I pull up beside him, cutting the engine.
“What’s got you so captivated?” I ask, jumping down from the truck.
Boone doesn’t look at me, his focus still down the path. “Heard a commotion a bit ago. Thought you were back.”
“Nah, just finished with the cattle.” I follow his gaze. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” he says, though his tone suggests otherwise. “Just about done here. Thought we could head to The Salt Lick, grab a cold beer.”
“Sounds good.” I nod toward his stallion, Midnight, who’s tied to the post, nibbling at some grass. “He’s looking good.”
Boone pushes off the railing and walks over to the horse, his hand stroking the animal’s glossy black neck. Midnight nudges him, and Boone scratches behind his ears. “He’s a good boy. We need to get the herd moved to the upper pasture next week, let the lower fields recover.”
“I’ll take the south fence line tomorrow, check for any breaks after that storm last night,” I offer, falling into step beside him as we walk toward the ranch.
We’re about fifty yards away when we see it. A red SUV, rental plates, parked haphazardly near the main house. It’s dusty and out of place.
“Well, well,” I say, a grin spreading across my face. “Looks like Knox brought company. I almost thought the guy was turning into a monk.”
Boone doesn’t laugh. His pace quickens, his body tensing.
We walk faster, the easy camaraderie from moments ago gone, replaced by a sense of unease. Boone whistles, and his dog, a border collie named Blue, comes trotting from behind the cabin. Boone gives a command, and Blue herds the last few stragglers from the cattle drive into the paddock.
We’re downwind now, the scent of pine and earth filling the air. Boone cups his hands around his mouth, his voice carrying across the distance. “Knox! Get your ass out here!”
The door to Knox’s cabin opens, and he steps out, fully dressed now, his arms folded across his chest. And behind him... her.
I’ve only seen pictures of her, tucked away in an old photo album Mr. Cruz used to keep. A little girl with pigtails and agap-toothed smile. A teenager with a rebellious glint in her eye. The woman standing there now is a stranger, yet I know her instantly.
Her hair is brown, strands escaping from what was once a neat bun. She’s wearing a gray skirt suit that’s completely wrong for this place, the fabric streaked with dirt. Her heels are sinking into the soft ground, making her look unsteady. But it’s her face that holds my attention. Her jaw is set, her green eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and defiance.
Boone stops dead, his entire body going still. “Saramaria,” he says, his voice tight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Knox gestures toward his face, which is still red and blotchy. “She pepper sprayed me.”
“I thought he was an intruder,” she says, her voice professional. She doesn’t look at Knox, her eyes fixed on Boone. “Hi, Boone.”
My gaze shifts between them, the unspoken history hanging in the air. This is personal.
“Why’d you miss the funeral?” Boone asks, and the question hangs in the air, heavy with accusation.
The woman, Saramaria, stiffens. She reaches up, smoothing down her blazer, a small, precise gesture that seems out of place in the raw emotion of the moment. “I was busy.”
Busy. The word is a shield, a wall she’s throwing up between them. I can see the hurt flash in Boone’s eyes before he masks it.
She turns to me then, as if just noticing I’m there. She walks toward me and extends her hand. Her grip is firm when I take it.
“Saramaria Cruz,” she says, her tone all business. “You must be Rhett.”
“I am,” I reply, my eyes narrowing slightly.
“Knox has told me all about you,” she continues, her gaze sweeping over me, assessing. “When you have a minute, we should talk.”
“About what?” Boone asks, his voice like gravel.
Knox sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s here to sell the property.”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Boone says, the words exploding from him. He takes a step forward, his body coiled with tension.
