The wind picks up harder now, rattling metal somewhere near the barn. Dust swirls across the yard. The storm sits heavy on the horizon, waiting.
Neither of us moves.
"I know this land," she continues. Voice steady. Certain. "I know where they'll head. I'm not sitting on the porch while you go chasing my family's livelihood."
I scrub a hand over my face, frustration flaring hot.
I want to tell her she gave up the right to call it "her ranch" when she left five years ago. Want to throw yesterday back in her face—all her careful talk about training programs she might not stick around to see through.
But standing here now, watching the set of her jaw, the way she's already dressed for work, boots laced, jacket ready, I see something else.
She's not asking permission.
She's telling me.
I remember the cattle move last week. The way she handled the left flank without question, read the herd, didn't hesitate. She knows what she's doing out there. Has always known.
That doesn't make this easier.
And part of me—the part that's too tired to keep fighting her—respects the hell out of that.
"Damn it," I mutter.
I look at her again and see it—the resolve. The refusal to be sidelined. The same stubborn streak that's always made me respect her and curse her in equal measure.
The same stubborn streak that made me fall for her in the first place.
"Fine," I say finally.
Her shoulders ease just a fraction.
"But you hurry the hell up," I add immediately. "Pack like you might be gone overnight. Warm clothes. Water. Whatever you think you need." My eyes harden. "We don't turn back just because it gets uncomfortable."
She meets my stare without blinking. "Wouldn't dream of it."
I nod once, sharp. That's all I've got time for.
Then I turn and march back toward the barn, jaw set, stride hard.
Maybe she'll leave after this. Maybe she won't.
But right now, we've got cattle to find.
And for once, she's not running.
Chapter seventeen
Hazel
The sun hangs low but stubborn, all gold and fire along the ridge as I snug Blaze's saddle into place. The leather creaks under my hands, warm and familiar.
Eli stands a few yards off, checking his cinch.
We haven't spoken since the fight.
Not about yesterday. Not about the cattle. Not about anything.
The silence sits between us like something solid, heavy with everything we're not saying.
