfast?”
“Only when I’m around men who growl more than they talk.”
He stopped abruptly. Macy nearly walked into him.
