Page 15 of Indigo Ridge (The Edens 1)

“Hey. How’s it coming?”

“Oh, I’ll get it fixed.”

“Good news.” I’d already bought two new tractors this spring. I’d prefer to bump another major equipment expense to the winter.

I kept walking as he went back to work on the machine. There was a mountain of office work for me to do today, either here or at home. We were short a man for the summer season and I was a week late on getting an ad into the classifieds with the paper. Avoiding Emily was the reason, but I couldn’t keep putting it off. Except one glance at my darkened office and I turned around for the door.

In total, the ranch consisted of ninety thousand acres. Most days, I was more of a business manager than an actual rancher. I still wore my boots and the belt buckle I’d won from a bareback ride at a high school rodeo. But the business degree I’d earned was put to use more often than my fencing pliers.

Not today.

June was a beautiful month in Montana and the blue sky beckoned. There was a cool breeze coming off the mountains, carrying the scent of pine trees and melting snow into the valley.

Sunshine and sweat would do my head a lot of good. I needed a day of hard, manual labor. Maybe if I exhausted myself, I’d sleep without dreaming of Winn.

I’d just reached the tool bench, ready to load up on a fresh roll of barbed wire and galvanized post clips, when my phone rang in my jeans pocket.

“Hey, Conor,” I answered.

“Griffin.”

My heart stopped at the panic in his voice, but my feet were already moving, jogging toward the shop door. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“It’s . . .”

“It’s what? Talk to me.”

“I started at Indigo Ridge. That corner post.”

“Yeah.” When I hit the gravel past the door, I was running. He might be young, but Conor didn’t get spooked. “Conor, tell me what happened?”

A sob escaped his mouth.

“I’m on my way,” I said but didn’t end the call. Instead, I got into my truck, let my phone connect to the Bluetooth and kept Conor on the line with me as I drove.

“Breathe, Conor.”

A whooshed breath escaped his lungs. My foot dug into the gas pedal as I raced to the turnoff.

“I’m just pulling off the gravel road,” I told him, taking the two-track path that ran along the fence line.

He didn’t respond other than to continue those heartbreaking, muffled sobs.

The truck rattled so hard my bones felt like they were shaking loose. These roads weren’t paved or smooth, just worn from the times we drove through the fields. The tracks were spotted with holes and rocks and dips. They weren’t meant for anything more than five miles per hour. I was going twenty.

My stomach twisted with every passing minute. God, don’t let him be hurt. If he’d cut his hand or arm or leg and was bleeding, it would take us time to get to the hospital. Too much time. And I’d sent Conor to one of the farthest ends of the ranch.

Finally, twenty minutes later, I spotted the fencing truck in the distance. The mountains loomed on the horizon.

“I’m here,” I said, then ended the call. My tires skidded to a stop. A cloud of dust billowed from the road as I shot out of the truck and jogged toward Conor.

He was seated against a tire, his knees pulled up and his head hanging between them. One arm hung loose beside him. The other had the phone pressed to his ear.

“Conor.” I put my hand on his shoulder, doing a quick scan. No blood. No apparent broken bones. All ten fingers. Two ears and two booted feet.

He looked up, his phone dropping to the grass. Tear tracks stained his tanned face. “It’s Lily.”

“Lily . . .”