Work trucks. The barn. The paddock. The repaired fence line that is now a bruise we’re pretending is healed. I want whoever is doing this to understand that a threat against this ranch is a threat against her—and that will never end well for them.
Behind me, boots tap the wooden floorboards.
Delaney appears in the doorway wearing a fitted tank under a flannel she’s tied at the waist, jeans that look like they were made for her, and that stubborn early-morning look that says sleep did not win.
She’s also carrying a toolbox.
I take a slow, careful sip of coffee, because my mouth has gone dry for reasons that are not caffeine-related.
“You gonna stare or you gonna help?” she asks.
“I’m evaluating the threat landscape.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying you’re stalling.”
“Maybe I am.”
She steps closer, and I catch the faint scent of her shampoo—clean and citrusy, like sunshine that learned to punch.
I shouldn’t notice.
I do.
“Fence first,” she says briskly. “Before the crew gets here and throws us into the town engagement photo session.”
I follow her across the yard, the early light turning the ranch gold. Birds cut arcs over the pasture. A horse tosses its head like it disapproves of our modern relationship status.
We reach the south line where the cut happened.
The wire has been temporarily secured overnight. It’s ugly but functional.
Delaney squats, runs her fingers along the post, checks the tension with practiced hands.
“There’s intention here,” she says quietly. “This isn’t a kid with bolt cutters trying to scare us for fun.”
“No.”
She doesn’t look up. “You think someone wants the north pasture.”
“I think someone wants leverage.”
She sits back on her heels. “We’ve said no to developers every year. Even when the numbers made Daddy swallow hard. Even when the roof needed replacing. Even when the co-op offered us a loan that felt like a trap.”
“That’s motive.”
She nods slowly. “And we had that water rights dispute with the Keenes three years back.”
“Keenes have tools and ego.”
“And the Stroud group sent a rep last spring.”
“Strouds have cash and patience.”
She blows out a breath. “This list is not comforting.”
“No one said it would be.”
We work in parallel for a few minutes—me bracing the new post, her stretching the wire. The physical rhythm helps. It’s harder for your emotions to drag you under when your hands are busy keeping something upright.
