Page 17 of Branded Betrayal

It takes another hour to get the cattle through the gate. Of course, if Nash wasn’t such an obstinate ass, it probably could have been done in fifteen minutes.

I finally close the gate behind them and lean against it with a sigh of relief, exhausted but feeling hella victorious.

Pulling out my phone, I open my ranch-tasks notes from my meeting with Mikey.

Okay, next on my list of daily ranch adventures . . . filling the water troughs, which I was about to do before Nash showed up.

I trudge over to the water pump and twist the handle. The pump sputters.

“Come on . . . come on . . .” I mutter.

I tighten a bolt exactly the way I saw it on a YouTube video last night and twist the handle again. Not carefully enough, though, because another piece blasts off like a rocket. Water spews everywhere, the wild spray soaking me.

“No! Shit! Stop!”

I lunge for the handle, just missing it as my foot slips in the mud. I claw at a fence post to keep myself from face-planting on the soggy ground.

Miraculously, when I twist the handle this time, the water stops pouring from the spout.

“Fantastic,” I choke out, pushing my dripping hair out of my eyes. “Really freaking fantastic.”

I scramble up onto my knees, wrench in hand, twisting and tightening and praying to the gods of plumbing that this nightmare just stops.

“Of course,” I mutter, teeth grinding together. “This is exactly how I wanted my morning to go.”

I’m still wrestling with the pump when something in the corner of my eye flickers. Some movement at the far end of the driveway.

A truck.

My eyes narrow. But it’s not Nash’s.

I blink water out of my eyes, heart slamming into my ribs.

No. Please no.

Not now.

Not like this.

But the truck keeps coming. My pulse stutters.

Because the universe clearly hates me enough to send Blaze Hartman right into the middle of my disaster.

Just fucking perfect.

Chapter Six

Blaze

I see a bright-red bandanna with long blond hair streaming out the back in the distance. I ease off the gas and slow down as I approach the barn. I hop out of the truck and walk over to where she stands, ankle deep in muddy water.

At least I hope it’s water.

She flips around, fury spiking hot in her gaze, and it hits me again how fucking devastating she is.

Six years ago, Savannah was pretty, like girl-next-door pretty with that wholesome rancher’s-daughter thing going on. And now . . . Jesus. She’s a bombshell with legs that go on forever. But it’s not just the physical changes. She moves differently. She’s more confident. Independent and strong.

It’s hot as fuck too.