“Between the snowstorms this winter and my cattle-rustling neighbor…”
I shift in the saddle. Grimace. “Cattle rustling’s a big claim.”
“Well, he’s a thief. What do you expect me to say?”
I shrug.
Her eyes narrow. “Look, if you don’t have the stomach for this kind of thing, maybe you need to find a different ranch.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Land wars aren’t for everyone,” she says.
“Are they for you?” I ask, careful not to let my eyes linger on her face.
“I need a ranch hand who’s steady under fire. That you?”
Good question. My stomach knots. The taste of grit fills my mouth. Distant pops echo where they shouldn’t.
“You okay?”
“Sign said you needed a ranch hand. Simple.”
“You’re right,” she says, unconvinced. Her eyes scan the distant treeline where pasture gives way to pines. “Just look at that,” she hisses nudging her horse to the left.
I follow, less smooth than she and her Palomino, Buttercup. But my stilted training gets the job done.
Leonora dismounts, grabbing a section of sagging barbed wire. “For heaven’s sake, you could drive a semi through this hole. Don’t think it’s accidental.”
She’s not careless. And she knows her land. No hesitation near fence lines. Eyes that register every dip and draw of the changing terrain.
And more than that, she’s not someone trying to sneak graze a herd across a broken fence.
Sheriff McLeod’s words wash back over me.Don’t assume the loudest complainant is the cleanest one.
“Can you grab the stretcher?” she asks, drawing me back from my thoughts.
I freeze, hesitating for one moment. Her eyes catch it, darkening even more than their normal ebony. I see doubt growing there.
Not a good start.
Instead, I head to the horses, unpacking what we need for fence mending. Then, we work together in silence—me stretching and holding, her hammering and cutting until we fall into an easy rhythm.
“Tighter,” she scolds more than once, working with grim determination. “Been a while since you mended fences?”
I grunt, pulling tighter, putting more force into the stretcher. Cow manure and dried grass thread the air, dark and earthy. In the distance, I hear soft lowing.
“Wait, I get it,” she suddenly teases, a soft giggle catching me off guard. “You’re one of those urban cowboys who works dude ranches or something.”
I glare. Clearly not a compliment.
“Or maybe you’re one of those rodeo boys who always hung out with the buckle bunnies instead of mucking stalls, stretching barbed wire, doing the things that…”
“The things that matter?” I finish bitterly.
She shrugs. “Not sure they do anymore. Not when neighbors lie and steal. Not when fences fall not because of weather or time but brute force and maliciousness.”
She leans into the wind as she works, steady as granite. And I notice her braid coming loose, the way the three strands unravel, and my fingers ache to dip into the chaos.
