Wait in the Truck

by Black-Uranium

After a brutal attack orchestrated by hired muscle targeting the Duttons, Alex is left battered but not broken. The assault stems from a long-standing family feud over land, with powerful rivals determined to drive the Duttons out. As Alex struggles to recover, she faces the weight of vengeance, loyalty, and the unrelenting cycle of violence that comes with carrying the Dutton name

They say hindsight is 20/20. I never understood that phrase. At least not until tonight

It was supposed to be a girls' night in Bowsman. Laramie had begged me to join her and a group of barrel racers at the newly reopened honky-tonk. New owners, same cheap drinks. Ladies' night specials all evening.

What the hell, I thought. A rare night off from the ranch wouldn't kill me. And for a while, it didn't. The laughter, the music, the tequila shots—everything blurred into the kind of easy camaraderie I hadn't felt in months.

But by midnight, exhaustion had wrapped itself around me like a heavy blanket. I'd been up since before dawn, and the ranch work was catching up. I said my goodbyes, brushed off Laramie's protests, and headed to my car in the nearly deserted parking lot.

If I'd paid closer attention, I might have noticed the shadow of a man leaning against his truck. Or the way his eyes followed me as I unlocked my car. But I was too tired to notice anything except the ache in my feet and the promise of bed waiting for me at home.

I grumbled as I heard the telltale thwap-thwap of the flat tire meeting the road, the rubber shredding against the pavement. The low-pressure indicator mocked me from the dashboard.

"Great," I muttered, pulling over to the shoulder of the dark Montana road. The nearest town was miles behind me, the ranch even farther ahead.

Grabbing the spare tire, I hoisted it from the trunk, muttering curses under my breath at the cheap jack I had to work with. I flipped on my phone flashlight, its dim beam barely cutting through the darkness.

The low growl of an engine reached my ears before I saw the headlights. A truck rolled up behind me, its silhouette dark against the faint starlight. Relief washed over me.

The truck rolled up behind me, its high beams flooding the roadside. My relief was short-lived.

The first man stepped out, silhouetted against the glare. He was tall and broad, his frame outlined by a frayed denim jacket. A glint caught my eye—the brass buckle of his belt or maybe the horseshoe-shaped ring on his finger.

"Need a hand?" His voice was slick, too smooth, like oil on water. Something about it sent a chill crawling down my spine.

Before I could answer, I heard a door slam. Two more emerged from the truck, their boots crunching the gravel. One was shorter, wiry, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. His baseball cap was pulled low, obscuring his face, but the faint glow of the ember revealed the cruel curve of his mouth.

The third man lingered by the truck, his arms crossed over a jacket patched with a "Don't Tread on Me" insignia. He watched, silent but predatory, like a wolf sizing up its prey.

"Thanks for stopping—" I began, my voice faltering as the man closest to me took a sudden step forward.

He swung without warning. The first punch was a thunderclap against my cheek, followed by a flash of pain so sharp it blurred my vision.

The second man was on me before I could react, yanking me to the ground. He smelled like sweat and stale beer, his breath hot against my neck.

"Hold still," he growled, his voice low and mean. "We're just borrowin' your car, sweetheart."

The man with the cigarette barked a laugh, his voice raspy. "Yeah, we'll make sure to keep it real nice for ya."

Through the haze of pain, I caught a glimpse of their truck: an old, battered Ford, its paint faded to a dull blue-gray. The front plate was a makeshift "Don't Tread on Me" sign, the snake coiled as if ready to strike.

I stayed down, the boot pressing me into the gravel as they worked quickly. One swapped out the tire, his movements practiced, almost mechanical. The others rifled through my car, tossing out papers and a sweater onto the roadside.

When they finished, the first man leaned down, his face close enough for me to see the cruel glint in his dark eyes. "Consider yourself lucky."

And just like that, they were gone, their taillights disappearing into the darkness, leaving me battered and broken on the side of the road.

My car. My first big purchase. But it wasn't worth dying for. I stayed still, cheek pressed against the gravel, my breath shallow and quick.

