Page 35 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

Cag’s hand settles at my back as he leans over the map beside me. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying that if we can find the original deed for that mining tract, we might find that Black Aspen doesn't actually own the rights to the water they’re diverting. They’re banking on the fact that the Kramers are 'just' ranchers who won't look at the fine print."

Cag’s thumb strokes the fabric of my dress, a rhythmic, soothing motion. "The historical archive," he says, looking at Andy. "Harrison’s Hardware."

"Frank keeps everything," Andy nods. "If it happened in this valley in the last hundred years, Frank has a record of it."

"Then that’s where we’re going," Cag says, standing up. The air in the room shifts. The defensive posture they’ve been holding for months starts to transform. They’re not just waiting for the blow anymore. They’re looking for a way to hit back.

"I’m coming," I say.

Cag doesn’t argue this time. He picks his hat up off the table and holds the door.

"Arm’s reach," is all he says. "The whole time."

"I think I can manage that," I say, and something in my chest unknots, because he didn’t make me fight him for it.

We head out to the truck, the morning air crisp and tasting of pine. As we drive toward Pine Valley, I watch the landscape change. The lush green of the main ranch gives way to the brown, parched earth of the western quarter. It’s a physical wound on the land, signed with my father’s greed.

"He was going to do this whether I ran or not," I say, and hearing it out loud doesn’t make it lighter. "I just gave him something extra to bargain with."

Cag’s hand leaves the steering wheel to grip my thigh, his fingers digging in with a fierce, territorial pressure. "Then he gets neither. He’s picked a fight with the wrong family. We’ve been on this land for a hundred years, Juliette. We’re not leaving because some city prick wants to play god with a creek."

"He’s not just a city prick, Cag. He’s dangerous."

"So am I," Cag says, and for the first time, I see the full weight of the man behind the whittling. He’s not just a broken cowboy. He’s a protector. He’s a Kramer. And whatever belongs to him, he’ll defend down to the dirt.

We pull into Pine Valley, the town looking like a postcard of mountain charm. We pass the Sweet Pine Bakery, the smell of yeast and caramelized sugar wafting through the vents of the truck. I see Christie at the Cozy Cup, waving at a regular as she hands over a steaming latte. It’s so normal. So peaceful.

It’s exactly what I’m fighting for.

We pull up in front of Harrison’s Hardware. The smell of wood shavings and metal hits me as soon as we step out of the truck. Frank is behind the counter, a man who looks like he’s made of seasoned oak and permanent coffee stains.

"Cag," Frank nods, his eyes shifting to me with curiosity but no judgment. "Hear you’ve got some water trouble out on the Ridge."

"Word travels fast," Cag says, his hand firmly on the small of my back.

"Small town," Frank shrugs. "What can I do for you?"

"We need the records for the Cinder Gulch mining tract," I say, stepping forward. "The ones from the 1920s."

Frank raises an eyebrow. "That’s deep in the basement, Miss. Haven't looked at those in thirty years."

"We have time," I say, offering him a smile that I used to use on board members—sharp, professional, and utterly determined.

As we follow Frank into the cramped, dust-filled basement of the hardware store, I feel Cag’s presence behind me like a physical shield. The trauma of my past is still there, a shadow in the corner of my mind, but it’s being pushed back by the light of the future I’m building here.

I’m not a runaway anymore. I’m a woman on a mission. And with Cag Kramer at my back, I feel like I could take on the whole world. Or at least, one very arrogant oil tycoon.

The basement is a labyrinth of filing cabinets and wooden crates. It smells of damp paper and old secrets. Frank points us toward a corner filled with leather-bound ledgers.

"Knock yourselves out," he says, heading back upstairs. "Just try not to breathe in too much of the dust. It’s historical, but it’s still dirt."

Cag and I set to work. He hauls the heavy ledgers onto a dusty table, his muscles straining against his shirt. I start flipping through the pages, my eyes scanning for the familiar legal jargon of my father’s world.

Hours pass. My fingers are stained with ink and my lungs feel heavy with the scent of the past. But then, I see it.

A signature. Not my father’s. It’s his grandfather’s, and it’s on the original grant, because the Marchands bought into this gulch a hundred years ago for the ore and signed the water away to get it. My father inherited the tract. He never read what came attached to it. A land-use covenant buried in a 1924 mining lease.