Mercer Ranch
The wire wasn’t broken.
It was cut.
Savannah crouched at marker forty-two, brushing her fingers just above the clean slice in the fence line. No rust. No sag. Whoever did this had taken their time. Beyond the gap, boot prints pressed deep into the dirt—then tire tracks.
A truck.
Not desperation. Not someone slipping through in the dark.
A route.
She straightened slowly, the South Texas sun climbing behind her, heat already rising off the brush. Somewhere out there, someone had decided Mercer Ranch was a shortcut.
Savannah swung back into the saddle
Let them try it again.