The weight on my back lifted, and I risked a glance through my swollen eye. They climbed into their truck, and the roar of the engine signaled their retreat.

For a moment, all I could do was lay there, pain radiating through my body. Slowly, I sat up, scanning the ground. The faint glow of my phone caught my eye.

Thank God. It still worked.

My hands trembled as I fumbled with my phone, the screen cracked but mercifully still functional. I couldn't bring myself to call my father or Kacey. Jaime was in Helena, and I wasn't in the mood for Beth's sharp tongue. That left one option.

The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered, groggy but still unmistakably Ryan. "Hello? You know what time it is? This better be good."

I exhaled a shaky breath, trying to muster a smile he couldn't see. "I'd much rather be tucked in the bunk with you than in my current predicament

He chuckled softly. "That can be arranged if you play your cards right. You have too much to drink and need me to come get you in Bowsman?"

"Not quite," I swallowed hard, the humor in my voice faltering. "I was carjacked. I'm not too far from the ranch, but I'm not exactly keen on walking the rest of the way in the dark."

The playfulness in his tone vanished. "Don't move," he said firmly, the sound of him stumbling around to get dressed coming through the line. "I'll call you back from my cell once I'm in the truck."

"Not going anywhere," I said, tracing a nervous circle in the dirt with the toe of my boot. "Thank you, Ryan."

"Always your white knight," he replied. "Answer your call waiting—it's me."

I clicked over, hearing the faint creak of his truck door as he climbed in. "I'm a hot fucking mess. Sorry about waking you."

"I doubt you're a mess. Hot is a given," he said, his voice laced with reassurance. "And don't worry about waking me. It's Lloyd you'll have to answer to."

"Lloyd's an old softy," I managed to smile, despite the throbbing in my ribs. "Especially with me."

"Because you fill out jeans the way you do," he teased lightly, though the tension in his voice was still palpable. "I should be coming up on you soon."

I turned toward the road, squinting against the dark. "I see your lights."

The truck's headlights swept over me, and Ryan pulled to a stop, hopping out before I could even think about moving toward him. He stood in front of me, his gaze scanning my face and disheveled appearance. I didn't need a mirror to know I looked awful, but the way his jaw clenched told me everything I needed to know.

"That bad, huh?" I managed a half-hearted smile, the corners of my mouth pulling tight against the bruises

His eyes softened for a moment, but the anger was still there, simmering just below the surface. "Yeah," he said, his voice low and strained. "I'm torn between getting you home and making you wait in the truck while I track those bastards down."

"There were at least three of them, Ryan," I said quickly, the thought of him going after them alone sending a jolt of fear through me. "Just… take me home."

He hesitated, his fists flexing at his sides before he exhaled sharply and nodded. "Alright. Let's get you out of here."

He opened the passenger door and helped me climb in, his hands steadying me as I winced. The cab light illuminated my torn shirt and the blood staining the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hand brushing my side lightly as he helped me settle into the seat.

"Motherf—" He cut himself off, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. "It's really not as bad as it looks," I said softly, trying to calm him down.

He glanced over at me, his teeth clenched. "Have you seen your face?" His voice cracked slightly, the frustration and worry bleeding through. "It looks fucking bad, Alex. And when the adrenaline wears off, you're going to feel it."

I rested my head against the window, my voice barely a whisper. "I'll take your word for it."

I tapped my fingertips softly on the center console, breaking the silence. "You remember those old work trucks we had when you first came to the ranch?"

"Yeah?" he responded, glancing over at me with a flicker of confusion.

I smiled faintly, leaning closer and placing my hand lightly on his. "I miss them sometimes. They were always a little rough around the edges, but they felt… safe. Like everything was simpler back then. Plus, they had those bench seats."

His brow furrowed slightly, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Yeah, those seats were something."

I traced a slow circle on the back of his hand with my thumb. "I could slide in the middle and lean against your side. Your arm draped around my shoulders and my hand resting on your thigh, inching up slowly, seeing if I could get a rise out of you."

His grin widened as he laced his fingers with mine, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. "You know just how to distract me. And I knew you did that on purpose."

