“Something,” I say, because the truth is stranger than anything she’s ready for.
The western border touches Max Leeds’s dairy and produce farm.
Nice guy.Hard worker.
But his land’s got a weird energy about it—strange noises at night, shadows where there shouldn’t be any.
Diego swears there’s a family of grizzlies over there.Alex claims they’ve trained one of their bulls to break dance.I chalk it up to too much whiskey and not enough sense.
Still, I don’t want her wandering off.
Not while she needs protecting.
Not while she’s staying under my roof.
And not when I can’t stop tracking her with my eyes like she’s the only moving target in sight.
I head for the garage, trying to shake it off.
There’s too much to do to be mooning over some woman who showed up with chaos in her wake.
The truck needs tuning, the trailer needs a systems check, and I’ve got another shipment to prep.
Nine months I’ve been on this land.
Built it back from ashes—literally.
Got my security system online, cameras covering every inch, and alarms tied into my phone.
Doesn’t matter.Someone keeps sabotaging my deliveries.
Rival breeders, maybe.Jealous bastards who can’t stand the idea of a Jersey boy running a seed bull ranch.
Semen straws—frozen tubes of bull jizz for cattle ranches—are big money.
Not exactly glamorous, but steady, reliable, and enough to keep Jersey Iron Ranch more than afloat.
This next haul to Brentwood Cattle in Indiana could put me on the map.
If it goes well, I’ll have the kind of client that keeps the lights on for a long damn time.
Benji and Micah will be here soon, and between the three of us we’ll finally have the muscle to handle things ourselves.
But until then, I’ve got to lean on this MC to watch my back.
I hate it—hate relying on others—but I have little choice.
I tighten a bolt on the truck’s hitch, the wrench biting into my palm, and my mind drifts—uninvited—back toher.
Rooster said some rival biker prick tried to claim her.Put his hands where they didn’t belong.
That she fought back, said no.That the guy didn’t take it well.
The thought makes something ugly and old twist in my gut.
I’ve seen men like that before—bullies who’ve got no respect for women.
I’ve buried enough of them to know the type.
