Page 191 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“No.” Vivian doesn’t look away from me. “You think inheritance equals ownership? You think paperwork creates legacy? Those boys have what they have because generations of Harlans bled for it. Protected it. Controlled it.”

Controlled.

There’s that word again.

Always that word.

“You don’t get to walk into this family and destabilize everything because three men got distracted by a pretty face and a sob story.”

The words hit hard enough to sting.

For one ugly second, I actually feel it.

The old instinct.

Shrink, apologize, disappear before people decide you’re too much trouble to keep around.

My mother perfected that feeling in me long before Vivian Harlan ever tried.

But then the feeling turns on its head. Maybe because I’m tired, because I’ve spent too long fighting for space in rooms that didn’t want me there, or maybe because I finally understand this has never been about me fitting into Ironwood.

It’s about Vivian losing control of it.

I stand slowly from the table. The chair legs scrape softly against the wood floor.

“You know what?” I say. “I did think you were the smartest person in this room when I walked in here.”

Vivian’s eyes narrow.

“But smart people adapt.” I grab my jacket from the chair back. “You’re still trying to own people like property.”

“Annie,” Tessa warns carefully.

I look directly at Vivian. “You can threaten me all you want. I’m not leaving.”

Vivian rises too, graceful and terrifying all at once. “You should be very careful which battles you choose.”

“And you should be careful assuming people still belong to you.”

Vivian looks genuinely furious.

I turn before she can answer because if I stay another minute, I might throw the water glass directly at her perfect face.

My hands shake the second I step into the hallway. Adrenaline, anger, and fear finally crash into my bloodstream all at once.

I keep walking anyway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Duke

I know something’s wrong before Annie even turns around.

That’s the thing about learning people properly. You stop needing words after a while. Bodies start talking first.

Annie’s body is barely holding the line.

She’s standing outside Old Mill Café with both hands braced against the railing beside the creek, shoulders tight beneath her jacket, chest rising too fast. The late afternoon wind lifts loose strands of electric blue hair around her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.