He closed the tailgate with a bang, then leaned on the bed, pinning me with a look. “You did good in there. Better than most men would have.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I just shrugged and stared at the boots of my jeans.
He stepped close, crowding me against the side of the truck. “Hey,” he said, voice pitched just for me. “You’re mine. Doesn’t matter what they think.”
I felt my throat close, not with fear, but with something hotter and sweeter. I let him hold me for a second, let the world shrink down to just the warmth of his hands.
We finished loading up, then slid into the cab. The engine rattled to life, and we sat for a moment in the cocoon of heat.
I ran a finger over my neck, feeling the claim mark pulsing. “You really don’t care what they say, do you?”
He snorted. “Not unless it matters to you.”
I shook my head. “Not if you don’t.”
He grinned, then shifted into gear. “Next stop, feed store. You ready?”
“Yeah,” I said, and this time, I almost believed it.
We pulled out of the parking lot, the weight of the world a little lighter on my shoulders.
As we drove, I caught Rawley sneaking glances at me, like he was memorizing every part of the new world we were making. Every time, I felt a little less invisible.
For the first time, I wanted the whole town to see.
Chapter Eleven
~ Jojo ~
The feed store was a low-slung brick building set back from the main road, surrounded by a muddy patchwork of pickup trucks and battered SUVs. The sign above the door said “Miller’s Feed & Supply,” but everyone in Black Butte just called it Miller’s.
Rawley parked at the edge of the lot, making sure the truck faced the street. Habit, he’d said—always make sure you can leave in a hurry. It made me laugh at first, but I found myself checking the rearview mirror, too, counting the unfamiliar vehicles.
Inside, the air smelled like a punch of grain dust, sweet hay, and something animal and wild underneath. The place was crowded, Saturday busy—ranchers in their best boots, old-timers trading stories by the seed sacks, a couple of teenage boys loading up salt licks near the loading bay.
Rawley led the way, pushing the battered cart down the narrow aisles. I trailed close, notebook in hand, trying to keep track of everything we needed—layer pellets for the chicks, cracked corn, scratch grains, mineral supplements, and the big stuff: fencing boards, T-posts, bags of lime for the barn floor.
I’d written it all out the night before, but my handwriting had gone to hell after the third cup of coffee. Rawley made fun of me for it, calling it “chicken scratch,” which I thought was hilarious, and he pretended not to.
Still, he liked it when I checked the list off out loud.
I was halfway through reading the next line—“Needle syringes, three dozen, for the vaccination day”—when a shadow fell across the aisle.
Victor Hargrove was bigger than I expected. Not taller, but broader, a barrel-chested Beta with the kind of build that spoketo expensive lunches and an aversion to manual labor. His hair was salt-and-pepper, slicked back to emphasize the widow’s peak, and his boots shone like they’d never seen mud.
His wife, Melissa, trailed two steps behind, her platinum hair falling in perfect waves. She wore designer jeans tucked into spotless riding boots and a jacket that probably cost more than a car. Her eyes, pale and glinting, latched onto Rawley and never let go.
I felt the air change, heavy and thick. Rawley must have, too, because he squared up instantly, taking a half-step in front of me.
“Steele,” Victor said, drawing out the name like he was tasting it. “Heard you were in town.”
“Shopping for my own ranch, Hargrove. You lose the address to yours?”
Victor smiled, all teeth. “Can’t blame a man for being curious. Word gets around quick out here. Especially when the new owner’s a little… unconventional.” His eyes drifted to me, and the way he said it made my skin crawl.
Melissa stepped forward, eyes tracking Rawley up and down. “We heard you did two tours, Commander,” she purred, the title rolling off her tongue like something practiced. “You must be handy with more than just a hammer.”
Rawley didn’t react. “I do what needs doing.”
