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Back at the ranch, the quiet was both comforting and eerie. I sat on the porch, under the vast expanse of stars, holding a glass of bourbon that did little to numb the pain. This land, with its sprawling fields and old barns, was my roots. It was here I had found solace after Margaret’s passing, and it was here I would make my stand.

As dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. The car pulled up, and out stepped the man from my past, a ghost I thought I’d left behind.

“Clifford,” he greeted, his silhouette familiar yet distant.

“Marcus,” I replied, meeting his gaze.

We had been partners once, in ventures that danced on the edge of legality. But when Margaret came along, I had chosen a different path. Now, I was calling upon those old ties, not knowing the cost but willing to pay it to protect what mattered.

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