Page 23 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

I look back at Juliette. She’s standing by the barn door, in Linda’s cotton dress, her face pale and her shoulders locked straight. She heard him. From the look on her face, she’s afraid her father could somehow be involved.

"I'm going to the upstream gate," I say, my hands curling into fists. "I'll break the damn thing off the hinges if I have to."

"No," Andy says, stepping in front of me. "That’s what they want. They’ve got surveyors out there with cameras. You touch that gate, and they’ll have the sheriff out here with a warrant for your arrest before noon. We play it smart. We use the backup tanks for the livestock today. But we need to get Juliette inside. Linda’s got something for her."

I want to argue. I want to roar. I want to find the man who turned off that valve and show him exactly what a Kramer does when his land is threatened. But Andy is right. If I’m in a cell in Pine Valley, I can’t protect her.

I walk back to Juliette and put my hand on the small of her back. "Come on. Inside."

We walk to the main house in silence. Dust lifts around my boots as we cross the yard. Somewhere upstream, Black Aspen is holding back water Pine Ridge has depended on for generations.

Inside the kitchen, the air is warmer, smelling of frying bacon and strong coffee. Two plates wait on the long oak table. Beside one of them rests a neatly folded pair of jeans and a soft blue blouse.

Linda looks up as we enter, her eyes settling on Juliette with the same quiet understanding she offered yesterday.

“Juliette,” she says softly. ‘I found these at the house. They should fit better than anything Cag owns.’

Juliette sits and runs her fingers over the blouse, careful and almost disbelieving. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’

“Maybe not.” Linda pushes a steaming mug toward her. ‘But I remembered the chamomile.’

The faint, sweet scent rises between them. Juliette looks down at the clothes, and I see her fighting to keep her emotions from reaching her face.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Linda gives her a gentle smile. ‘Eat while it’s hot.’

For one brief moment, the kitchen settles around us, warm and quiet. Then the back door slams open.

Benjamin walks in, smelling of horse sweat and dust. He doesn't look at us. He goes straight to the sink and splashes cold water over his face. When he stands up, his expression is grim.

"The south-pasture troughs aren’t refilling," Benjamin says. "The herd’s already bunching near the gate. We need tanks down there before they start pressing the fence."

I stand up, my chair screeching against the linoleum. "I'm hauling the portable tanks. We’ll pump from the creek in the north quarter. It’s still running, isn't it?"

"Barely," Benjamin says. "But it's better than nothing. I’ll help you haul the pressing table out of the old workshop if we need more space for the gear." He pauses, glancing at me with a ghost of a smirk. "Unless your grandmother's ghost is still haunting it. She always did say that table was the heart of the ranch."

"Not now, Ben," I growl.

Juliette stands up, her eyes wide. "Let me help. I can... I don't know what I can do, but I can't just sit here while your ranch dies because of my father."

"You stay here," I say, my voice coming out harsher than I intended. I grab her shoulders, my fingers tightening against the soft fabric of her borrowed blouse. "You stay here with Linda. You’re the target, Juliette. If they see you out there, it gives them an excuse to escalate. They want you scared. They want you to think that the only way to save us is to go back."

"And if I do?" she challenges, her chin lifting. "If I go back, does the water come back on?"

"No," I roar, the sound echoing in the kitchen. "Because you aren't going back. Not today. Not ever. You’re mine, Juliette. If I have to carry every drop of water from the mountain myself, I’ll do it before I let him use you as a bargaining chip."

Her eyes soften, the fire in them turning to something warmer, something more dangerous to my heart. She reaches up, her hands flat against my chest. "Then go. Fix it. But come back to me."

I don't answer with words. I can't. I lean down and crush my mouth to hers, a hard, desperate kiss that tastes of coffee and defiance. I break away before I lose my resolve, turning on my heel and heading for the door.

The yard is already moving—trucks backing toward tanks, gates opening, and men shouting measurements across the dust. The Kramer brothers are a well-oiled machine when the world is against us. We’ve fought blizzards, we’ve fought predators, and we’ve fought the bank. But you can’t fight a dry pipe with a gun or a rope.

I spend the next four hours in a haze of brutal labor. Hauling plastic tanks onto the flatbed. Running the pump until gasoline coats my tongue. Driving across the western quarter while every weakening trough reminds me how fast the reserves can disappear.

I see the cattle. They’re crowding the cottonwood shade, restless and breathing hard in the rising heat. They look at the truck with dull, expectant eyes. When I open the valves on the tanks and the water starts to splash into the dry troughs, the sound is like a miracle. They crowd the troughs, hooves churning the dirt as water splashes over the metal rims.

I stand by the truck, leaning against the hot metal, watching them. My shirt is soaked with sweat, my hands are blistered, and my jaw aches from clenching it.