I chuckled softly, settling back into my seat as the familiar outline of the Yellowstone Dutton Ranch gates came into view. "Feels like a lifetime ago," I murmured, watching the weathered wood glow in the truck's headlights.

Ryan pulled through the gates, slowing as we approached the main house.

"Take me to the bunkhouse. I don't feel like answering my family's questions."

Ryan's brows knitted together in silent question, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. I gave him a reassuring nod. He hesitated for a moment but eventually turned the truck up the drive to the bunkhouse.

When we stopped, I groaned softly as his hand brushed against my bruised side while helping me down. The sting was sharp, but I didn't say anything. He led me inside, his steps careful, as if I might collapse at any moment.

It was close to 4 a.m. The bunkhouse was already stirring, the men moving about, preparing for another day's work. The scent of coffee and worn leather filled the room—a scent that usually felt like home but now served as a reminder of just how far from normal tonight had been.

"Sit," Ryan said, his voice firm but kind. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink, not waiting for an argument. There was no point in protesting. The sooner I got cleaned up, the sooner I could put this awful night behind me.

I sank onto a stool, my body aching in ways I hadn't fully processed yet. Ryan's calloused fingers moved carefully over the cuts on my face, his touch surprisingly gentle. I caught questioning glances from the guys as they moved around us, but none of them said a word.

Colby slid a shot of Jack across the counter in front of me as he filled his coffee mug. I guess he thought I needed it. He wasn't wrong. I downed it quickly, feeling the burn chase away some of the lingering numbness.

"I know y'all have questions," I said, my voice rough but steady. "I'll answer them after I've had a shower and a few hours' sleep. Ranch still needs to run."

"Sure, sweetheart," Lloyd said, his voice warm but calm. "There's still plenty of hot water in there for you."

The thought of hot water washing away the night was more tempting than I wanted to admit. I nodded my thanks, pushing myself off the stool. My body protested every step, but I was too tired to care.

I gave him a nod of thanks as he and the rest of the hands headed to the barn. I sucked in a breath, wincing as I leaned over to pull my boots off.

"Let me help you," Ryan said, kneeling in front of me. He tugged each boot off with practiced ease, then rolled my socks down, his touch steady and gentle.

"I figured you'd have to go," I said, leaning back against the couch. "I think I can manage."

"Told Rip what happened. He's good with me staying back and taking care of you," Ryan replied, helping me to my feet. He guided me toward the bathroom with a hand on my lower back. "You need help undressing?"

"Any other day, that wouldn't even be a question," I said, managing a half-smile.

I froze when I caught my reflection in the mirror. Even after cleaning up, I looked beat to hell and back. My lip was split, my eye swollen nearly shut. The bruises on my cheek bore the imprint of a horseshoe ring—the asshole's calling card, apparently.

Ryan's hands stilled at the hem of my shirt. His eyes met mine in the mirror, softening with something between anger and worry.

"I told you it was bad," he said quietly, helping me lift the shirt over my head. He let out a sharp breath when he saw my back. "Motherf— There's a size eleven boot print on you. Did they do anything else to you?"

"Beating the shit outta me then stealing my car not enough?" My voice was sharper than I intended, but his concern was starting to sting more than my bruises. My eyes locked with his in the mirror.

"You know what I mean," he said, his hands sliding to my waist as he undid my belt.

"I swear, my virtue is intact," I answered, rolling my eyes.

"I hope not," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We had so much fun when I took it the first time." He kissed my forehead, the gesture soft and grounding, before helping me slip out of my jeans.

"You coming in with me?" I asked as I stepped under the steaming water.

"Better not," Ryan grinned, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and affection. "Don't want to get carried away."

The problem with showering in the bunkhouse was the body wash—always some sharp, overpowering scent like Irish Spring or Cedar Wood. It worked, but it wasn't exactly soothing. Still, it did the job.

When I stepped out of the shower, the warm water had helped ease some of the stiffness in my muscles, but the pain still clung to me like the scent of the bodywash. I found a towel, a clean t-shirt, and a pair of old sweatpants waiting for me on the edge of the sink. Ryan had thought of everything.

