A second later, it slaps again.
Her boots crunch over the gravel as she hustles to catch up, mug in hand. I clock it instantly and shake my head.
Damn city folk.
The barn’s already alive when we step inside—metal clanking, hooves shifting, low voices carrying through the wide space. Hay dust hangs in the air, warm and familiar, the kind of smell that sinks into your clothes and doesn’t leave. This place hums with purpose.
“First rule,” I start, not slowing my stride, “no touching the equipment. It’s expensive, and you haven’t been trained. Do us both a favor and leave it alone.”
She takes a long sip of coffee, eyes narrowed at my back. Annoyed.
I don’t care.
“I run a tight operation,” I continue. “And I won’t change my ways for someone who just showed up from Austin.”
I hear her exhale, sharp and controlled, but she keeps pace. I’ll give her that.
“Next,” I add, “no interfering with ranch business. I worked too damn hard fixing the books to have them screwed up again.”
She smirks. “Except it is half my ranch, so I should be able to see the books whenever I want.”
That hits closer than it should.
My jaw tightens. I scrape my teeth along my bottom lip and rub my forearm, irritation crawling beneath my skin. The books were a mess when Uncle Sam left them behind. Worse than a mess—quietly bleeding. And I fixed them alone. Night after night.
Those numbers aren’t just ink to me—they’re the difference between keeping this place whole and watching it fall apart.
“Relax,” she adds, as if she hasn’t just thrown a match. “I’m not laundering money. I want to check land records and water systems—make sure everything’s viable for grazing.”
Right. The environmental angle.
Annoying—but possibly useful.
“Fine,” I say, pointing at her. “Land and water. Stay out of the finances.”
She lifts her hands in mock surrender, mouth twitching like she’s already filed that away for later.
“And lastly,” I add, stopping short as we reach Hank brushing Mabel, “don’t talk to my hands without me present. They listen to me. Not you.”
Hank turns, drops the brush into the bucket, and grins like he’s just walked in on something better than his morning coffee.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “I was wondering when you’d bring her around.”
He sticks out a hand. “Hank Doyle.”
“Sloane Carter,” she replies, shaking it with an easy smile—too easy for someone who just got told she doesn’t have a voice here.
That smile she gives Hank is warmer than any she’s ever given me—easy, unguarded. Like she isn’t standing on land that feels like a battlefield to me.
I tell myself I shouldn’t care.
I don’t entirely believe it.
“Carter, huh?” Hank asks, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
She nods. He hums low in his throat, but doesn’t say anything else. Whatever he’s clocked, it hangs there between them, unspoken. I don’t miss the way Sloane notices it too. Neither of us calls it out.
“Well,” Hank says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “I do hope this fella here is taking good care of you.”
