CHAPTER 1 

Zora

I ease my rental SUV onto a dusty gravel path that stretches into the endless expanse of Montana sky. The map on my phone died ten minutes ago—no signal out here in Iron Valley, apparently. But I’m following an earlier set of directions that said: Keep driving until you see the large iron gate. You’ll know it when you get there.

They weren’t joking about that gate. It rises in the distance like a fortress barrier, imposing iron filigree shaped into a stylized horse rearing back on its hind legs, flanked by a massive wrought-iron arch that reads THE IRON HORSEMEN CLUB in bold, no-nonsense letters. My eyes narrow. I’ve done site assessments for countless ranches, industrial properties, and high-end retreats, but nothing has ever looked so intentionally…secretive.

I pull up to a small guard station. Two men in ranch attire—jeans, boots, crisp white shirts, and suspicious glares—walk out. One man has a cowboy hat tipped low, shading his face from the afternoon sun. The other rests a palm casually on the butt of what looks suspiciously like a firearm holstered at his hip. I swallow the flicker of unease.

I roll down my window and offer a polite smile. “Hi. Zora Jackson. I have an appointment with the Iron Horsemen Club regarding an environmental and sustainability evaluation.”

They exchange a look. The one with the hat holds out a scanning device. “ID, please?”

I hand over my driver’s license, keeping my posture relaxed. Still, the tension in the air sets me on edge. As the man scans my ID, I mentally run through my obligations here. I’m supposed to evaluate water sources, land usage, and overall sustainability of this sprawling 50,000-acre property for a billionaire investor who’s thinking of placing a major stake in some new ranching venture. It’s my job to find out if the land can handle expansions without harming the environment—or if corners are being cut.

“Let her through,” the other guard says after a moment, handing back my license. “You’ll be greeted inside.”

No “thank you,” no “have a nice day.” Just a curt gesture as the gate rumbles open, revealing a narrow, winding road disappearing into pine-covered hills. I put the SUV back into gear, my pulse flickering with a mix of curiosity and caution.

As I drive, the scenery takes my breath away. Rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers open to reveal panoramic vistas of mountains in the distance. Horses graze near a fence line that stretches as far as I can see. If I weren’t here on business, and if I weren’t already bracing for a fight—I might let myself appreciate the raw majesty of Montana’s horizon.

Eventually, I spot what must be The Bunkhouse—the club’s main lodge. Calling it a “bunkhouse” is an insult to architecture. This place is huge, all log walls and stone columns with the grandeur of a high-end resort. Tall windows reflect the sun, and the front doors are carved with intricate horse motifs. There’s a flurry of activity out front: men dressed in various forms of ranch attire, some holding clipboards, others leading horses.

I park near a line of immaculate trucks—some easily pushing six figures with all the upgrades. The sense of wealth here is unmistakable. Land is power. That’s what my father always said, and nowhere does that ring truer than in places like this.

Climbing out, I straighten my posture, smoothing my blazer. I’m dressed practically—jeans, sturdy boots, a blouse, and a well-fitted jacket. I don’t do the frilly stuff. I’ve got my thick braids pulled back into a low ponytail to keep them out of my face, and I’m ready to present the calm, collected professional I am.

Except I catch the first set of stares. A few cowboys are lingering by the entryway, and their gazes are anything but friendly. Some look curious, others overtly suspicious, and maybe one or two look borderline hostile.

I’m used to it. A Black woman in a predominantly white, male-dominated ranching world is not exactly an everyday sight. But it doesn’t mean it stings any less. I hold my head high and keep walking.

Before I reach the doors, movement off to my left catches my eye. Three nearly identical men—tall, lean, dressed in denim and boots—come bounding around the side of the lodge. They’re in a heated argument about something, though they’re grinning like boys who just set off fireworks.

“Wyatt, hush up,” the first one mutters. Or was it “Walker”? I don’t hear their words properly. They look so similar, it’s impossible to tell.

The second responds with a laugh, “Don’t you hush me, that was pure genius. Bet you three hundred bucks Beck’ll blow a gasket.”

The third snickers, “I got five hundred says he’ll blow two gaskets.”

They skid to a stop upon noticing me, exchanging mischievous glances. One doffs his hat in a near-comical gesture. “Well, well, well, who have we here?”

I tilt my chin up, meet their smiles with a polite but guarded expression. “Zora Jackson. I’m here for a consulting appointment.”

“Consulting, huh?” The one in the middle winks. “You’re sure about that?”

The second brother elbows him. “That’s enough, Wyatt—no need to scare the lady. Walker Sinclair, at your service.” He points to himself, then gestures. “This troublemaker is Wyatt, and that fella’s Weston. Sinclair triplets. Pleasure to meet you.”