When I re-entered the main room, he handed me a couple of pills and a glass of water.

"Painkillers. Good ones. Jimmy had a couple left and thought you could use them."

"I'll have to thank him later," I replied, swallowing the pills with a grateful sigh as I sank onto the couch. Ryan flipped on a random show, but I wasn't paying attention. My head was already heavy, drifting in that in-between space where sleep was just a heartbeat away.

Ryan shifted next to me, his presence solid and warm. I leaned into him, my body sinking into his side as I let the exhaustion take over. The pills would kick in soon, but for now, I was content just to be here, in this moment of calm.

I stirred awake to the sound of rowdy voices, a mixture of laughter and grumbling. My body ached, but not as sharply as before. Had I really slept through most of the day?

"Will y'all keep it the fuck down! She's sleeping," I heard Ryan's voice cut through the chatter of the others, followed by a chuckle.

"I was sleeping," I groaned, sitting up slowly. Every movement was a reminder of the night's chaos, but the pain had dulled. "What time is it?"

"Half past twelve," Ryan replied. "How you feeling?"

"Hungry," I grumbled, looking around the bunkhouse. "Have I missed lunch?"

"Gator will make whatever you want, you know that."

"Ah yes, perks of being the boss's daughter." I stood carefully, my legs a little stiff, and made my way outside where the men were gathered.

"You feeling better, Miss Alex?" Gator asked, piling Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes onto a plate.

"I've told you a thousand times, just Alex, and thanks for this." I smiled, then slid onto the bench next to Colby, trying not to wince as I lowered myself down.

Gator raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the issue. "You sure you're good, Alex?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I replied, digging into my food with relief. The hearty meal felt like a balm, both physically and mentally. "Just need some time to shake this off."

"Here," Ryan set a glass of iced tea in front of me, his movements deliberate. He sat across from me, his face stern as he leaned forward. "Can you remember anything about those men last night?"

I took a long swallow from my glass, trying to steady my nerves. "I've been thinking about it all night. The guy with the size 11 boot... he was at the bar. I should've paid more attention when I left, would've noticed him following me."

"What did he look like?"

"A rhinestone cowboy," I met his gaze, my stomach tightening, "all talk, fake. Had dark hair, about 6 foot, maybe. I didn't really notice the other two, but they pulled up behind me in an old, beat-up Ford truck. Dark blue or grey. They had a 'Don't Tread on Me' plate on the front. That's about all I can remember."

"That's plenty, sweetheart." Ryan's voice softened, his eyes never leaving mine. "What was the name of the bar?"

"The Rattlesnake." I swallowed hard, the memory of the night stirring up a fresh wave of unease. "Ryan, please... don't do anything stupid. It's just a car and a few bruises."

He gave me one of his award-winning grins, but there was something different in his expression—tender, even. "When have I ever done anything stupid?"

I shot him a pointed look.

"I'm just gonna see what we can find and give them a little of what they gave you."

"Be careful. Take Kacey with you," I said, the concern seeping into my voice.

Ryan's smile softened. "I'll be careful. Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

There really was nothing left for me to do but worry. I finished my meal and turned my gaze toward the house. I had to face the music at some point. I stood and took the weary steps to face my father.

Though, I know what happened wasn't entirely my fault. I should have been more aware. Paid attention. But it was done now and no amount of second-guessing was going to change what happened.

The chatter from the ranch hands had faded in the distance and I sucked in a deep breath before I pushed the door open. I walked down the hall towards my father's office, pausing for a moment while I glanced through his doorway. Dad was sitting there, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose as he was reading through some paper work. He didn't look up to speak, but his voice was still strong and commanding, "You gonna stand out there all afternoon?"

I knew he knew at least the jist of what happened. Knowing and seeing aren't always the same.

"I thought about it," I replied as I crept into the room with him.

"Overthinking won't change anything," he laid his glasses on the desk and looked up at me. The expression he had broke me for the first time since this thing happened. Tears started pouring down my cheeks.

John Dutton was always stoic, barely showed emotion, but he stood up and crossed the office and wrapped his arms around me.

