Chapter 4
Gunner
By the time the first streak of sun lit up the salt flats, my shirt was plastered to my back, and I’d run out of fucks to give about the smell.
Branding day always drew the worst out of everyone, myself included—temper went quick as water in a cattle trough, patience burned up in the first hour.
I pressed the last iron in, the sizzle and calf’s scream loud enough to make my wolf flinch, and held it there ‘til the hide hissed and lifted, black and raised. Then I let the calf go, and it shot through the chute with more dignity than I’d have if someone’d just melted my ass.
I dropped the iron into the sand bucket, let my breath out slow, and rolled my head to work out the kink at the base of my neck.
The air in the yard was thick with scorched hair, manure, and sweet alfalfa dust; the kind of Texas perfume that stuck to your skin for days.
I wiped my face with my sleeve and turned to check the next calf in line.
But there was no next calf. Just a cloud of dust at the far end of the lane, the big black dually with IRON VALOR plates crawled through it like a battleship coming to port. Bronc liked to make an entrance, even when no one was watching.
The truck fishtailed, then straightened, rolling up to the corral where I stood like a schoolboy waiting for the principal.
It was a new one—a 3500 with brush guard and enough engine to tow a house.
You could smell the money on it, but Bronc drove like he was still back in Afghanistan, swerving every pothole like it hid a landmine.
He climbed out of the cab slow, assured that every man would wait. No cut today—just a faded tee, jeans, and aviators that turned his eyes into blue chips of ice. He was forty-three but built like a linebacker, his wolf just under the surface, always coiled.
“Mornin’, Gunner,” he called, like I hadn’t just spent four hours doing the job of five men.
I spat into the dirt, watched it dry out in the space of a breath. “Alpha.”
He walked up, boots silent on the packed clay, and leaned against the gate. His gaze flicked over the empty chute, the scorched brand, the way my hands shook just a little from the effort. He didn’t miss much.
“Good work,” he said, voice even. “Heard you did two pens yourself.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t want the pups slowing me down.”
He nodded once, approving, then jerked his chin at the bottle of water sitting on the fence post. “Hydrate. We’ve got something else needs fixin’.”
I drank mostly because it meant I didn’t have to answer right away. Bronc had the patience of a saint with the stuff that mattered. For everything else, he moved at the speed of a cattle prod.
When I finished, he let the silence stretch out. Then, “Parker’s old family place has another issue.”
That house—faded blue, two stories, a porch that slouched like a drunk—had been empty for years until Nanette and her daughter moved in over a month ago.
That house was filled with sad memories of what used to be a happy family.
Parker’s parents were killed when the bike they were on was sideswiped by an 18-wheeler some eight years ago.
Parker and her piece of shit, traitor twin brother Axel lived there until after they graduated high school.
Parker was sweet enough to offer it to Nanette and Brie.
“What is it this time?” I asked, cautious. “Seems like it’s always something.”
Bronc’s mouth twitched, in a slight smile. “Everything needs work, Gunner. This is just a door, though. Nanette says it sticks. Can’t get it to latch.” He squinted at me over the aviators. “Thought you could take a look.”
Of course he fucking did. And this was not a request. I waited for the punchline—the reason he needed me and not one of the other twenty hands on the ranch—but he just stood there, unreadable.
“Copy that,” I said, hiding my annoyance. “When?”
He glanced at his watch. “She’s home now. Brie, too. Finish your water and go.”
That was Bronc: efficient, impossible, always two moves ahead. The heat rose up in me, not the kind from the sun, but the kind that made you want to hit something. I capped the bottle and set it on the rail.
“You want me to shower off first?” I said. “Or is the door gonna mind?”
He let out a dry laugh, just once. “Might as well go as you are. Don’t need to impress anybody.”
Except that’s exactly what he wanted. He was hoping I’d run into Brie. He wanted me to, because he was an asshole and a matchmaker and believed in wolf-fated mates above all.
I couldn’t say no, so I nodded and headed for the shop.
I kept my work shirt on, sweat and all, and grabbed the toolbox from the tack room. My hands left gritty prints on the red plastic handle, but I didn’t wipe them off. The less “presentable” I looked, the better.
The walk to Parker’s old house was short—just across the road, through a windbreak of pecan trees and down a gravel drive lined with dandelions.
