I’m coming back out when I see his truck at the opposite pump.
The awareness hits me before the visual registers: the warmth along my spine, the wolf lifting in my chest. Then I see him. Leaning against the side of his truck, arms folded. He’s not pumping gas. He’s waiting.
For me.
My wolf practically pants. I hold her down.
“Card reader’s busted,” he says. Easy. Conversational. “Has been for months. Jake keeps saying he’ll fix it.”
“I figured it out.” I hold up the change from the counter. “The old-fashioned way.”
“Works every time.”
We stand there. Five feet apart, separated by the width of a pump island and the memory of a bar restroom that neither of us is going to mention. His eyes are on mine. Steady, direct, not pushing. Waiting to see which way I’ll go.
I should leave. Get in the truck. Drive away. This is the man whose pack runs the territory where my people disappeared. Every minute I spend with him is a minute I’m not looking for them.
But Briar said:Let him come to you. You’ll learn more from one conversation where he’s not on guard.
He came to me. He’s standing in a gas station lot because he saw my truck and didn’t drive past. I’m sure of it.
“Found any work yet?” he asks. Not aggressive. Genuinely curious.
“Made some calls this morning. Tried the Caldwell place and a ranch out west. Nobody’s hiring outsiders.” I shrug. “Got told to try the Forresters.”
Something shifts in his expression; not surprise, just a wry acknowledgment. “Everybody gets told to try the Forresters.”
“Popular operation.”
“Big operation. Take on seasonal hands sometimes, depending on what needs doing.” He pushes off the truck. “You know cattle?”
“Herefords. Grew up with them.”
“Herefords are stubborn.”
“So am I.”
He smiles, and it does something warm in my chest that has no business being there.
“I know who you are,” I say. And immediately wish I hadn’t, because the words came out before the operative in me could catch them. I sound too eager.
He goes still. “That right?”
“Conner Forrester. Your family runs the ranch. The one everyone keeps telling me about.” I try to make it sound casual, information anyone could pick up.
“You’ve been asking about me.” Not a question. Not hostile either. Just the observation of a man who’s used to being the one asking.
“I asked who runs the area. Your name came up.” I hold his eyes. “Not a lot of Conners in a town this size.”
He watches me for a beat. Reading. The enforcer is in there somewhere—I can feel the assessment behind the attraction. But whatever he sees doesn’t trip the wire. Maybe because I’m telling the truth. I did ask around. His name did come up.
“So, Willow.” He lets my name sit in the air. “You going to tell me your last name, or do I have to ask around too?”
“Ask around.” I turn toward my truck, passing him as I do so. His fuel gauge is visible through the open driver’s window, the needle sitting just below full. He didn’t need gas.
“Dedicated customer,” I say, nodding toward the gauge.
“I like to keep it topped off.”