Page 13 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

He leans down, his forehead resting against mine. "I'm not stopping this time, Juliette. Black Aspen can take the water. They can take the gates. But they aren't taking you."

A low moan escapes my throat. It’s a sound of surrender, of fear, and of a blooming, primal need. I’m a runaway bride in a borrowed dress, standing in the middle of a war zone, and all I want to do is melt into this man until there’s nothing left of the girl I used to be.

"Cag," I breathe his name like a prayer.

"You belong on this ground," he growls, the words vibrating through my entire body. "With me. Remember that when the sun goes down. Remember that when the wells go dry."

He pulls away, his eyes blazing with a territorial fire that makes my knees weak. He has a ranch to run, a threat to answer, and a woman he has decided to protect. For the first time since I ran, I believe I might not have to face any of it alone.

I watch him walk back to the barn, his stride heavy and purposeful. He stops at the door, looking back at me.

"Stay near the bunkhouse, Juliette. I need to know where you are while I deal with this."

I don't argue. I climb the ladder, my heart heavy with the weight of what’s coming. I sit on the cot, the scent of chamomile still lingering in the air. I pick up the pencil sketch Linda left for me.

A magnolia. A flower that blooms in the face of the storm.

I look at the whittled bird on the crate. It doesn't look like a stick anymore. It looks like a promise.

Outside, the wind picks up, carrying dry earth through the cracks and rattling the old boards. My father is coming. Black Aspen is closing in.

But as I lie back on the cot, smoothing Linda’s cotton dress over my knees, I realize I’m not afraid anymore.

Because for the first time in my life, I’m not being traded.

I’m being claimed.

And Cag Kramer doesn't look like a man who knows how to lose.

I close my eyes, the sound of his whetstone starting up again below me. Scrape. Pause. Scrape.

The sound of a man who has decided something.

I drift into a fitful sleep, dreaming of dry creek beds and gold wedding rings. In my dream, my father is a giant made of oil and paper, reaching out to grab me. But before his fingers can touch my skin, a wall of pine and muscle stands in the way.

"She's mine," a voice rumbles, shaking the very foundations of the earth.

I wake to the roar of diesel engines and men shouting across the yard. The sky is clear, but every ranch truck is moving toward the western quarter. Cag appears below the loft, his jaw locked.

“The upstream flow stopped,” he says.

The water is gone.

The war has officially begun.

I sit up, my hand going to the whittled bird. My fingers trace the delicate wings, the sharp beak, the eyes that seem to be looking right at me.

"Don’t put it down, Cag," I whisper into the empty loft. "Not this time."

I can hear him moving below, his boots heavy on the dirt floor. He’s not panicked. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the deliberate calm of a man who intends to protect both the ranch and the woman under its roof.

He’s found his reason.

And God help anyone who tries to take it from him.

I stand up, smoothing the cotton dress over my hips. I’m done hiding. If there’s a war coming to Pine Ridge, I’m not going to be the prize sitting in the tower. I’m going to be the woman standing beside the man who claimed me.

I walk to the ladder, my jaw set. My father might have the money and the power, but he doesn't have the one thing that makes a man truly dangerous.