Page 40 of The Foreman
But deep down, she wondered if Haines’s warning had been more than venom. Was there someone even bigger than Kells who was still pulling the strings?
The debrief ran until dawn. Macy sat across from Reed and Jesse in the Iron Spur conference room while Trace hovered behind her chair, one hand at the back of her neck, quiet and steady. She walked them through the final minutes with Kells, the ledger pulls, and the shots that turned negotiation into war. Every detail mattered now. Every word would be weighed in courtrooms and committee rooms.
When it ended, Reed slid a folder across the table. “You want a clean start,” he said. “Start here. Office manager at Silver Spur isn’t a consolation prize. It is the hinge on the whole door.”
Macy lifted a brow. “Flattery?”
“Logistics,” Reed said. “You keep this place honest.”
She glanced back at Trace. He didn’t speak, but his thumb stroked lightly at the base of her skull, a single, private yes.
“Fine,” she said, voice rough but sure. “I’ll take the job. And I’ll take breakfast. In that order.”
Hawke opened the door with two paper cups and the look of a man who had slept for thirty minutes too few. “Good. Because I already told payroll.”
Macy laughed, tired and fierce all at once. For the first time, the future didn’t look like an empty hallway. It looked like a door she could kick open.
EPILOGUE
TRACE
Six months later, the Texas heat shimmered across the pastures of Trace McRae’s ranch, but inside the stone house on the hill, life had taken on a steadier rhythm. The chaos of Meridian’s downfall lingered only in headlines and court transcripts. Haines and Kells had been dragged through trials that made national news, their empire dismantled piece by piece under Silver Spur’s relentless pressure.
Macy Dane’s name was not just cleared but celebrated. No longer the scapegoat, she was recognized as proof that survival could mean standing unbowed, a symbol of strength instead of shame. She had walked through fire and come out with her head high, refusing to kneel or break, and the world had finally been forced to recognize her strength.
Trace leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table, boots crossed at the ankle, a mug of coffee cooling in his hand. Through the open window he watched Macy stride across the drive toward the barn. She was all confidence and motion, snug jeans hugging her hips, a Silver Spur tee clinging in ways that tested his focus before breakfast. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, her messy bun as defiant and sexy as she was.
Reed and Gavin had officially hired her as the office manager. She ran meetings with a raised eyebrow, a sassy mouth and a wicked smile. The best part was that half the time the men obeyed before even realizing they had. She owned every space she entered, not by demanding it but by filling it with a quick wit, fearless energy, and the kind of authority that came from knowing exactly who she was.
Her first official day proved it. At nine sharp, Macy walked into the ops bullpen and clapped once. Conversations snapped shut. “Stand-ups in two minutes,” she said. “If you’re late, you run the stairs.”
Hawke slouched in his chair. “I am allergic to cardio.”
“You are allergic to accountability,” Macy shot back. “It clears up with practice.”
Reed arrived with a folder under his arm and a smirk. “Do I report to you now?”
“Only if you want the lights to stay on,” she said, plucking the folder. “Two overdue incident write-ups and a vendor dispute that is not going to fix itself.”
Jesse slid into the doorway with coffee. “She scares me.”
“She scares me more,” Trace said from the back wall, unable to hide the way pride settled deep in his chest.
Macy pointed to the whiteboard. “Three items. Kells sentencing calendar, Haines’s appeal filings, and community liaison requests. We are not a PR firm, but we are not ghosts either. Reed, you’re on liaison rotation this month. Hawke, settle your bar tab with the bookkeeper today.”
“I do not have a bar tab,” Hawke said.
“You have six,” Macy replied. “Color-coded. I like your confidence, though.”
Laughter hit the room like a pressure valve opening. Orders went out. Work started. And for the first time since the bullets stopped flying, Trace felt the shape of what came next.
Trace listened, pride pressing hard against his ribs. For years he had believed love fragile. Macy proved him wrong daily. She wasn’t fragile. She was fire.
Trace’s hand closed around the mug again, though the coffee had gone cold. He didn’t need heat from the cup when Macy appeared at the foot of the stairs wearing one of his old shirts. Her hair was tousled from sleep, her legs bare, eyes already sharp as if she knew she’d walked into a test.
“Morning,” she said, voice roughened by sleep and the faintest hint of challenge.
Trace tipped his chin toward the counter. “Food. Eat.”
