But yesterday made one thing painfully clear: she isn’t going anywhere. She’s going to dig her heels in, prove me wrong, and make damn sure she’s wedged in my side for the next six months. Fine. I can do the same.
Hell, I can do it better.
For now, I shove it down, because there’s still cattle to tag and prep before the next pickup run. I listen to the low rumble of the truck engine fading down the property line—my truck, in her hands—and grit my teeth harder.
Jesse and Mason are working horses. Hank’s asleep on a barrel because the old man treats napping like a religion. So yeah—the person driving my truck straight into the woodsis going to be Sloane.
Why the hell is she going down there—and with my tools?
She disappears into the trees, tools slung over her shoulder, and I force myself to look away—but the confusion sticks. She has no business out there. She sure as hell has no business poking around with equipment she doesn’t understand.
I shake my head and turn back to the cattle, tagging the calves that were recently born. It’s a relatively slow day, but an easy one.
The guys got most of the morning chores handled, and I’ve kept to myself, which is easier than dealing with her. For the rest of the afternoon, it’s been tagging and inventory. Mostly tagging and inventory for me.
By the time I finish the last calf, the sky has gone damn near black. Normally I’d have checked the radar, but with everything that happened yesterday? I forgot.
And it wasn’t just the argument.
It was how close we were.
I told Monty she was changing things, but this is the first time I start to understand how much. The branding was bad enough—but almost kissing her? That’s another level of trouble.
I can’t stand her, but the worst part? A tiny, stupid part of me wonders if kissing her would’ve finally shut her up.
A low roll of thunder vibrates across the land.
Yeah. The sky’s about to open up.
“Hey, boys!” I shout to Jesse and Mason. They look up. “Get the horses back in the barn. We’ve got a storm rolling in.”
They nod and jump into motion. I walk over to Hank, still asleep on his metal barrel. I nudge it with my boot until he jolts awake.
“Help me round up the cattle,” I tell him, and he nods as I whistle for Bullet. The dog vaults off the porch and sprints toward us, barking orders in his own little language.
Hank and I move fast, pulling cattle in row by row. The sky turns almost black overhead. Lightning forks across the horizon as Hank and Bullet drag in the last line right as the rain hits.
Hard.
We need the rain. Doesn’t make the timing any less inconvenient.
“That’s it. Just in time,” Hank comments, shaking his head as Bullet shakes out his fur.
“Thanks for the help,” I say as he latches the final gate.
“Well, of course. It’s my job,” he says with a smile—before frowning. He glances around the barn.
“It seems we’re missing a person.”
My stomach drops.
“Ah, hell.”
The rain is picking up fast, turning dirt into muck, and despite the visibility being trash, I can still make out the truck in the distance. The brake lights glow through the downpour, but there’s no movement.
I turn back to Hank.
“Take Bullet with you for the night. I’m going to get Sloane,” I tell him, and he tips his hat.