The difference in atmosphere was immediate.
The ranch vibrated with activity: calves bawling, diesel engines revving, the occasional bark from the kennel.
Over here, you could almost forget there was a world beyond the drive.
The house itself was less impressive up close. The paint was flaking, the screen door had a rip near the bottom, and the porch swing leaned at an angle that dared you to sit. But someone had swept the steps, and a pot of pink geraniums sat on the rail, bravely defying the heat.
I stood on the lowest step and took a slow look around. Nanette’s white car passed me as I made my way up the drive; her perfume didn’t linger, but I could still pick up the faint signature of cold cream and Chanel on the front door. The other scent—lemon zest and flora—Brie.
I set the toolbox down with a thump and knocked once, hard.
No answer. I waited, fighting the urge to just leave. I tried again, and this time I heard the faint shuffle of bare feet on wood.
The door opened, and there she stood her face an accusation, deep turquoise blue eyes looking up at me, dark wavy hair, the blue streaked throughout.
“Finn.”
I kept my hat on. “Brie. The Alpha sent me to fix one of your doors.”
She eyed me like I was a wolf come to drag her back to the den. “Oh, yeah. Come on in.”
She led me through the house to the back door.
It was located off the kitchen. I was surprised at how remarkably neat and clean everything was.
The kitchen was dated, with cabinets and fixtures that screamed early 2000s, but Nanette clearly had a flair for decor.
She’d added attractive decor to the counters, not so much that they looked cluttered, just classically pretty with a mix of wood and metal.
Several pieces of art adorned the walls; landscapes of Paris that I assumed Brie had painted. She was gifted; there was no question.
I immediately saw daylight coming in around the bottom corner of the door frame. I pointed at the gap where sunlight poured across the floor. “Doesn’t shut all the way. It’s definitely a safety issue.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, duh.”
Fuck, she had a smart mouth. My eyes moved over her. She wore cut-off shorts and a tank she undoubtedly got from Parker that said: I LOOK BETTER BENT OVER A BOOK across the chest. She didn’t even flinch when she caught me reading it.
I set my toolbox down, dropped to one knee and checked the hinges. They were loose; the wood splintered from years of slamming. I could fix it in five minutes, maybe less.
I fished a screwdriver from the box and tightened the top hinge. “You ever try to fix this yourself?”
She snorted. “I’m not allowed to touch the tools. Last time I tried, I stripped a screw and Nanette freaked out.”
I grinned, couldn’t help it. “You do that on purpose?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
I finished the top hinge and then moved to the bottom. Her scent—lemon, with a wildflower edge—filled the air, and my wolf snapped to attention. I focused on the work.
“You doing okay here?” I asked, careful.
She hesitated. “I stay busy. There’s not much reason to go to the pack house unless you’re a joiner.” She said the last word like it was a disease.
I nodded. “Understand that.”
I tested the door; it swung smooth and easy. “All fixed.”
She looked almost disappointed. “That’s it? Bronc sends you to do all the hard jobs.”
I wiped my hands on my jeans. “I’m the best there is. He knows it.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
I picked up my toolbox, ready to leave, but she didn’t move from her post at the counter. “You want a glass of water?” she asked, voice softer. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I did actually. The sweat had cooled to a sticky film on my skin, and my head pounded with leftover adrenaline.
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
She pulled two glasses from the cupboard—real glass, not plastic—and filled them from the tap. She handed me one, cold and wet, and I drained it in two gulps.
“You always work this hard?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Only way I know how.”
The silence dragged on for several seconds. I was done here.
“Well, try to keep the place standing.” I grabbed my toolbox and tipped my hat and walked out the door.
I told myself I was done with her for now.
Not forever, but she wasn’t ready at this moment.
I needed to keep my distance. But three hours later, patching barbed wire under the noon sun, her scent was still in my nose.
Lemon and wildflower, the memory of her voice ringing in my ears.
The way she’d watched me work, arms folded, eyes half-lidded and sharp.
The way her tank top rode up when she reached for a glass, showing a strip of stomach so pale it made my mouth go dry.
The words on her shirt—“I look better bent over a book”—crawled through my head, setting off a low, stubborn heat that wouldn’t die.
It was nearly evening when Bronc called again.
“Door’s still sticking,” he said, not even bothering with hello. “Nanette says you didn’t fix it right.”