I almost laugh; they’re so over the top. “Nice to meet you all.”

“We’d shake your hand, but we’re on the run,” Weston says, eyes dancing with mischief. “Looks like Beck’ll find us soon enough. Keep an eye out.”

My eyebrows lift. “Beck?”

That’s all I manage before they dash past me, half-laughing, half-bickering about a “prank” they apparently set in motion. I watch them go with a bemused smile. Whatever those triplets are up to, it definitely spells trouble.

Taking a steadying breath, I approach the imposing wooden doors. A tall man in a black suit. An actual butler or security detail?—opens one side with stiff courtesy. “Miss Jackson, welcome. If you’ll please follow me. Mr. Calloway is expecting you.”

I step inside, instantly assaulted by the rich scent of polished wood, leather, and something smoky—like a blend of fine whiskey and fireplace embers. A grand foyer stretches out with vaulted ceilings. A chandelier fashioned out of what look like old wagon wheels hangs overhead, casting warm light across the stone floor. On the walls, photographs and paintings of men on horseback, ranching scenes, and old Western landscapes give me a sense of the place’s storied history.

As I’m led deeper, I pass a wide corridor where a few men in cowboy hats whisper in hushed tones. They stop talking altogether when I walk by. A tension creeps under my skin. It’s not just the standard wariness I get in new places—this is more. Like they see me as an interloper.

Finally, the butler leads me into what must be a large sitting area. Dark leather couches, an enormous stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the stables. A single figure stands at one of those windows. Broad-shouldered, tall, wearing a well-worn leather jacket over a button-down, faded jeans that fit entirely too well, and boots coated in dust. His stance is rigid, hands clasped behind his back, jaw set in a grim line.

The butler clears his throat. “Mr. Calloway, your guest.”

He turns, and I feel the impact like a physical jolt. Beckett Calloway. He’s…well, let’s just say if you looked up “rugged cowboy with too much attitude” in the dictionary, you’d find this man’s photograph. Dirty-blond hair that’s mussed like he’s been tugging at it in frustration, piercing blue-gray eyes that lock onto me like a target. A faint scar slashes across his left hand, visible when his arm swings down to his side.

He regards me with a look that’s part curiosity and part challenge. No smile, no softness, just a cool, unflinching assessment. “So you’re Dr. Jackson.” His voice is deep, that classic cowboy drawl underscoring every word.

I force a polite nod. “Zora is fine. We’ll be working together, I presume?”

He inclines his head, stepping forward. One, two, three slow strides, boots thumping against the wood floor. He moves like a predator who’s more comfortable on horseback than indoors. “The club president asked me to, uh…oversee your assessment.”

“I see.” My posture stiffens. “And what exactly does oversee entail, Mr. Calloway?”

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it’s not quite a smile. “It means I’ll make sure you don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Heat flares in my cheeks, equal parts outrage and something unsettlingly close to adrenaline-fueled attraction. “I’m here under formal contract,” I say, carefully maintaining my composure. “I have every right to do my job. If that means investigating water contamination, land usage, or questionable ranching practices—”

He cuts me off with a raised hand. “You might be used to pushin’ fancy execs around, Dr. Jackson, but around here, we don’t appreciate outsiders digging into private affairs.”

Every nerve in my body bristles. The audacity is staggering. “Outsider, huh?”

He shrugs. “That’s what you are.” His eyes sweep me from head to toe, lingering a half second too long on my boots. I wonder if he’s judging whether I can actually handle the terrain. “We run things a certain way in Iron Valley. You want to learn about it, fine. But do it with respect.”

“Respect goes both ways, Mr. Calloway. This land is impressive, but it’s not above scrutiny. My job is to see whether your environmental stewardship is as strong as your swagger.”

His jaw tightens. For a beat, I wonder if he’s going to toss me out on my rear. But then, to my surprise, he steps back and nods. “You’re a guest here—like it or not. The Iron Horsemen Club doesn’t take kindly to uninvited visitors, but seeing as you were invited…” His gaze flicks pointedly. “I’ll do my part. For now.”

Before I can snap back, a sudden commotion breaks out behind us. From the hallway, I see a man stomping in, clearly furious. He’s drenched in something. I can’t tell if it’s water or something else. The clothes plastered to his body, cowboy hat crumpled in his hand. His face is beet-red with rage.

“The damn Sinclair boys!” he bellows. “They rigged the water trough to tip the second I walked by. Who’s responsible for—”

He stops when he sees Beckett and me in the room. Then he scowls even harder. “That your doin’?”

Beckett’s expression remains impassive, though I catch a flicker of irritation. “Last I checked, I’m not one of the triplets. Go find them yourself, Conrad.”

