Page 14 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

He doesn't have anything to lose.

Cag does. He has me.

And as I head down to join him, I realize that’s the most powerful weapon of all.

The barn is quiet now, the only sound the settling of the wood and the distant lowing of thirsty cattle. Cag stands at the open barn doors, looking toward the western quarter. The cattle are bunching near the troughs, and the water line inside the nearest tank is already lower than it should be.

He doesn't turn when I approach. He just reaches back, his hand finding mine with unerring accuracy. His fingers interlace with mine, his grip tight and possessive.

"It's starting," he says.

"I know," I reply, squeezing his hand.

"You scared?"

"A little." I look up at him, at the scar on his jaw and the fire in his eyes. "Are you?"

"No," he says, turning to face me. "I've been waiting three years for a reason to fight this hard. I'm not scared, Juliette. I'm ready."

He leans down, his lips brushing against my forehead in a gesture that feels more intimate than a kiss. The touch feels like a promise made before either of us knows the cost.

"Let ’em come," he whispers.

And for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.

Not in a ballroom. Not in a boardroom.

Right here. In the middle of the dust, with a man who sees the bird inside the wood.

The daughter of Conrad Marchand is dead.

The woman of Cag Kramer is just getting started.

4

CAG

The truck hood ticks under my hand, a rhythmic metallic snap that matches the pulse thudding in my jaw. The scent of hot engine oil and dust rolls off the Ford, but it’s the magnolia—that sweet, defiant scent clinging to the girl standing three feet away—that’s actually choking me. The sun is dipping behind the jagged teeth of the mountains, painting the Pine Ridge sky in bruised purples and blood reds. It’s fitting. Black Aspen just declared war by threatening our water, and I’m standing here looking at the daughter of a man powerful enough to make the situation worse, wanting to do things to her that would make a saint weep.

She isn’t wearing the shredded wedding gown anymore.

Somehow, this is worse.

The simple cotton dress Linda found for her should make Juliette look ordinary. It doesn’t. Dust marks the hem, and one sleeve has slipped enough to reveal the curve of a ballet-strong shoulder scattered with freckles. There’s nothing expensive or polished about her now, but I’ve never wanted anything more.

"They’re really going to do it, aren’t they?" Her voice is steady despite the way her fingers twist in her clothes. She isn’t looking toward the men checking the weakening creek flow. She’s looking at me.

"They already did it," I grunt. The word feels like gravel in my throat. My hand moves instinctively to the dashboard through the open window, my fingers brushing the half-finished cottonwood hawk. I’ve carried the damn thing for years, its rough wings waiting for a man who knows how to complete them.

I used to tell myself I didn’t have the time.

The truth is uglier.

Finishing something means admitting I care what happens to it.

But looking at Juliette makes leaving anything incomplete feel impossible.

"You should have let me go," she says, but she doesn't move. She doesn't take a single step toward the road. "If I go back, if I tell him I’ll marry that man, maybe he’ll pressure them to turn the water back on. Your brothers... they wouldn't lose the western quarter. The cattle wouldn't suffer."