The sheriff's office treated the shed break-in seriously, but the evidence was thin. There were no clear footprints, no usable camera footage, and no sign that the intruder had entered the house. The glove was a common model sold in sporting-goods stores. It could have belonged to anyone.
Rylan came to the farm after hearing about it from Marcus Hill. He found Clayton standing beside the shed, looking at the cut lock.
“This is because of me,” Rylan said.
“You didn't cut the lock.”
“I brought Sloane into your life.”
“He was already there. You just opened a door he wanted open.”
Rylan kicked a stone across the yard. “I could put out a statement. Say he approached me, explain the offer, tell people he wanted to use the rematch.”
“That might help. It might also warn him that we're comparing notes.”
“So what do we do?”
“We keep records. We let Ellis do his job. And we don't make threats we can't support.”
Rylan looked frustrated. “You're always telling me not to react.”
“Because you keep confusing reaction with action.”
The distinction annoyed him precisely because it was true.
Over the next several days, Rylan trained with Clayton before sunrise. The sessions were exhausting and humbling. Clayton corrected his stance, made him repeat simple movements until they became natural, and stopped him whenever he tried to turn an exercise into a contest. Rylan learned to recognize the moment when pride made him tense his shoulders or chase an opponent's feint.
He also learned that Clayton's body carried old injuries. Some mornings, the farmer needed several minutes before his left arm moved freely. Once, after a drill, Clayton sat on a bench and waited for a spasm to pass.
“You should see a doctor,” Rylan said.
“I have.”
“And?”
“He told me to stop being stubborn.”
“Sounds like a good doctor.”
“Terrible bedside manner.”
Rylan laughed, and Clayton almost smiled.
The training did not make them friends, but it created a fragile respect. Rylan stopped asking for the secret to Clayton's technique. He began asking why certain choices mattered. Clayton answered when he could and stayed silent when the answer belonged to someone else.
Meanwhile, Ellis learned that Northline Risk Group had recently hired a private investigator named Paul Danner. Danner's public résumé listed corporate security work, but a former colleague said he was often assigned to “quiet problems”—situations where clients wanted information without creating a formal paper trail.
Ellis could not prove Danner had visited the farm. He could prove that a vehicle registered to a company associated with Northline had been seen near Miller's Creek on the night of the envelope delivery.
The sheriff advised caution. If they accused Sloane publicly without stronger evidence, they could damage the investigation and expose Helen to further pressure.
Clayton accepted the warning. Rylan did not.
He wanted to post everything online. He wanted people to know that a wealthy executive was threatening a farmer. He wanted, most of all, to strike back in a way that would make the other man feel the same helpless anger Rylan had felt in the ring.
Clayton listened to the proposal, then asked, “Would you post it to help the truth—or to make him hurt?”
Rylan said nothing.
“That's what I thought.”
The next day, Grant Bell called Rylan and warned him that his sponsors were worried about the rumors. If he continued training with Clayton or speaking to the deputy, the televised bout could be canceled.
“You have a career to protect,” Grant said.
Rylan looked across the barn at Clayton, who was quietly repairing a hinge. “Maybe I have something else to protect.”
Grant's voice turned cold. “Don't confuse a farmer's problem with your own.”
Rylan ended the call.
The realization frightened him more than any opponent had.
That afternoon, Rylan received a message from a sponsor asking him to clarify whether he was involved in “a sensitive historical matter.” The phrase sounded as if someone had written it after consulting a lawyer. He drafted a statement saying Sloane had approached his manager about a private exhibition, that he had declined, and that he was cooperating with local authorities if asked. Grant called within minutes of seeing the draft and warned that the wording could cost Rylan the televised bout. Rylan looked at the message from his sponsor, then at the footage of the Iron Lantern fight still saved on his phone. The old version of himself would have posted something furious and dared anyone to respond. Instead, he sent the statement to his attorney for review. It was not dramatic. It did not make him feel powerful. But it kept the facts intact and left room for other people to do their jobs. That, Clayton had taught him, was also a form of control.