Page 9 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

"They’re trying to trade a woman for the ranch," Andy corrects me.

I look at my brother. I see the weight on his shoulders. I see the responsibility he carries for all of us. And then I think about Juliette. I think about the way she looked when she said she felt safe.

"We don't trade people, Andy," I say, my voice steady. "We never have. And we're not starting now."

"I figured you’d say that," Andy says. He reaches out and claps a hand on my shoulder. "Then we’d better get ready. Because Marchand isn't going to stop at a piece of paper."

"Good," I say. "I’ve been looking for a reason to hit back."

I head back up to the loft. Juliette is standing by the window, looking out at the pastures. Her shoulders are set in a new way, square and steady, like she's decided something.

"They’re coming for me, aren't they?" she asks.

"They can try," I say. I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her from behind. I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her scent. "But they’re going to have to go through the Kramers first."

She turns in my arms, her eyes searching mine. "Why are you doing this, Cag? Why risk everything for someone you just met?"

I look at her. I see the freckles on her shoulders. I see the fire in her eyes. I see the woman who was brave enough to tear her own wedding dress to find her freedom.

"Because you're worth it," I say. "And because you're mine."

She smiles then, a real, bright smile that lights up the entire room. She leans in and kisses me, her lips soft and sweet.

"Then let them come," she says.

And right then, I know we’ve already won. Because no matter what happens, no matter what Marchand throws at us, he can't take away the way she looks at me. He can't take away the bond that’s already formed between us.

I pick up the cottonwood hawk and deepen the curve of one wing. The carving still isn’t finished, but it’s closer than it was yesterday.

For the first time in years, I know I’ll pick up the knife again.

The past is still there. So is the pain.

But neither one owns my hands anymore.

I have a new purpose now. A new reason to fight.

And her name is Juliette.

3

JULIETTE

Dust motes dance in the shafts of morning light cutting through the high windows of the tack room loft. They look like tiny, floating diamonds, a hell of a lot more peaceful than the ones I left behind on the vanity of the bridal suite. I shift on the cot, the movement sending a protest through my stiff muscles. The shredded remains of my silk-and-lace gown are piled in the corner, proof that yesterday actually happened.

The air here doesn't smell like expensive lilies or the cloyingly sweet perfume my father’s third wife favors. It smells like old leather, sharp pine, and the heavy, musky scent of saddle oil. It smells like Cag.

He’s down there. I can hear the rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against a blade. Scrape. Pause. Scrape. It’s a steady, grounding sound that makes the frantic racing in my head slow down just a fraction. Yesterday, I was a Marchand asset being traded to a banking heir to strengthen my father’s latest merger. Today, I’m a runaway hiding in a cowboy’s sanctuary.

My father is probably tearing the valley apart looking for me. Conrad Marchand doesn't lose assets. He certainly doesn't lose his only daughter on her wedding day. The thought should terrify me, but looking at the rough-hewn beams above my head, all I feel is a jagged sense of relief.

The ladder creaks.

I pull the rough wool blanket up to my chin, my heart doing a stutter-step. Cag’s head appears first, dark hair messy, that scar on his jaw looking even more prominent in the early light. He doesn't say a word. He just sets a tin cup on the small crate next to the cot.

"Coffee," he grunts.

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," I snap back, my voice rasping. "Is a 'hello' too much to ask for, or do we only communicate in monosyllables before noon?"