Page 74 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike
"I didn't mean to. Are you okay?"
"Are you kidding? I'm proud as punch." Heather sat up, grinning through the dust. "You're a natural scrapper, Olivia Langford. You just needed to remember."
“How did you learn to do this?”
“I took a self-defense course—right after Brett’s fists put me in the hospital the last time. I swore no one would ever do that to me again.”
“My God, Heather.”
She shrugged. “Old news. Something I’ll never have to worry about again. I married a good guy this time. And the rest of them are good guys, too. They’re lethal, no doubt about that, but they’re kind and they’ll go to the mat for anyone they love.”
Liv felt everything within her soften. Mike was one of these good guys. And she knew without a doubt he’d go to the mat for her.
They helped each other up, and Heather squeezed Liv's shoulder. "You're ready. You know that, right?"
"I don't feel ready."
"Nobody ever does. But you're a fighter, Liv. Always were. Now you just know it."
Liv's throat closed. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"Come on," Heather said. "Let's get you fed before the chaos starts. You're going to need your strength today."
Arletta met them at the kitchen door with towels and knowing looks. "Y'all done beating each other up for the morning?"
"Just getting started," Heather said, grinning through the dust on her face.
"Mm-hmm. Well, come get fed before you start round two. Can't defend the ranch on an empty stomach." Arletta's eyes softened on Liv. "You did good, honey girl. Real good."
By eight a.m., the ranch looked like the county fair had mated with a tactical operation and given birth to organized chaos.
Mike stood near the main pavilion, clipboard in hand, watching trucks roll up the drive in a steady stream. Mrs. Halloway and her bible study group had claimed the far tables, already setting up baked goods with military precision. Cooter's massive smoker billowed smoke near the barn, the smell of slow-cooked brisket making Mike's mouth water despite his nerves.
Families spread across the lawn. Kids chased each other around hay bales that Kenny had strategically positioned to create sight lines and cover. Dogs on leashes. Grandmothers in lawn chairs. Teenagers texting while their parents unloaded casseroles.
Normal. Festive. Safe.
Except Mike's gut said otherwise, and his gut had kept him alive through two tours and more bad decisions than he cared to count. And except for the three unfamiliar vehicles Joe had spotted on the access road twenty minutes ago. Dark SUVs with tinted windows, parked just outside the property line like vultures waiting for something to die.
Mike's jaw tightened.
"How many?" Lyle asked, coming up beside him with two cups of coffee.
"Three vehicles. Probably two people each. Could be more." Mike took the coffee, grateful. "Joe's running plates, but they're likely rentals under fake names."
"Sheriff Tucker?"
"On site. Two deputies with him, all armed." Mike's gaze swept the crowd, cataloging faces, positions, sight lines. "Plus Kenny on the ridge with the rifle and about forty people in this crowd who wouldn't hesitate to step up if needed."
"Still don't like the odds," Lyle muttered. “Don’t like that there are kids here, either.”
"Neither do I. But we work with what we've got. And every parent of every kid has been briefed. It was their call to go or stay."
Grandpa Quentin ambled past with his shotgun slung over his shoulder like it was a fishing pole, stopping to chat with a cluster of ranchers Mike recognized from the feed store. Within minutes, several of those men had drifted casually toward the perimeter, coffee cups in hand, eyes sharp.
The cavalry, Mike thought. Disguised as neighbors with a sweet tooth.
"Uncle Mike!" Charlotte bounded up, dragging Liv by the hand. "Miss Liv says I can help with the dessert table! I'm gonna be an official baker's assistant!"
