This tradition never had any issues until she showed up, and now I’m changing it because of her damn words—because I let them get under my skin.
“Are you kidding me?” she calls after me. “It’s because you tried to put a hot iron on his skin that he spooked. I didn’t go any farther once you stopped me. I stayed by the rail.”
“So at least own up to the fact that I was right.”
I turn back. “I told you to stay out of the way. You shouldn’t have even been there,” I say, doubling down because backing off would mean admitting she has a point, and she just shakes her head.
six
Gage
The rest of the day passes without either of us giving an inch.
We cross paths more than once—at the barn, near the pens, outside the office—but neither of us slows or looks for a reason to stop. Work gets done. Orders are followed. The ranch keeps moving like it always does.
The space she leaves behind feels intentional, like she’s already decided something I haven’t caught up to yet.
She finds me near the house, just close enough that walking away would make a point.
“I had every right to be there as much as you do,” she says, stopping a few steps away when I don’t move. “I’ve tried everything to make you see that I’m busting my ass tomake the most out of this, but everywhere I turn, there’s an argument with you.”
“When will you see that I’m not here to screw things up?”
That’s a good question. I don’t answer.
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. She turns and walks away, leaving the space between us quiet in a way that feels decided, and then she’s gone.
I stay where I am long after she’s gone, staring at the spot she occupied like it might offer some explanation if I look hard enough. The ranch doesn’t stop for personal conflicts. Somewhere behind me, a gate clangs shut. A truck engine turns over.
Life keeps moving, indifferent to the tension still buzzing under my skin.
I tell myself I did the right thing by not chasing her. Running after her would have turned it into something bigger, something messier. It would have meant admitting there’s more going on here than frustration and bruised pride—and I’m not ready for that.
I don’t follow. I let her go. I let the space stand between us.
The adrenaline from the ring bleeds off slowly, leaving behind something heavier—notrelief, not satisfaction. Just a dull pressure in my chest that I ignore the same way I ignore everything else that doesn’t fit neatly into my world.
I shove my hands into my pockets and force myself to breathe through it, grounding myself in routine.
This is my land. My responsibility. My problem to solve.
I remind myself of that as I walk away from the house and back toward the barns, putting physical space between me and the argument I refuse to finish. Distance has always worked before. It should work now, too.
After that, we keep our distance for the rest of the day, which feels like a blessing after the branding fiasco. I don’t know what came over me when I froze up with Sammy. I’ve never hesitated like that, never stopped mid-routine to question whether I was doing the right thing.
Hell, at one point, I even looked up the studies she mentioned, half expecting to prove her wrong—and didn’t.
The rest of the morning drags on, fragmented, and I catch myself noticing things I usually wouldn’t. Jesse pauses before adjusting a gate, glancing toward the paddock where Sloane’s working instead of asking me.
Hank mentions changing the feeding rotation and adds, almost casually, that Sloane suggested it might reduce waste. No one challenges it. No one even looks at me for confirmation.
I don’t say anything. I tell myself it’s nothing—just coincidence, just people making conversation—but the pattern keeps repeating. Small things. Harmless things. The kind that shouldn’t matter, except they do.
This is my operation. I’ve spent years building a rhythm here, knowing exactly how every day should run. Now there’s a second current moving through it, subtle but undeniable, and everyone seems to be flowing with it instead of against it.
By the time noon rolls around, I feel like I’m walking through my own ranch slightly out of step, like the ground has shifted just enough to throw off my balance. I hate that feeling more than the arguments, more than the noise.
I hate not being the center of gravity in a place that’s always answered to me.
