Texas Retribution: Book #1 Boarding House Brides

Jamie POV-1853

I had imagined this moment a thousand times. In some versions, I rode in with a gun drawn and ended it before he could speak. In others, I dragged him out of his own house and made him beg. But not today. Today, I smiled.

I reined Smoke to a stop in front of the house and took my time looking at it. The same warped boards. The same sagging porch. Time had worn it down, but not enough. Not nearly enough. It still stood. Just like him.

I slid from the saddle, my boots hitting the dirt with a dull thud, and tied Smoke to the hitching post like I was just another man looking for work. Like I didn’t already belong here. Like this place hadn’t once been mine. A voice came from behind me.

“It’s a fine view, ain’t it? One of the reasons I bought the place. What can I do for you?”

I turned slowly. Robert Beecham. Short. Thick. Soft where a man ought to be hard. His shirt hung open at the collar, exposing skin marked with scratches that didn’t come from ranch work. His eyes narrowed as he looked me over, trying to measure me. Trying to decide if I was worth anything. He didn’t recognize me.

Good. That meant I’d done it right. That meant he had no idea who was standing in front of him. No idea what was coming.

I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Jamie Smythe. Heard you’re lookin’ for a ranch hand.”

He gripped my hand like he was trying to prove something. Like he thought he had power.

I squeezed back—just enough to make his fingers twitch. Not enough to give myself away. Not yet.

“Robert Beecham,” he said. “Come on in. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Oh, I’d show him. Just not today.

I followed him up the steps, each one creaking under our weight, and into the house.

The moment I crossed the threshold, something twisted low in my gut. The air was stale. Wrong. Like the walls remembered something they weren’t meant to keep. My gaze flicked—just once—toward the far end of the room. The table. Still there.

My pulse kicked. For the briefest second, I wasn’t nineteen anymore.

I was fourteen.

Mama stood at that table, flour dusting her apron as she rolled out pie crust, humming softly under her breath. The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread filled the room, and she’d smiled when she caught me stealing a piece of dough.

“James Alexander Weston, if you spoil your supper, don’t come cryin’ to me.”

I could almost hear her laugh. Almost. The memory hit so hard my chest tightened. My eyes drifted toward the front windows. Toward the yard beyond. Toward the place where Pa had held her.

No. Not there. Not now. I swallowed against the ache rising in my throat and forced myself to look away.

The room settled back into itself. Empty. Quiet. Like nothing had ever happened here at all.

Like Mama had never sung while she cooked. Like Pa had never sat at that table reading his Bible after supper. Like this house had never known love.

My jaw tightened, but I forced my face into something calm. Neutral. Forgettable. Not James Weston. Just another ranch hand looking for work.

Beecham gestured to a chair. “Sit.”

I did. Because today wasn’t about memories. Today was about patience And I’d waited seven years.

He leaned back, studying me like I was livestock. “So,” he said, “what makes you think you can work my land?”

My land. The words burned.

“My pa ran a ranch,” I said evenly. “Lost it after he passed. Been workin’ for my uncle since. I know cattle. Horses. Fencing. Whatever needs doin’, I can handle it.”

He snorted. “You look young.”

“I’m old enough.”

His gaze dropped, crude and deliberate. “You even know how to be a man yet?”

The anger came fast. Hot. Violent. And for just a moment; I saw her again. Bruised. Broken. Trying to smile anyway. I swallowed hard. Because killing him now would be easy. Living under his roof, earning his trust, that was the hard part. And I’d waited too long to do this the easy way.

“What I do,” I said, meeting his eyes without flinching, “ain’t your concern. My work will speak for itself.”

For a moment, something shifted in his expression. Not respect. But interest. Good.

“West Texas, you said?” he asked.

I nodded, feeding him the lie I’d rehearsed a hundred times. Every word measured. Every detail placed just right. By the time I finished, he was already convinced.

Men like him always were. They never saw danger unless it came at them head-on. And I wasn’t coming at him. I was coming for him. From the inside.

“Well,” he said after a moment, pushing himself to his feet, “I like your grit. You’re hired. Trial basis.”

Of course I was. I stood and took his hand again. This time, I didn’t hold back. Not entirely. His smile faltered for just a second.

There it was. A crack. Small. But real.

“Bunkhouse is out back,” he said. “You start after the noon meal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir. The word tasted like ash.

I followed him outside, forcing my breathing to stay even, steady, controlled. But the second his back was turned; I let it out.

Five years. Five years of waiting.

And now I was here. Not as the boy who had fled into the darkness. Not as the son who’d buried his name alongside Mama and Pa. But as the man who had come back.

He thought he’d hired a ranch hand. He thought he’d brought a stranger beneath his roof. He hadn’t. He’d invited his own reckoning through the front door.

And this time, I wasn’t leaving. Not until the truth was laid bare. Not until Mama and Pa could finally rest. One way or another.