"They hurt me, Daddy," I sobbed into his chest. I can't remember the last time I'd called him that. But at this moment, I just needed my Dad to hold me. And tell me it was going to be ok.

He held me tightly, the warmth of his arms providing a strange comfort. I felt like a little girl again, like nothing else mattered but the simple act of him holding me. It felt like the world outside didn't exist. He didn't say anything for a long while, just letting me cry until my sobs softened to quiet sniffles.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady. "You did what you had to do, Alex. Don't let what happened change who you are."

I shook my head, still buried in his chest. "But I should have seen it coming. I should've known something wasn't right."

"You're not a mind reader, and you're not invincible. You'll learn from it, just like you've learned from everything else. But that doesn't mean you were at fault."

I felt him pull back just enough to lift my chin, forcing me to look at him. His gaze was as sharp as ever, but there was something more in it now—something almost… protective. "You're strong, Alex. You always have been. Don't let this make you question it."

I swallowed hard, blinking away the remaining tears, and nodded slowly. "I'll be okay, Dad. I just…" I paused, glancing at the door to the rest of the house. "I just want to make sure they don't hurt anyone else."

He didn't need to say anything more. The silent understanding between us was enough. He turned and walked over to the phone, picking it up with a firm grip. "I'll handle it. You stay here. Rest."

But I couldn't rest. Not when those men were still out there, and not when the ranch, my family, might be in danger. But for now, I allowed myself to stay still, to let the moment sink in—one that I knew would change everything.

—-

I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment longer, trying to ground myself in the reflection that felt so familiar, even though nothing about today felt the same. I adjusted the fit of my jeans, feeling the worn fabric against my skin. I hated that I was letting this thing—whatever it was—take more from me than it already had.

The silence in the house was suffocating, and the absence of my siblings only made the emptiness more apparent. They must've gone to handle whatever tasks needed their attention. I had no idea how they could go on as if everything was fine. But I didn't know how to do anything but push forward either.

I walked down the hall toward my father's office, knocking lightly on the doorframe before entering. Dad didn't look up from the papers in front of him, but his voice was steady as always. "You good?"

"Yeah," I said, my tone more certain than I felt. I stepped further inside, watching as he set down the pen in his hand and finally turned his gaze toward me. The weight of his stare made me feel like a little girl again, like I wasn't the strong one anymore.

"You don't have to carry all this on your own, Alex," he said, his voice softer now. "You don't have to do it all."

I nodded, but the truth was, I didn't know how to let go of it. How could I? After what happened last night, there were more questions than answers. More fear than relief.

"I don't want to make things harder for you," I muttered, suddenly feeling smaller than I ever had in front of him. "I just… I need to do something about it."

Dad didn't speak for a long time. He just studied me, like he was seeing past the tough exterior, past the stubbornness that I always wore like armor. Finally, he sighed, his lips pressing together in a tight line.

"We'll do what we have to. Together. You're not alone in this, no matter how much you want to think you are."

I didn't argue. I just took a seat across from him, feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt settle in my chest. I had so many things to figure out, so many emotions to untangle. But for the first time in a long while, I felt like I wasn't walking through this alone.

The sound of a rumbling engine pulled me out of my thoughts. Kayce. He always showed up when things needed to be done. I stepped out on the porch confirming my suspicion.

"Don't say it," I tell him, "I know I look like something your horse drug in."

"Well that would be an improvement," he had my father's stoicism, "Ryan and I were able to run their plates. So we're about to head out and take care of this thing."

"I guess no time is like the present, I'm coming with you," I stated.

"Like hell you are," he responded sternly.

"Like hell I am," I retorted, "this didn't happen to you or Ryan or Dad. It happened to me. I want to be there."

Kayce's gaze hardened as he stepped closer, his jaw tight. "Alex, I get it. You want to be part of this, but it's dangerous. We need you here, safe. We're gonna handle this."

I crossed my arms, standing my ground. "And what? Let you all do this without me? No way. I'm not sitting on the sidelines this time." I locked eyes with him, matching his intensity.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, clearly weighing his options. "You've got a point," he muttered. "But you stay in the truck. You're not going in."

