The turnback men are moving the cows back outside to their pen and the barn clears out. A ranch hand appears and takes Hank’s horse to cool him down. We spend a few minutes talking horses and cattle—but Hank is reading between the lines, waiting for the real reason we rode over here.
"Those cows work well?" Kit chimes in as she climbs back up on the fence rail.
"Fresh but not green," Hank says. "I have a stock provider coming next week to pick 'em up."
I take a breath and dive in. "Speaking of cattle, we've got a problem. Forest Service hit us with a fire hazard zone designation. Ninety days to remove all stock and fencing from our land that butts up against theirs." I don’t mention that the ninety days started over two weeks ago.
Hank's expression doesn't change, but something cold flickers behind those blue eyes. "All of it?"
"Every head. Every fence post." I lean against the pen, feeling the weight of what I'm saying. "We're going to fight it."
"Course you are." Hank crosses his arms. "Any idea who's behind it?"
"The Whitmores are mixed up in it somehow,” I admit. Their visit to the ranch made that abundantly clear.
"Aren't they usually?" Hank's voice carries bitter experience.The McCreary and Whitmore families have their own issues.
"Here's the thing," I continue, studying his face. "Both our families have fought against them for generations; but this time, we might need to join forces."
Kit shifts on the fence, eating all this up.
Hank considers what I've said, his gaze moving from me to the mountains visible through the arena's open doors.
He gives a visible sigh. "Our land shares a fence line with yours," he says. "I reckon they'll come for me next, so we'd better nip this in the bud before it spreads.”
We shake on it, and out here that means something. His grip's solid, mine matching, and for the first time in years I feel something that runs in Halloway blood, the land and the pride that was the same as when my great-great-grandfather helped carve Stonegate out of nothing but wilderness and grit.
"What do you need from me?" Hank asks.
"Right now, just your word that you'll stand with us when the time comes. Mom's hired a consultant to help navigate the political side, but if this goes public, we'll need every voice we can get."
"You've got it." Hank glances at Kit, still listening from her perch. "You should come ride sometime. I have a couple of two-year-olds who seem to like the ladies better than my ranch hands. I'll pay the going wage for a loper. What do you think?"
Kit's face lights up. The offer represents exactly what she's been craving—recognition that shehas something to offer.
"I'd like that," she says, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice and failing completely.
As we mount up to head home, I watch my sister settle into her saddle with that same stubborn set to her jaw that got us both in trouble on the ride over. Now she's got Hank Ouray believing in her abilities, a paying job offer burning bright in her eyes, and enough fire in her belly to take on the world. Hopefully this new job will be enough to keep her out of trouble.
But as we ride out, the afternoon light turning the grassland to gold, something tightens in my chest. This place is already working its way under my skin—the rhythm of it, the weight of it.
Good thing I've got that sponsorship event this weekend with Kinsley. I need to remember that I’m more than a last name.
Fourteen
GOOD GUYS BREAK HEARTS ALL OF THE TIME.
KINSLEY
The cottage kitchen glows amber in the pre-dawn light Monday morning, and I'm already three cups of coffee deep when my phone buzzes. My heart does this stupid little flutter, and I hate myself for hoping it's him.
After our conversation the other night it’s been one flirtatious text after another. I know I shouldn’t, I can’t trust the guy, but I can’t help myself.
Turns out, he does kiss better than he rides.
Wyatt: Morning Gorgeous.
My heart purrs and I groan. What am I doing? I need to focus on the legal pads spread across the pine table, every page is covered in my tight handwriting—names, connections, pressure points. My laptop screen glows with congressional notes and environmental regulation websites. Yet I’mtorn between the memory of a kiss and the image burned on the backs of my eyelids of another woman lying on Wyatt’s chest.