Page 29 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

And this time, we’re the ones holding the matches.

The external threat is still out there, lurking in the shadows of the western quarter, but as I sit back down at that heavy oak desk with Cag by my side, I know one thing for certain.

Conrad Marchand has no idea what’s coming for him. He thinks he’s fighting only a ranch family. He doesn’t realize his daughter has finally chosen a side.

I came to Pine Ridge as a runaway. Now I’m standing with the Kramers, and together we’re going to prove Black Aspen never had the right to take their water.

8

CAG

My muscles scream as I heave the edge of the cast-iron pressing table. It’s a beast, a relic from my grandmother’s sewing days, built to last longer than any promise made in a chapel. It spent years gathering dust in the old workshop. Now Benjamin and I are wrestling it across newly sanded floorboards toward the north-facing window, where the light will hit the fabric just right.

"Easy now, Cag. You’re gonna pop a lung if you keep grunting like a damn bull," Benjamin says, his voice a low rumble from the other side of the table. He’s got the easier end, but his jaw is set, his eyes tracking the movement as we shuffle the heavy bastard across the newly sanded floorboards.

"Just move, Ben," I growl. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. Not from the strain. From the anticipation. Juliette is back at the main house with Linda, probably going over those damn legal documents that prove her father is a monster. I hate that those papers are in her hands. I hate that his name is etched into her mind again. I want to replace every memory of Conrad Marchand with the scent of sawdust and the weight of my hands on her waist.

We set the table down. The legs hit the floor with a final, heavy thud that vibrates up through my boots.

Benjamin wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and looks around the small building. The restored walls smell of fresh-cut wood and beeswax, the clean scent cutting through the heavy summer heat. The wedding collapsed three years ago. For the first year afterward, I did nothing but work the ranch and try not to think about the empty chapel. Then I came out here one sleepless night and found another ruin waiting for me. I’ve spent the last two years replacing rotten boards, sanding beams, and bringing my grandmother’s abandoned sewing room back to life.

"Gran would probably be pissed you moved her favorite shears to the left side of the bench," Benjamin says, cracking a rare, crooked grin. "She’s probably haunting this place right now, waiting to smack your knuckles for putting a scratch on that table."

"She’d be happy someone is finally using it," I say. My voice is thick. I don’t look at him. I look at the vintage sewing machines that once belonged to my grandmother, their black enamel shining after six months of cleaning, oiling, and rebuilding them one stubborn piece at a time. I look at the rolls of silk and lace I’ve been hoarding, hidden away in crates, waiting for a reason to be unpacked.

"She would," Benjamin agrees, his tone softening. He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, a brief, silent acknowledgement of the years I spent out here in the dark. "Don't keep her waiting, Cag. The girl’s been through enough today. Give her something that isn't a lawsuit."

He walks out, the screen door clicking shut behind him. I stay. I breathe in the silence. It’s different now. It’s not a tomb anymore. It’s a workshop. It’s a beginning.

I head back to the main house, my boots kicking up dust that shouldn’t be there. The western quarter is already showing the strain. The creek has narrowed, leaving bands of wet mud exposed along its banks. Black Aspen is squeezing us, trying to turn Pine Ridge into a wasteland, but they don't know who they're fucking with. They think they can take our water and we'll just wither away. They don’t realize hardship only makes a Kramer work harder.

Juliette is on the porch in the blouse and jeans Linda found for her. Her shoulders are squared, her jaw locked as she stares toward the western quarter. The ranch hasn’t swallowed her. If anything, Pine Ridge is starting to look like it was waiting for her. She’s a fighter. I saw it the moment she climbed into my truck, wrapped in torn silk and desperation. I see it now as she stares toward the horizon, her jaw locked.

She hears me coming. She doesn’t turn, but her body shifts, leaning into my presence before I even reach her.

"The documents say he bought the rights six months ago," she says, her voice flat. "He’s been planning this since before I even knew the wedding was a real possibility. He wasn't just selling me to a bank, Cag. He was clearing the board so he could own the whole valley."

I step up behind her. I don’t touch her yet. I just let my heat roll off me, wrapping around her like a blanket. "He hides behind paper. Fine. We use the paper against him, and we hold the ground while we do it."

She turns then, her brown eyes searching mine. There’s a shadow in them, a lingering fear that she’s still just a piece of a puzzle her father is putting together. "He’s going to come for me. Now that he knows I’m here, he won’t stop. He thinks I’m his property."

"Let him come," I say. The words are a growl. My hands find her waist, my fingers digging into the soft fabric of the blouse. "He’ll find out real quick that his property rights don't mean shit on my land. You aren't a transaction. You aren't a line on a ledger. You’re mine."

"Cag—"

"Come with me." I hold out my hand and wait until she places hers in it. Her fingers are cold, even in the heat. I need to fix that. I need to burn away the chill her father left in her bones.

I lead her past the barn, past the equipment sheds, toward the edge of the woods where the land starts to roll up toward the ridge. She follows me without question, her trust a heavy weight in my chest. I don't deserve it. Three years I avoided anything that reminded me of the future I lost. Bringing Juliette here feels like the first time I’m choosing to face it.

We reach the small building. The exterior is weathered gray wood, blending into the trees, but the windows are sparkling clean. I stop at the door. My heart is thumping so hard I'm worried she can hear it.

"What is this?" she whispers.

“My grandmother kept this place,” I say, my voice raspy. “She made wedding gowns for women all over the valley. She used to say a wedding dress wasn’t just clothing. It was a woman’s armor for the life she was choosing.”

I reach for the handle, but I hesitate. The empty chapel flashes through my mind, followed by the first night I came out here and tore a rotten board from the wall because I needed something broken that my hands could fix.

“Benjamin helped me move the heavy pieces,” I tell her. “My brothers knew I was restoring the building, but I never showed anyone what I meant it to become. Not until you.”