just breathe, okay?
I had looked away. He had sent the texts. There was no question now.
I inhaled, slow, deep. The air tasted like clover and sweat and leather.
I held it in as long as I could and waited for the world to come crashing down.
Chapter 4
Gunner
By the time the first streak of sun lit up the salt flats, my shirt was plastered to my back, and I’d run out of fucks to give about the smell. Branding day always drew the worst out of everyone, myself included—temper went quick as water in a cattle trough, patience burned up in the first hour. I pressed the last iron in, the sizzle and calf’s scream loud enough to make my wolf flinch, and held it there ‘til the hide hissed and lifted, black and raised. Then I let the calf go, and it shot through the chute with more dignity than I’d have if someone’d just melted my ass.
Four hours in, and already my arms ached to the bone. We’d started at five because that’s the hour when only idiots and cattlemen are awake, and I’d wanted it done “before the real heat.” It was already close to eighty and not even 9:30 yet, but I was the boss, and the boss man got what he wanted. Always.
I dropped the iron into the sand bucket, let my breath out slow, and rolled my head to work out the kink at the base of my neck. The air in the yard was thick with scorched hair, manure, and sweet alfalfa dust; the kind of Texas perfume that stuck to your skin for days. I wiped my face with my sleeve and turned to check the next calf in line.
But there was no next calf. Just a cloud of dust at the far end of the lane, the big black dually with IRON VALOR plates crawled through it like abattleship coming to port. Bronc liked to make an entrance, even when no one was watching.
The truck fishtailed, then straightened, rolling up to the corral where I stood like a schoolboy waiting for the principal. It was a new one—a 3500 with brush guard and enough engine to tow a house. You could smell the money on it, but Bronc drove like he was still back in Afghanistan, swerving every pothole like it hid a landmine.
He climbed out of the cab slow, assured that every man would wait. No cut today—just a faded tee, jeans, and aviators that turned his eyes into blue chips of ice. He was forty-three but built like a linebacker, his wolf just under the surface, always coiled.
“Mornin’, Gunner,” he called, like I hadn’t just spent four hours doing the job of five men.
I spat into the dirt, watched it dry out in the space of a breath. “Alpha.”
He walked up, boots silent on the packed clay, and leaned against the gate. His gaze flicked over the empty chute, the scorched brand, the way my hands shook just a little from the effort. He didn’t miss much.
“Good work,” he said, voice even. “Heard you did two pens yourself.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t want the pups slowing me down.”
He nodded once, approving, then jerked his chin at the bottle of water sitting on the fence post. “Hydrate. We’ve got something else needs fixin’.”
I drank mostly because it meant I didn’t have to answer right away. Bronc had the patience of a saint with the stuff that mattered. For everything else, he moved at the speed of a cattle prod.
When I finished, he let the silence stretch out. Then, “Parker’s old family place has another issue.”
That house—faded blue, two stories, a porch that slouched like a drunk—had been empty for years until Nanette and her daughter moved in over a month ago. That house was filled with sad memories of what used to be a happy family. Parker’s parents were killed when the bike they were on was sideswiped by an 18-wheeler some eight years ago. Parker and herpiece of shit, traitor twin brother Axel lived there until after they graduated high school. Parker was sweet enough to offer it to Nanette and Brie.
“What is it this time?” I asked, cautious. “Seems like it’s always something.”
Bronc’s mouth twitched, in a slight smile. “Everything needs work, Gunner. This is just a door, though. Nanette says it sticks. Can’t get it to latch.” He squinted at me over the aviators. “Thought you could take a look.”
Of course he fucking did. And this was not a request. I waited for the punchline—the reason he needed me and not one of the other twenty hands on the ranch—but he just stood there, unreadable.
“Copy that,” I said, hiding my annoyance. “When?”
He glanced at his watch. “She’s home now. Brie, too. Finish your water and go.”
That was Bronc: efficient, impossible, always two moves ahead. The heat rose up in me, not the kind from the sun, but the kind that made you want to hit something. I capped the bottle and set it on the rail.
“You want me to shower off first?” I said. “Or is the door gonna mind?”
He let out a dry laugh, just once. “Might as well go as you are. Don’t need to impress anybody.”
Except that’s exactly what he wanted. He was hoping I’d run into Brie. He wanted me to, because he was an asshole and a matchmaker and believed in wolf-fated mates above all.
