Early in the afternoon, alone in the office, I find myself staring at the screen longer than I mean to. She wasn’t wrong. Not about everything, but enough.
I think about the horses I’ve branded over the years, the ones I watched my uncle and granddad brand before me, and the thought settles heavy: maybe we weren’t villains—but maybe we weren’t as careful as we could’ve been either.
When I walk out of the barn where the office is, I stop short when I see her with Bullet, our Miniature AustralianShepherd. He’s still young and green, but he’s an amazing pup—smart, steady, already figuring out his job. He’s a hard worker and good with the cattle when we need to move them.
She reaches down and pets him behind the ears, and he rolls over, offering his belly like he’s known her longer than a few hours—like she belongs here. I roll my eyes at the way she rubs his stomach, calling it coddling even though I know better.
Women don’t typically show up here, and Bullet’s usually more guarded with strangers, but with her he warmed up fast—too fast for my liking.
I think she’s bribing him when I’m not looking. That explanation sits easier in my chest than the truth—easier than admitting he chose her.
Probably saw him in the kennel one night, found his treats, started slipping them through the door so he’d fall in love with her. I cling to that version longer than I should, because believing he made up his own mind opens a door I’m not ready to look through.
Bullet isn’t wrong to like her. That’s the part that irritates me the most. He’s not a dumb dog. He watches before he acts, reads people the same way he reads cattle, and he doesn’t give his trust away lightly. I trained him that way. I depend on it.
Seeing him choose her without hesitation feels like another quiet vote cast against me, another sign that I’m the only one digging in my heels. He presses closer to her leg, tail thumping against the dirt, and for a split second I imagine what it would look like if I stepped forward instead—if I said something neutral, something human.
The thought dies as quickly as it comes.
This isn’t about a dog. It’s about control slipping through my fingers in small, almost invisible ways. First the ranch hands. Then the animals. What comes next?
I turn away before the irritation can harden into something uglier. I won’t let myself believe this is natural or deserved. I won’t let myself think that maybe the problem isn’t her presence, but my resistance to it.
I’ve always trusted Bullet’s instincts—and that’s exactly why this gets under my skin.
It’s bad enough she has the ranch hands on her good side, but now Bullet too? When did it start to feel like everyone decided she belonged here more than I do?
Where are the people who see how she’s pushing into everything—trying to change things she hasn’t lived with her whole life? Where are the ones in my corner?
It feels like it happened all at once—like the ground shifted while I wasn’t looking, and suddenly I’m the onlyone still standing where I always have, watching everyone else adjust around her.
But not me. I won’t mistake preparation for charm, or conviction for manipulation. I’ve lived on this land my whole life. I know the difference between someone adapting and someone pushing, and I won’t let myself forget that just because everyone else seems willing to.
That decision settles something in me. I don’t head back to the barn or the house. Instead, I turn toward town.
I walk into Monty’s office in the late afternoon, just as he’s packing up to head home. I can’t do this anymore. The constant friction, the back-and-forth, the way every decision now feels contested—it’s disruptive, bleeding into my work in ways I can’t ignore.
There has to be something—anything—buried in the clauses that will let me get out of this mess.
Monty looks up and sighs deeply. “Gage, I’m just about to head out for the night,” he says, already reaching for his jacket, but I shut the door behind me. Not tonight. He isn’t leaving until I get to the bottom of this.
“Monty, I understand,” I say, keeping my voice even and measured, “but I need to know how we get out of this.”
He groans, rolling his eyes like he knows exactly where this conversation is headed.
“Gage—”
He doesn’t finish, like he already knows I’m not going to let him.
I cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say, all right? It’s airtight, your hands are tied—but there has to be something that can be done here.” I scrub a hand over my jaw, frustration crawling up my spine. “She’s driving me insane.”
He sighs and finally sets his briefcase down, the sound heavier than it should be.
“So does my wife,” he says dryly. “But I’m not trying to divorce her.”
I don’t smile.
“I’ve told you everything,” he continues, more serious now. “It was your uncle’s wish that this arrangement stand for six months. We can’t go around that clause without unraveling the whole thing.”
