Page 24 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

This is what he wants. Someone at Black Aspen wants Pine Ridge desperate enough to accept whatever terms come next. Whether Marchand is part of that plan is a question I intend to answer. He thinks a man’s loyalty to his land has a price.

He’s wrong.

I look toward the property line. In the distance, near the upstream gate, I see a white SUV. It’s parked on the shoulder of the public road, just sitting there. A man in a high-vis vest is standing next to it, holding a clipboard. He isn’t doing maintenance. He’s watching us and documenting our reaction.

Rage, pure and blinding, boils up in my gut. It’s the same rage I felt when I stood at that altar and realized the woman I’d built a life for had never intended to show up. It’s the rage of a man who has been left with nothing but scraps.

But I’m not that man anymore. I have Juliette in my loft. I have a bird to finish whittling. I have a woman who looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in a world of shadows.

I climb back into the truck and slam it into gear. I drive back to the main house, the dust trailing behind me like a funeral shroud. When I pull into the yard, I see Dwight Puddy’s truck parked near the barn. The ranch vet is out here, probably checking the stock for dehydration.

I jump out of the truck, my legs heavy. I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s still there, that she hasn't vanished like a mirage in the heat.

I find her on the porch of the main house. She’s sitting on the steps, her knees pulled up to her chest, still wearing the blouse and jeans Linda found for her. She looks small against the backdrop of the massive timber house, but when she sees me, she stands up, and the strength returns to her posture.

"Did it work?" she asks as I approach.

"For now," I say, stopping at the bottom of the steps. I’m covered in grit and grease, a far cry from the men she’s used to. "We’ve got enough water to keep them alive for a few days. But the creek is dropping. If it doesn't rain, or if they don't open that gate..."

"He won't open it," she says, her voice flat. "My father doesn't negotiate. He consumes. He’ll wait until the cattle are dying and the bank is calling, and then he’ll offer you a deal. Me for the water."

"Then he’s going to be waiting a long time," I growl. I step up onto the porch, invading her space, surrounding her with the scent of sweat and determination. "Because I’m not giving you back, and I’m not surrendering this ranch. I’ll fight for both."

She looks up at me, her brown eyes searching mine. "Cag, you’ve worked your whole life for this. Your brothers, your family... I can’t be the reason you lose everything."

"You’re the only thing I’ve found in three years that was worth keeping," I say, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "This ranch is my history and my responsibility. You’re not competing with it, Juliette. You’re standing beside me while I protect it."

The honesty of the words scares me. I’m a Kramer. We don't do poetry. We do work. But with her, the words just come, raw and bleeding.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing the dirt on my cheek. "You’re a mess."

"I’m a man who stays when the work gets hard," I say, catching her hand and kissing her palm. "And I’m staying with you."

A dry gust cuts across the yard, carrying dust from the western quarter. The ranch is losing water by the hour, and I don’t have time to stand here pretending the maps inside can wait.

"Inside," I say, guiding Juliette toward the door. "I need to check the maps. If your father wants to play with the water, I need to know every spring and every seep on this mountain. He thinks he’s the only one who knows how to use the land. He’s about to find out how wrong he is."

We go into the house, and the silence of the kitchen is heavy. Linda is gone, likely down at the pump house helping inventory what’s left in the stored tanks.

I pull the old topographical maps of the Ridge out of the sideboard. They’re yellowed, the edges frayed, covered in my father’s and grandfather’s notations. I spread them out on the table, my fingers tracing the blue lines of the hidden springs.

"There," I mutter, pointing to a spot high on the western ridge, near the old cabin site. "There’s a seep there. It’s never much, but it’s constant. If we can pipe it down to the lower troughs..."

"It’s too far," Juliette says, leaning over the map. Her hair brushes my arm, carrying the faint magnolia scent I already recognize as hers. "You’d need miles of pipe. And pumps."

"Then I’ll get them," I say. "I’ll go into Pine Valley. Frank at the hardware store owes me a favor. He’s got the industrial tubing in the back lot."

"I'm coming with you," she says.

"No."

"Cag, I can't stay here like a prisoner," she says, her voice rising. "I'm not a child. I'm the one who knows how he thinks. I know the legal loopholes he uses. Let me help."

I look at her, really look at her. She’s not just a runaway bride. She’s a designer, a woman who builds things from nothing, who sees the structure beneath the silk. She’s a Marchand, whether she likes it or not, and she has the steel of that family in her spine.

"Fine," I say, the word like a confession. "But you stay in the truck. If I see one Black Aspen suit, we’re gone."

"Deal," she says.