"Fine," I agreed, though I was already mentally preparing for what came next. I didn't want to just watch. But Kayce was right about one thing: we had to move fast. "Let's go then."

He nodded once, signaling for me to get in the truck. As we headed out, the weight of what was about to happen sank in. But I wasn't about to let fear keep me back—not now, not when I could finally take some control over this twisted mess.

I climbed in the passenger seat, Ryan and Colby were already seated in the back, ready to go into action.

"I didn't think he'd be able to talk you out of coming," Ryan said to me as the truck pulled through the gate of the ranch.

"Neither could you," I glanced back at him, my face still stern. "I'm still capable of handling my shit."

Kayce's truck kicked up dust as it roared down the highway. Past the scene of the crime. Past the bar that carried on like nothing had happened. The area wasn't far from the bar, a rougher part of town. Figures I thought to myself.

"You sure this is the place?" Kayce asked glancing into the rearview at Ryan.

"This is where the truck was registered," Ryan responded, "So this is where we'll find them."

The truck pulled to a stop outside the old, run-down house. If anyone else lived there, I would have felt sorry for the people inside. There were a few beat-up cars, none of them looked like they'd been taken care of in years.

Kayce turned off the engine and looked over at me, "Please, Alex just stay here."

I gave him a look of surrender and unfastened my belt watching quietly as they climbed out of the truck. Slowly, methodically, they approached the front door. Ryan's eyes scanned the area, he was ready. They all were.

Kayce knocked, well pounded, on the front door. A long moment of silence before the door creaked open. That's when I saw him. I didn't think I'd actually recognize him, but there he was– the man from the bar. The one with the size 11 boots– stood in the doorway, slouched, cigarette hanging from his lips. He didn't look as he cared about anything.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he grunted, he flicked his eyes over the three of them. He didn't notice me.

Ryan didn't pause for pleasantries. His voice was steady, carrying the weight of authority. "We're here about the woman you beat up last night. You remember her?"

It was all I could do to just sit there and let them handle things. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched. I didn't see the other two, they could be on the otherside of that door waiting to ambush. And I certainly wasn't going to be a distraction.

"I think you need to mind yer own fuckin' business," the man sniped back.

I saw the flash of steel as Kayce raised his gun, pointing it directly in his face, "You don't think you get to walk away from this? Not after what you did."

The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating, as Kayce's gun remained trained on the man's face. The slight tremble in the guy's hand as he lowered his cigarette told me everything I needed to know—he wasn't nearly as confident as he had been a moment ago.

The man hesitated for a beat too long, and Ryan's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. "You're gonna tell us everything. Where are your friends? We'll make this as easy as possible for you. But if you're gonna make it harder, that's on you."

Kayce's hand was steady, the gun never wavering. It was the kind of controlled, deadly calm that only came with years of experience in dealing with people like this.

The man finally smirked, looking between the three of them. "You think you can scare me with that?" His words were a challenge, but the sweat on his brow told a different story. He'd seen this kind of thing before—had probably dealt with men like Kayce and Ryan in the past, but it was clear that today was different.

Ryan took a step forward, closing the distance. "We're not here for games. We just want answers. Where are the other two?"

For a moment, the man said nothing, his gaze flickering between the trio in front of him. I could feel the weight of the silence in the truck. I held my breath, waiting for the next move. Was he going to fold or was this about to escalate?

Finally, the man let out a sharp breath, his face twisting in a grimace as he slowly raised his hands. "Fine," he muttered, his voice low, defeated. "They're at the old mechanic's shop. You won't find them there if you don't hurry."

Kayce didn't hesitate, he squeezed the trigger. I didn't hear the gunshot, it must have been silenced. But I watched in slow motion as my assailant fell backward, the burning ember of his cigarette falling to the ground beside him.

He holstered his gun and nodded at Ryan and Colby, signaling them to move. "Let's go," he ordered. The trio pivoted and headed back toward the truck, their eyes sharp, and alert, as they left the man standing in the doorway, his confidence shattered.

