After everything that’s happened the last couple of days, today should’ve been simple — because Sammy is officially a part of Hollis Ranch. He’s getting his brand, a mark of belonging and responsibility, and it’s an important occasion since he’s named after Uncle Sam.
As I walk over to the ring, I hear footsteps running up beside me, too fast, too close, and a streak of brown hair flashes past my shoulder. What the hell? I didn’t wake her up purposefully because I didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere near this.
I reach out and catch her wrist, stopping her short and pulling her back, reacting on instinct before I’ve even decided to.
“Where are you going?” I ask, already shaking my head. “You can’t come into the ring. Stay back behind the rail — it’s dangerous.”
“To observe.” She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she gestures past me toward the ring, easy and unbothered, and lifts her free hand in a small wave.
Hank waves back immediately, Mason waves excitedly like a weird teenager, and Jesse nods toward us, like her presence here is already settled business.
They’re already acting like she belongs, and it sets my teeth on edge.
“Hank invited me during dinner last night,” she adds, breathless now that she’s stopped moving, “but I’m also here to talk you out of it.”
“You had dinner with Hank?” The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with something that has nothing to do with food.
“And talk me out of what?”
“I intended to have dinner with someone else, but he decided to blow me off. Can you believe the nerve?” she says, narrowing her eyes—not directly naming me, but we were both there, we know what happened.
“But should you really be branding a horse?” she continues, shifting her weight and angling her body toward the ring. “Studies show that it is psychologically damaging.”
I roll my eyes. “Ah, here we go,” already bracing for the lecture I know is coming.
“What? It’s true! Imagine if you had a hot iron placed on your skin. How’d you feel?” she asks, finally tugging her wrist free and planting her hands on her hips, squaring up to me like she’s ready for the fight.
“Listen, Hollis Ranch has been doing this for the last four generations. The animals don’t bat an eye at us afterward,” I reply, leaning into the words like repetition aloneshould end the argument, walking around her to put space back between us and reclaim my footing.
“This is also part my ranch, Gage,” she says evenly, loud enough that the hands don’t have to strain to hear it.
I stop short and flip around. “No one is forcing you to stay, Miss Carter,” I reply, my words and voice low, measured in a way that’s meant to end things, not invite debate, showing how little patience I have left.
She walks up to meet me and levels her stare at mine, challenging, and then she smirks. “I think I’ll stay,” she says, the softness of her voice a deliberate contrast to the line she’s just drawn, doing nothing to disguise her stubbornness.
She walks away to meet the rest of the ranch hands, like the argument never happened and her place here is already settled. It isn’t just Sammy that we’re branding.
We got another horse recently—a stallion. And if I’ve learned anything about stallions, it’s that they can be temperamental, unpredictable when they’re pushed too hard. The breeder named him Capone and swore he throws strong stock, but we haven’t done much with him yet beyond securing him.
It makes me a bit nervous, more than I care to admit, but it was the last deal Uncle Sam secured before his death, so naturally, I wanted to honor him.
I step inside the ring and place my cup down, heading over to the hot iron, the weight of the moment settling heavier than it should. I look over at Sloane, who keeps her distance by the rail, watchful but silent, which makes me thankful. Hank stands beside her as Mason and Jesse work on securing Sammy.
They walk him over to me, and I hold the iron out, feeling every set of eyes on the ring, saying a few words. “All right, Sammy, with this brand, you will officially be a part of Hollis Ranch.
Like the person who had your name before, may you be strong and hardworking.” The words are familiar, practiced. “I apologize in advance for this, little fella,” I add, under my breath.
The heat rolls off the iron in slow waves, metallic and sharp, mixing with the familiar smells of leather, dust, and horse sweat. It’s a scent I’ve known my entire life. One that usually grounds me. Usually steadies my hand.
I’ve done this more times than I can count. Watched Uncle Sam do it. Watched my granddad before him. Clean, quick, efficient. No hesitation. Hesitation was always worse than pain.
That’s what I was taught. That’s what I believed.
Sammy shifts again, a soft snort leaving his nostrils as Mason tightens his hold. He’s young, still learning thelimits of pressure, still trusting us to know better than he does. My grip tightens around the handle, muscle memory lining everything up automatically.
Angle. Placement. Time.
This is routine.
