Page 11 of July’s Cowboy Dallas

His voice was rough, like he'd been up for hours already. He probably had been. Ranch work didn't wait for anyone to catch up on sleep.

It shouldn't have done anything to me, that voice. It did anyway.

“I'm going out to the Hollister ranch office,” I said. “I want to see if that Cedar Draw box is there.”

The silence between us weighed heavy. Then he let out a soft sigh. “Want some company?”

I should have said no. Should have kept this contained. Should have protected him from getting dragged deeper into whatever mess my family had made.

“Yeah,” I said instead. “I do.”

“I'll meet you there in twenty.” He hung up before I could change my mind.

Dallas was already waiting when I pulled up the long drive of my family's ranch. He leaned against the side of his truck, his hat tilted low against the morning sun, those massive arms of his crossed over his chest. He straightened when he saw me and offered a small, encouraging smile.

I made myself look at the ranch office instead of the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders. I had a fraud to untangle. A family to confront. There was no room on the list for cataloging Dallas Miller's forearms.

I parked next to him and climbed out.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“No.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”

We walked across the yard together. The Hollister ranch office sat at the far end of the main barn, a squat building with faded siding and a metal roof that pinged in the heat. It looked like every other ranch office I'd ever been in. It was functional, worn, and built to last.

But it was my family's ranch office, and the Hollisters had a long legacy.

Photos lined the walls inside. Rodeo buckles gleamed in glass cases. Framed news clippings yellowed at the edges. Old brand plaques were mounted above the desk. A coffee pot that had been there since before I was born hissed and sputtered. It was the kind that made coffee strong enough to strip paint.

For generations, the men in my family had sat at that desk and made decisions for everyone else.

I pushed the door open.

Holt looked up from the paperwork spread in front of him. His expression didn't change, but his shoulders seemed to tense a fraction tighter.

Roy Pritchard sat in the chair across from him, boots propped on the desk like he owned the place. He'd been around Hollister stock forever—long enough to think his opinion mattered more than mine.

“Sadie.” Holt set his pen down. “I didn't expect you this morning.”

“I'm looking for the Cedar Draw box,” I said.

Roy snorted. “Those old boxes get moved around all the time.”

“Not usually five minutes after someone realizes they matter.”

Holt's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to Dallas, standing just inside the doorway, then back to me.

“Is this a private conversation?” Holt asked.

“Dallas was there when the records were found.”

“He's not family.”

The words landed like a boot to the chest. Not because they were cruel. Because they were true. Because family meant secrecy, loyalty, silence. Family meant closing ranks and protecting the name, no matter the cost. I'd spent my whole life learning what that meant.

“He knows the stock,” I said. “And he knows what we found.”