Conrad grunts, eyes darting to me in open confusion. I just arch a brow, feeling like I’ve stepped into some bizarre Western soap opera. Conrad grumbles under his breath and storms off, leaving a trail of water droplets in his wake.

I exhale a short laugh. “I assume that’s normal around here?”

Beckett runs his fingers through his hair, his expression borderline exasperated. “The Sinclair triplets live for chaos. Don’t let them rope you into any of their pranks.”

My mind flashes to their grinning faces outside. Too late, I think, but I keep it to myself.

He gestures toward a set of French doors opening onto the back lawn. “Let’s get you settled. Jim Houghton—club president. Wants to meet you later. Until then, I’m saddled with makin’ sure you’re comfortable. Might as well start with a tour of the grounds.”

I blink, surprised. “I just arrived. You really want to drag me around the ranch right now?”

His eyes narrow, a hint of challenge. “I figure it’s best to show you the territory, so you know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“Fine.” My heartbeat quickens. This is good. I want to see the property as soon as possible. Gathering my resolve, I follow him out the doors, stepping into the late-afternoon sun.

A wide expanse of rolling pasture greets us. Men and women on horseback move in the distance, herding cattle or tending to chores I can’t quite make out. A wooden barn stands to the west, with the sound of whinnying horses drifting on the breeze. There’s a subtle hush to the place, as though the land itself demands reverence.

He leads me down a flagstone path. We don’t say much. Every so often, I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s easily a head taller than me, with shoulders that fill out his jacket in a way that makes me hyper-aware of every breath I’m taking. Why is my pulse racing? I’ve dealt with arrogant men before—some of them extremely handsome. But something about Beckett Calloway sets my nerves on fire.

We reach a corral where a black stallion paces, tossing its mane. Beckett unlatches the gate, steps inside, and reaches out with deliberate calm. The horse nickers softly, pressing its muzzle into Beckett’s open palm. Watching them, my eyes snag on a flash of tenderness in him—just a flicker, but enough to remind me that people are rarely as one-dimensional as they first seem.

“It’s the horses that keep me sane,” he says, almost like he can sense my scrutiny. “Everything else around here…” He trails off, giving the stallion a reassuring pat.

I inch closer, but maintain a respectful distance from the animal. “They’re magnificent.”

His gaze meets mine over the horse’s sleek neck. “Ranching’s in my blood. Father taught me early on that we own the land, but we also answer to it.”

“Sounds almost…sustainable,” I say, half-teasing. “Maybe you’re not as set against my work as you pretend.”

A wry smile tugs at his mouth. “Don’t read too much into it. I’m just telling you how it is. This land is everything to me—my family. The Iron Horsemen protects it at all costs.”

I wrap my arms around myself, thoughtful. “Protecting the land is what I do, too, Mr. Calloway.”

He bristles a bit. “It’s Beckett. Or Beck, if you must. ‘Mr. Calloway’ makes me sound like my father.”

“Right,” I say quietly. “Beckett.”

For a moment, the air between us thickens. His eyes flick to my face, then drop to my mouth, then snap away. My heart thrums uncomfortably. This man is not what I expected, and I can’t let myself be affected by him. I’m here for a reason.

He clears his throat and steps away, letting the horse wander off. “I’ll show you the stables. Then I’ll point out where the water sources run through the western edge of the property. You’ll probably want to see the secondary creek tomorrow.”

I nod, adjusting my jacket. “Yes. I’d like water samples as soon as possible.”

He eyes me up and down again, as though gauging my commitment. “You sure you’re ready for the backcountry? It’s rough terrain, Miss Jackson. Not just a stroll in the city park.”

A spark of anger flares in my chest. He’s testing me. I lift my chin. “I can handle your ‘rough terrain,’ Beckett. I’ve done site surveys in the Amazon. I’ve ridden through the Australian Outback. Montana won’t break me.”

His lips press into a firm line, but I swear I see admiration flicker in his storm-gray eyes. “Good,” he says softly. “Because once you start this assessment, there’s no goin’ back.”

I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a promise. But it sends a shiver down my spine all the same.

With that, he spins with clipped purpose, leading me toward the stables like we’re going into battle. And in a way, maybe we are. Because with every step, I feel the weight of this place—its traditions, its raw power, and the unspoken challenge in Beckett Calloway’s stare. I’m here to do a job, yes, but there’s no denying the spark between us is already crackling.

I just hope I can survive whatever war is brewing between me and him, between progress and an age-old brotherhood, between my heart and this fiercely guarded land.

Because something tells me that once the Iron Horsemen close ranks, getting out unscathed might not be so simple.