“Fine sermon today,” commented Steven, his gaze warm upon Elaina.
“Yes,” she replied. “It reminded me that there’s always a fresh start, no matter what.”
Before Steven could reply, a voice carried over to them, rough-edged and tinged with mockery. “Well, if it ain’t the lady rancher. Walkin’ like one of the boys, ain’t ya, Elaina?” The speaker, a cowboy from their ranch, leaned against the fence, a toothpick rolling between his lips.
Heat flared in Elaina’s cheeks, and her grip tightened on the hymnal. Her father had done his best to teach her to be a lady, but she’d been so busy learning to run the ranch that the lessons hadn’t taken. She’d always felt like she was less than the other women around.
Steven’s posture straightened, a protective glint in his hazel eyes. He stepped slightly in front of Elaina, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Elaina carries herself with more grace and strength than most men I know. And she’s a better rancher for it.”
The cowboy’s smirk faltered under Steven’s steady gaze, and he pushed off from the fence, muttering something under his breath before sauntering away.
“Thank you,” Elaina said softly.
“Nothing but the truth,” Steven replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he gently squeezed her hand.
As they walked away from the church, Elaina felt a surge of warmth for this man who stood by her without hesitation.
*****
STEVEN AND ELAINA MOUNTEDtheir horses, enjoying a ride together on their one day of rest. They rode side by side in companionable silence.
Elaina noticed it first—a disturbance in the pattern of hoof prints that crisscrossed the prairie. She pulled up her chestnut mare and pointed to the ground. “Look there,” she said, her voice tinged with concern.
Steven dismounted and knelt, running his fingers over the tracks. They were fresh, diverging from the path the herd usually grazed along and leading toward the rocky outcrop at the edge of their land. His brow furrowed. “This isn’t a stray cow,” he muttered, scanning the terrain. “These were driven away...deliberately.”
“George,” Elaina’s voice was low but laden with certainty. Her gaze met Steven’s, and in that look, a silent agreement passed between them.
Without another word, they followed the trail until it disappeared at a creek, the waters likely washing away any further evidence. Anger simmered within Steven as they turned back toward the ranch, the fading light casting long shadows upon the ground. The tracks were fresh. This had happened since his arrival in Montana, and that made things so much more personal for him.
As they approached the stables, the other cowboys were finishing up the day’s chores, the clanging of tools and low murmur of voices drifting on the breeze. George was among them, his bushy white beard unmistakable.
“George!” Steven called out, his voice carrying across the yard as he swung down from his horse. The cowboys paused, turning to watch as the newlyweds approached.
“Got something to explain, do you?” George’s steely blue eyes narrowed, a defensive edge creeping into his tone.
“Tracks,” Steven stated flatly. “Leading away from where the cattle should be, heading off our land. Someone’s been rustling our stock, and we know that someone is you.”
A hush fell over the men gathered around. George’s face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. Elaina remained on horseback. She watched George intently, her presence a silent show of unity with Steven.
“Prove it,” George challenged, his stance wide, arms crossed over his chest.
“Enough cattle have gone missing to make a man wonder,” Steven countered. “We trusted you, George.”
The other cowboys exchanged glances. No one spoke, but in their silence was an acknowledgment—that the life they sought could not abide deception or betrayal.
Beau shifted uncomfortably, his sandy brown hair catching the last rays of light as he glanced at Nathaniel. The seasoned ranch hand’s stocky frame seemed to brace against an unseen force, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“George,” Beau started, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. “We saw you marking up those tallies—adding head that haven’t been bought, and leaving off some that’s been sold.”
Nathaniel nodded, his graying hair nodding with him. “It doesn’t sit right,” he added, his voice low but clear. “We’re all here trying to carve out an honest living. Can’t be doing that with numbers twisted.”
George’s steely blue eyes flashed in the dimming light, his bushy white beard bristling as if it were part of his indignation. “Y’all got no proof,” he spat. “I’ve run these books for years longer than any of you have saddled a horse.”
But the other cowboys, once shadows against the failing day, formed a circle that seemed to close tighter around George. Their expressions were etched with disgust. They had ridden the rough trails together, faced the blistering sun and biting cold; their camaraderie was forged in the fires of shared hardship. George’s deceit was a betrayal not just of numbers, but of the very bonds that held them.
“George,” one of them muttered.
“Beau, Nathaniel—they speak true?” another asked, searching the faces of his fellow cowboys for confirmation.
