The older woman—Angie—sucks in a breath through her nose like she just smelled trouble coming from a mile away.
And somewhere deep in my gut, I know.
This is about to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.
Chapter 3-Benji
I know something’s off the second I see Sawyer’s pickup coming down the lane toward the fence I’m still working on, even though the light’s nearly gone from the sky.
Summer nights stretch long out here, the heat still clinging to the ground after sunset, thick and sticky against my skin.
The air smells like cut grass, warm dirt, and cattle, and the cicadas are loud enough to make the whole damn ranch feel like it’s humming.
Sawyer pulls up hard in front of the porch and kills the engine.
Then he calls my name.
It’s not loud.
Not urgent.
Hell, he doesn’t even say it twice.
But there’s weight in it.
A drag in his voice that settles low in my gut and tells me, plain as a bullet wound, to brace for impact.
My place is down by the lower pasture, which suits me just fine.
There’s enough room between my house and Sawyer’s that we’re not on top of each other anymore.
After months of bunking together while we got Jersey Iron off the ground, a little distance is a blessing.
Lord knows, I was about one week away from strangling Micah in that bunkhouse.
Him, and that all night fucking gaming shit.
I set down the nail gun and straighten, rolling the ache out of my shoulders.
I’ve been splitting my time between the paddocks, the fencing, and this house for weeks now, trying to get the last of it done before the real push starts.
The younger bulls have been testing the lines like they’ve got something to prove, and one in particular has been riding a section of fence so hard I had to redo half the damn thing before I could call it a night.
The post driver’s still ringing in my ears.
My shirt’s plastered to my back with sweat, and I’ve got dirt under my nails, sawdust in my hair, and enough grime on me to plant crops.
A man can stay busy on a ranch like this.
That’s half the point.
Work keeps your hands occupied.
Occupied hands keep a man from thinking too much.
And too much thinking? That’s where trouble starts.
Work keeps your hands occupied.
