Wyatt curses. “A burn that close means fences gone, feed ruined, cattle scattered. And if it jumps the line, the Forest Service won’t pay the price—we will.”
My professional training kicks in. I came here to solve a problem, I can’t forget that, won’t forget that—and Wyatt wouldn’t want me to. That much I know.
"I'll get you into a federal court. Sarah, call your lawyer."
Fifteen
THIS IS ABOUT TO GET REAL UGLY, REAL FAST.
WYATT
You'd think having Kinsley on the ranch would make taking her on rides through the mountains and watching the sunset on her porch swing easy, but that woman's got more energy than a bronc fresh out of the chute.
Either she's holed up with Mom, making battle plans to save our hides, or she's running that mare around barrels until they're both lathered up, or she's working the phones to keep our world from falling apart.
Yesterday, when she waded through government red tape like it was nothing, all I could think about was pinning her against that kitchen counter and showing her exactly what her beautiful brain does to a man.
I'm going soft for her, and that's a problem I can't ride my way out of.
Not that I'm sitting around waiting for her to notice me.
I rode out with Dad to the eastern fence line on Ace, same as I have every fall since I was big enough to handle the job. The sun's climbing toward noon, and everything about this feels like I never left—which makes the need to get gone itch worse than wool against bare skin. When I’m with Dad, I’m nothing more than a ranch hand—one who works for free.
My shoulder's nearly right again, just a catch now and then when I move wrong. I’ve taken off all the tape and done the exercises Doc texted me as if they’re my religion. This weekend's sponsor event is still on, and after that I'll be back to what I do best.
Just got to keep my head down and my hands busy until then.
"Post's loose here," Dad calls out, dismounting to test a cedar that's been fighting the wind for three winters straight. His gelding, Tucker, stands without moving—ten years old and so devoted to Dad, he'd follow him across three states without so much as a lead rope.
I swing down from Ace and walk the wire, testing tension with my gloved hands.
"Been meaning to get out here and reset this whole section," Dad mutters, pulling tools from his saddlebag. "Winter was hard on the east slope."
We work in silence. Dad's always been better with his hands than his words. Out here, we speak the same language—the language of wire and wood, of land that needs tending whether you're in the mood for it or not.
We mount back up and ride over the small rise that leadsdown toward Willow Creek. Something bright catches my eye and I ride over for a closer look.
Survey flags.
Stabbed into our pasture and marking territory that ain't theirs to mark.
I curse.
The flags run in a neat line from the creek bottom up toward the road—exactly through the section Maxwell Whitmore so generously offered to buy from us.
"Those dirty snakes," I breathe, and the rage that builds in my chest is white-hot and immediate. "Who do they think they are?"
Dad's already dismounting, his boots hitting the ground with the kind of force that means someone's about to get hurt. He strides toward the nearest flag like it personally offended his mother and yanks it from the earth.
I dismount and follow him as he works his way down the line, ripping flags from the ground using the language of a man who's reached his limit. Each flag he pulls makes the knot in my stomach tighten another notch. This isn't just trespassing—this is a declaration of war.
"Gritstone Ranch," Dad spits, reading the marking on one of the stakes.
The sight of those flags on our land hits me harder than I expected. This pasture, this creek bottom—I learned to ride here. Spent summers moving cattle through this grass, winters checking on pregnant heifers when the snow got deep. Kit caught her first fish in Willow Creek right over there by that bend where the cottonwoods grow thick.
This isn’t, nor will it ever be, Whitmore land.
"Thirty-six flags," Dad says, his voice deadly quietas he finishes his count. He looks at me, and I haven’t seen that expression on his face since the haystack burned ten years ago—arson, though we never did find out who struck the match. Pure, righteous fury.