As Kayce started the engine and pulled away, I could feel my pulse still racing in my chest. The silence in the truck was deafening as we all knew what was coming. No one spoke, they didn't have to, we all knew this was just the start.

The truck sped down the road, the tires humming over the pavement like a distant lullaby, but it did nothing to quiet the chaos in my mind. I stared out the window, watching the dark trees blur past, my reflection flickering in the glass. The relief came in waves, small and fleeting, like breaths I didn't realize I'd been holding. But underneath it, there was something hollow. Something I couldn't name.

Ryan's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His expression was a mask, but I could feel the weight of his judgment—or maybe it was just my own.

"You alright?" Kayce asked, his voice softer than I expected, like he was afraid of the answer.

I hesitated, my fingers curling into the seat. "Yeah," I lied.

The road to the mechanic's shop stretched out before us, dark and unforgiving. Kayce killed the lights as we neared the building, coasting into the gravel lot. The truck shuddered to a stop, and I waited as the others climbed out, their footsteps fading into the shadows.

I had promised to stay put. I meant it at the time. But as the silence pressed in, I couldn't sit there, helpless.

The glove box creaked open, and my fingers found the cold metal of the 9 mm. The weight of it was heavier than I remembered, like it knew what I was about to do.

I moved silently along the wall of the shop, the rough brick scraping my back. Voices drifted from the other side of the door, sharp and heated.

"That snooty bitch had it coming!" a man spat, his voice laced with venom.

I froze, my breath catching. My grip on the gun tightened as the man's voice became more distinct through the thin walls.
"That Dutton brat didn't even see it coming," he sneered.

The words hit me like a gut punch, and hazy memories of the bar last night surged forward.

I'd gone to grab a round of shots for our table, weaving through the crowded bar with ease.
"I'm gonna need to see some ID, please," the bartender had said, his tone polite but firm.

I pulled my driver's license from my pocket and slid it across the counter. He read it aloud as he handed it back. "Elsa Alexandria Dutton."

The man sitting at the bar next to me tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he drained the last of his beer.

"Please, no Frozen references," I quipped with a small smile, tucking the ID away. The bartender chuckled as he poured the shots.

"Get him another," I said, nodding toward the man. "Put it on my tab."

His lips twitched into a grin—not friendly, not genuine. "Mighty kind of you," he said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge I didn't register at the time.

Now, crouched outside the mechanic's shop, the memory sharpened like broken glass in my mind. That look he gave me. The way he stood just a little too close as I turned away with the drinks.

My pulse thundered in my ears as the pieces fell into place. I wasn't just some random target. They knew exactly who I was.

I heard Kayce say, "Why her?" His voice was low, but it hit me with the force of a hammer. It was as though Kayce was starting to piece the puzzle together, just as I had.
"It's about the land, right? Or are you just the muscle?"

I stepped out from the shadows, the cold steel of my gun heavy in my hand. Kayce shot me a sharp look, but I didn't flinch. He knew as well as I did that it was too late. I was already here.

The man's grin widened, sharp and menacing. "We were just sending a message," he said, his eyes glinting with something far colder than malice. "About what happens when a promise is broken."

"What promise?" Kayce asked, his voice tighter now, the realization hitting him. We all knew it wasn't just a random act of violence. This was something far more personal.

The man's gaze flicked to the others with him, then back at us. "Your father… made a deal. Broke it. And we don't forget."

I felt the blood drain from my face. That was the moment the past became the present. My father's promises had come with a price—and now we were paying it.

It always came back to the land—the power, the control, and who could hold onto it. My father had never flinched when it came to a fight. He taught us that. It was a trait that ran through every Dutton, from my grandfather to my brothers, my sister, and me.

"You're lying," I shot back, my voice steady, though inside, something was starting to stir. "When my father makes a deal, he doesn't back away from it."

The man's grin curled, cold and menacing. "Well, bitch," he spat, the word hanging in the air like venom, "guess you don't know as much about your father as you thought."

His words stung—more than I wanted to admit. I could feel my heart rate spike, and I fought the wave of doubt that crept in. There was no way my father—my rock—could have made a promise and just tossed it aside.

