I snort at that, pushing myself up to stand. My muscles protest, tight and sore from the work, but it’s a good kind of pain. Honest.
Unlike everything else.
I climb down from the ladder, boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. The ranch stretches out around us—fences running straight and true, barns standing tall, a couple head of cattle grazing in the distance like we actually know what the hell we’re doing.
Which we do.
Or at least, I do.
“I got the north pasture checked,” Sawyer says as I grab a water bottle from the cooler. “Fence line’s holding. No breaks.”
“Good,” I reply, taking a long pull.
The water’s warm now, but it does the job.
“Last thing we need is one of those bulls wandering off before we even get a chance to make money off ‘em.”
Sawyer nods.
“Micah’s running numbers. Says we’re in a good place if we land that next contract.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, capping the bottle. “Contracts don’t mean shit if we can’t protect the goods.”
His gaze sharpens at that. He knows what I’m not saying.
We’ve got enemies. Comes with the territory.
Especially when your last name is Gunner.
I roll my shoulders, working out the tension that never really leaves.
It’s always there, coiled tight under my skin.
Part of me now. Part of him.
And I fucking hate that.
“I’ll finish the trim tomorrow,” I say, jerking my chin toward the house. “Then I’ll move on to the next build.”
Sawyer nods. “Well, it looks fucking great. Take the night. You’ve earned it.”
I almost laugh.
Take the night.
Like that’s a thing I know how to do.
Still, I grunt in acknowledgment and head toward the porch, my boots heavy against the wood.
The place smells new—fresh lumber, paint, a hint of sawdust still clinging to the air.
It should feel like a clean start.
Instead, it feels like something’s missing.
I step inside, the quiet hitting me like a wall. No furniture yet. Just open space and echoing footsteps.
Empty.
