Page 44 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“And that’s fair?”

“This isn’t about fairness.”

“No,” Duke says, with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “it’s about control. I’m familiar with the theme.”

He holds my stare.

And I know my brother.

I know the difference between his charm and his truth. I know when he’s smoothing edges and when he’s standing on solid ground. I know how often he turns tension into humor because if he doesn’t, the rest of us will choke on it.

This isn’t that.

“I care about her,” he says.

I keep my face still. “You don’t know her.”

Duke huffs a breath, something almost amused threading through it despite everything. “You’ve had, what, three conversations with her and already run a full background check in your head. Don’t pretend you don’t know anything either.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not. Because I actually talked to her like a person instead of a potential problem.”

My jaw tightens. “You talked to her enough to sleep with her.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound like I tripped and fell into it.” Then, more seriously, “It wasn’t like that.”

“Careful.”

His eyes flick up. “No, you be careful. Because you’re about two sentences away from saying something you don’t get to take back.”

I hold my ground. “Employees are off limits. You know that. Now let’s leave it at that, okay?”

By eleven, I’ve checked two feed invoices, spoken to Jake about a delivery schedule, signed off on repairs to the east fencing, and corrected three staff assumptions before they became mistakes.

None of it settles the pressure building behind my sternum. None of it stills the image I didn’t ask for and can’t seem to get rid of.

Annie in Duke’s bed.

Annie laughing softly in his room.

Annie tangled in something I warned myself to keep simple from the start…

I don’t enjoy the shape of that thought.

So I redirect it where it belongs.

Work.

Tessa Grange arrives at noon.

She’s early by four minutes, which is exactly on time for her. Dark coat, structured bag, hair pinned perfectly.

Every line of her is composed in the way certain people become when they’ve spent decades charging rich families by the hour and learning how to make even concern look expensive.

She steps into my office without hesitation, already reaching into her bag for the contract folder.

“Silas.”