“We won’t,” I promise, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “This is just until things settle down. Once the dust clears from the article dropping, we’ll reassess.”
She seems satisfied with that, or at least willing to humor me for now. We get ready together, moving around each other with the easy familiarity of a couple who’ve been together far longer than we have. It’s still new enough to make my chest tighten with something like wonder, this simple domestic routine—brushing teeth side by side at the sink, sharing the mirror, her reaching around me for her hairbrush, me stealing a kiss as we pass in the hallway.
After a quick breakfast, we head out to my truck. The morning is crisp, frost glittering on the grass and the promise of winter in the air. Atlee shivers slightly, pulling her jacket tighter around herself.
“Getting cold,” she comments as we climb into the truck. “Snow won’t be far behind.”
“Couple of weeks, probably,” I agree, starting the engine.
The drive into town is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I take the back roads, avoiding the main highway where we might run into Noah or his deputies. It’s longer this way, but safer, and the scenery is better, with dense pine forests giving way to open meadows and the mountains rising majestically in the distance.
As we near town, I can feel myself tensing, eyes constantly checking the mirrors, scanning for patrol cars. Atlee notices, her hand finding mine on the gearshift.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says softly. “Lennon seems confident the charges won’t stick.”
“Yeah,” I say, though I’m less confident than I let on. Not about the charges—those are flimsy at best—but about what Noah might do in retaliation once the article drops. Men like him, they don’t take public humiliation well.
I pull up in front of Murphy’s General Store, parking right by the entrance where the morning crowd can see us clearly. Let them look. Let them talk. I want everyone in Grizzly River to know I’m not hiding. I’m not running from the accusations against me.
“Text me when your shift is over,” I tell Atlee, leaning across the center console to kiss her goodbye. “I’ll be here to pick you up.”
“I will,” she promises, her fingers lingering on my cheek. “Be careful today. Don’t do anything reckless.”
I smile despite myself. “Me? Reckless?”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. “You know what I mean. Stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I drawl, giving her a mock salute.
She shakes her head, still smiling as she climbs out of the truck. I wait until she’s safely inside the store before pulling away, heading toward my next destination, the Grizzly River Feed & Supply.
We need to restock some items at the ranch, and, more importantly, I need to get a sense of how the town is reacting to the article. The feed store is the unofficial hub of Grizzly River’s gossip network. If people are talking about Project Watershed, this is where I’ll hear it.
I park out front, noting that the lot is unusually full for this time of morning. Interesting. Inside, the store is buzzing with activity, with ranchers and townspeople clustered in small groups, all of them talking animatedly. The conversation dies down as I walk in, and I brace myself for dirty looks and whispered accusations.
Instead, a slow clap starts from somewhere in the back of the store. It spreads, person by person, until nearly everyone is applauding. I stop in my tracks, looking around in confusion, not sure what the hell is happening.
Phillip Reeves, the store’s owner, steps forward, a copy of theGrizzly River Gazetteclutched in his weathered hand. “About damn time somebody stood up to the Morrisons,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “We all appreciate what you Nelson boys and Truett Weber have done.”
I blink, caught off guard by the unexpected support. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I say, playing dumb even as relief washes through me. The article worked. It actually worked.
Phillip gives me a knowing look, holding up the newspaper. “This exposé on Project Watershed,” he says. “How the Morrisons have been buying up water rights all across the county, planning to choke out the smaller ranches.”
I take the paper, scanning the front-page article. It’s even more damning than I expected, naming both the Morrisons and Noah. I didn’t know they’d be mentioning Noah too.
“Where’d this information come from?” I ask, handing the paper back.
“Anonymous sources,” Phillip says with a wink. “But word is, you boys had something to do with bringing it to light and then got arrested for your trouble.”
“Wouldn’t know anything about that.” I shrug.
Another rancher, Bill Thompson, joins us. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened,” he says gruffly. “They’re in with the most crooked deputy we’ve ever had.”
Part of me is slightly ashamed since we didn’t start out doing this out of the goodness of our hearts, but if it’s going to keep us out of hot water, then it is what it is. Hopefully, by the time we’re done, we’ll be able to pay back anyone we harmed.
“Noah Sanchez is a disgrace to the badge,” someone else chimes in. “Always has been. Even back in high school, he was dangerous.”
The conversation flows around me, everyone eager to share their opinions of Noah, the Morrisons, and the cattle rustling charges against us. It’s clear which side they’re on.
