Page 27 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

"What does he do?"

"Whatever needs doing." I thought for a second. "He taught me to ride."

She took that in. "There's a woman with nearly white hair. Wild. She wears a beat-up hat."

"Ash." She waited again, so I kept going. "She showed up last year with a saddle and no explanation and outworked every hand we had in a week. So she stayed."

Jennie smiled at that, just the corner of her mouth. "And the one in charge."

"Calder."

"What's he like?"

I took a minute with that one. "You'd have to meet him. There's no short version." I glanced over at her. “There’s Eli, Calder and Sloane’s younger brother. We sort of all raised him, and we didn’t always do the best job.”

She just raised her eyebrows at that. “Is that all?”

“Gray and Jace are our other two hands. You won’t meet men you can trust more than them. Except maybe me and Calder.”

We rode a little further before she said, "You're fond of all of them."

It wasn't a question. I didn't answer it. I took us along the creek, then veered north, toward the edge of Coleman land. Jennie didn’t say a thing, just followed, but she was watching, storing every shift of the route, every glance at the horizon. She rode with the same focus she brought to everything, all business, no panic, always three moves ahead.

At the stand's edge, Ghost pricked his ears toward the brush. I gave him the rein and let him drift off the path, like I was following his nose.

She followed, tight to my left flank. Even with the foliage, she didn’t flinch when the thorns caught her pants or a spider web ghosted her face. She was a lot tougher than she let on. I liked that about her.

We reached a break in the trees. I dismounted, then tied Ghost to a low limb. Jennie did the same, but slower, eyes always on the next detail.

We walked the last fifty yards. Then I stopped. A camo tarp, staked at the corners, half-buried in the low scrub. Someone had put work into hiding it. Not quite enough.

Pretending I’d never seen it before, I crouched and put a hand on the nearest stake. Jennie came up beside me without being asked, scanning the area, reading the shape of whatever was underneath. She wasn't asking questions yet. She was measuring.

I lifted the corner. Then I pulled the whole thing back.

Three crates. Military-issue. The first was stenciled, padlocked, heavy, the lid stamped BERGARA. The second was open a crack, rows of magazines visible inside, the glint of brass and matte black steel. The third was smaller, set apart from the others like it had been added in a hurry.

Jennie crouched, careful not to touch, and studied the markings. She didn't ask what was inside. She already knew.

“Any chance this is legal?” she asked, voice dry as bone.

I shook my head. “Not unless they changed the laws last night.”

She stood and dusted her hands on her jeans. “How long’s it been here?”

I considered lying, carrying on with the ruse that we’d come upon it together by chance, but something told me to tell her the truth. I went with my gut. “I found it on a run three nights ago.”

She fixed her gaze on me, searching for the tell. I let her look.“You wanted me to see this.”

I just looked at her, waiting for her to give me more.

She did a slow 360-degree scan of the clearing. “You think someone is planning something?”

I shrugged. “It’s not for hogs. That kind of gun is for people.”

She exhaled, then walked a wide circle around the stash, careful not to leave footprints in the mud. She took a photo with her phone then pocketed it. “You told anyone else?”

“No,” I said. “Just you and the Maddox hands who were with me when we found it.”