But his eyes… those dark, calculating eyes told a different story, one that made my stomach twist with something worse than fear: uncertainty.

"Shut your mouth," I snarled, taking a step closer, my finger tightening on the trigger. But the words felt hollow. How could I be so sure?

"Alex."

Kayce's voice rang in my ears, raw and edged with something I couldn't quite place. His words sliced through the fog of adrenaline, cutting right to the core of what I was about to do. "Let me take care of it. Once you take that next step, you can't undo it."

I froze, the gun in my hand suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. I could hear the pain in his voice—the same pain he'd carried with him from the service, the same pain that haunted him now that he was back home, surrounded by the same damn violence that never let go.

The silence stretched, the tension hanging thick in the air, suffocating. I could feel the pull of the trigger, the rage rising in my chest like wildfire. I wanted to take control, to end this once and for all. But Kayce's words kept me rooted to the ground.

My finger relaxed on the trigger, just for a second, but that second felt like a lifetime. I lowered the gun, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear. Was I ready to take a life without knowing everything?

I wasn't sure I ever would be.

The man's sudden movement caught me off guard. His body was a blur, charging at Kayce with an almost animalistic urgency. It was instinct. His intent was clear, and in that split second, my hesitation vanished. The gun went off.

I didn't even register the sound at first. Just the sharp recoil in my hand, then the silence that followed.

Smoke curled from the end of the barrel, swirling like a ghost, and when it cleared, I saw him—crumpled on the floor, his chest soaked in blood, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. His eyes were wide with pain, his body trembling as if trying to hold on to something he couldn't grasp.

I stepped forward, my boots pressing into the concrete with slow, deliberate force. My heart thudded in my ears as I looked down at him, my voice cold, almost detached. "Was it worth it?"

He gurgled, his lips twitching as he struggled to speak. "You dumb bitch…" he spat the words, each one a drop of venom, "Ask your Daddy… about what he did to James Astor…"

The name hit me like a sucker punch. But before I could ask him anything more, the life in his eyes faded. His body stilled, and the room felt infinitely colder.

He was gone.

It was Ryan who wrapped his arms around me, his touch gentle but firm, pulling me from the storm of thoughts that were still swirling. His hands slid the gun from my fingers, and I let him—too exhausted to resist.

I closed my eyes, leaning into his chest, feeling the weight of everything pressing against me. His heartbeat beneath my ear was a stark contrast to the chaos I'd just witnessed, and for a moment, I let it steady me. I didn't know what to do next.

"Rip is on the way," Kayce's voice cut through the silence. He wasn't talking to me, but to Ryan. "We'll clean this up. You take her home."

Home. The word felt foreign, a distant memory, like a place that was no longer mine. I wanted to go back there, to forget all of this had happened. But as the seconds stretched on, the truth settled in—when you do something like this, you don't forget. You just let it become a part of you.

The weight of it pressed down on me, heavier than any gunshot, colder than any silence. I had crossed a line, and I couldn't take it back. Not ever.

I didn't say anything in the truck on the way back to the ranch. What could I say? I couldn't make any quip about what had happened. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The horseshoe indentation on my cheek. I saw fashes of the man's hand laying on the ground next to his dead body. He was still wearing that ring.

I didn't say a word in the truck on the way back to the ranch. What could I say? There was nothing in me to make light of what had just happened, no quip that could fill the space between us. Silence stretched thin, thick with the weight of everything I hadn't yet processed.

The only sound was the hum of the engine, the rhythmic beat of tires on asphalt. My eyes fixed on the reflection in the mirror, tracing the horseshoe indentation on my cheek. It was still there, the mark of a life that had been handed down to me—a symbol of a legacy I couldn't escape, no matter how much I wanted to.

Flashes of the man's hand, splayed unnaturally on the ground beside his lifeless body, kept interrupting my thoughts. He'd still been wearing that damn ring, his fingers frozen in death around the cold metal.

What did that ring mean? Who had he been?

I couldn't stop staring at it in my mind. Something about it gnawed at me, an unfinished story I wasn't ready to confront. But I had to. It was part of the price I'd just paid.