Chapter 14
Boone
I’ve been watching her for three hours.
From the window of my cabin, through the gap in the curtains, I have a clear line of sight to the backyard of the main house.
It’s been a spectacle of destruction. Saramaria has been moving like a woman possessed, dragging heavy logs from the woodpile with a frantic energy that worries me.
She built a fire in the stone pit an hour ago, a massive, roaring thing that sends sparks spiraling up toward the gray sky.
And she’s been feeding it.
Not just wood. She’s clearing out the house. I watched her carry out a stack of old magazines—vintages of Western Horseman that Anthony used to hoard—and toss them onto the flames. Then came a rug, a faded, threadbare Persian thing that used to sit in the foyer. She balled it up and threw it in.
The smoke is thick, drifting across the yard and smelling of burning wool and paper. It stings the nose.
Every time I’ve tried to go over there, she shuts me down. I went out an hour ago, intending to ask if she needed help with the heavy lifting. She was on the porch, wrestling with a wooden chair. I took two steps toward her, and she practically growled at me.
“I’ve got it,” she snapped. Her eyes were wild, rimmed with red. She didn’t look at me like she usually does, with anger or coldness. She looked at me like I was a stranger intruding on a private ritual.
I retreated.
I don’t understand it. Rhett dropped off the documents this morning.
The box with every lease, every tax return, every scrap of paper that proves she owns this place lock, stock, and barrel.
That should be the end of it. She wanted proof that she could sell?
She has it. She wanted the power? She holds it all in her hands now.
I thought she would be happy. I thought she would be on the phone with her real estate agent in Denver, plotting her escape. Instead, she’s acting like she’s burning the place to the ground before she leaves.
I check my watch. It’s almost four o’clock. The sun is already dipping behind the ridge. The temperature is dropping fast.
I can’t stand here watching the flames anymore. It makes my chest hurt. I need to work. I need to do something that makes sense.
I grab my coat and head out to the barn. The air is biting, carrying the scent of snow. The clouds are low and heavy, a blanket of iron-gray that promises a storm before morning.
Midnight is in his stall. He nickers when he sees me, pushing his soft nose over the door. I stroke his face, running my thumb over the white star on his forehead.
“Hey, old man,” I murmur.
I can feel his age in the way he leans into my touch, seeking the warmth of my hand.
His coat is still shiny, black as ink, but there are white hairs sprinkled through his mane now.
His joints stiffen up when the weather turns cold like this.
He’s twenty-one. He’s earned his retirement, but he hates being left behind.
I saddle him up, taking extra care with the girth, making sure it’s not too tight. He sighs, a long, shuddering breath that puffs out in a cloud of steam.
“Just a quick trip,” I tell him. “Down to the creek and back. Then you get a mash and a good rubdown.”
Blue appears from the hay barn, his tail wagging. He knows the routine. He knows what the saddle means.
I swing into the saddle. Midnight steps out eagerly, glad to be moving. His gait is a little stiffer than it used to be, a little shorter, but there’s still power in his hindquarters.
I open the gate and Blue herds them through, barking with that high-pitched, authoritative yip that cuts through the wind. We move them down the trail that leads to the creek. The ground is hard, frost crunching under the hooves.
We head out to the south pasture. The herd is clustered near the fence line, waiting for me. They know the schedule better than I do. They’re thirsty.
It’s a quiet job. One I’ve done a thousand times. Usually, I let my mind go blank. I focus on the cattle, on the placement of my feet, on the pressure of the reins. But today, my mind won’t shut off.
I look at the land stretching out around us. The rolling hills, the stands of pine, the creek cutting through the valley like a silver ribbon. This is all I know. I came here when I was seventeen, a kid with a rap sheet and an attitude problem, angry at the world and everyone in it.
Anthony gave me a chance. He gave me a job. He gave me a roof over my head. He taught me that the land doesn’t care who you are or where you came from. It only cares that you work it. That you respect it.
I became part of this place. The dirt is under my fingernails, the hay dust in my lungs. My history is written in the fence lines I’ve fixed and the calves I’ve pulled.
If she sells... what happens to me?
It’s not just about losing a job. I could find work as a foreman on another ranch. Maybe. I’m good with horses. I know cattle. But it wouldn’t be this.
This is my home. The cabin I built with my own hands. The ridge where I go to think when the pressure gets too much. The spot by the creek where I scattered Anthony’s ashes.
I have nowhere else to go. My parents are dead. I have no siblings. The few relatives I have back East are people I haven’t spoken to in twenty years. I’m not a city person. I don’t belong in offices. I don’t belong in traffic.
I belong here. In the wind. In the saddle.
But she doesn’t see that. She sees the land as an asset. A line item on a balance sheet. A way to fund a new life in a place where the air doesn’t smell like manure and freedom.
We reach the creek. The water is low, running clear and cold over the stones. The cattle rush forward, jostling for position. The sound of drinking is loud, a splashing, slurping chorus.
I sit on Midnight, keeping watch. Blue patrols the bank, making sure no strays wander off into the trees.
I look back toward the house. Smoke is still rising from the fire pit, a darker, thicker column now.
What is she burning?
I think about the papers Rhett gave her. The leases. I know what’s in there. I know Anthony gave us rights to this land. Maybe she read them. Maybe that’s why she’s so furious. Maybe she realizes she can’t just snap her fingers and make us disappear.
Or maybe she’s just angry because she realizes her grandfather trusted us. He trusted us to run this place when he couldn’t. He trusted us to keep it alive when she ran away.
That has to sting. To know the man she came back to mourn was building a life with three men he wasn’t even related to. Men who stayed when she left.
The cattle finish drinking and begin to wander back toward the trail, their bellies full. I turn Midnight, nudging him with my heels. The walk back is slower. The wind is picking up, whistling through the canyons.
The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since we left. The sky to the west is black, bruised with heavy clouds. The storm is coming in fast.
We get the herd settled back in the pasture. I close the gate and twist the wire tight. I pat Blue on the head. “Good boy.”
I ride back to the barn. The light is almost gone now. As I round the side of the barn, I see the house again.
She has started a second fire.
This one is even bigger than the first. It’s in the fire pit, but she’s piled it high with debris. I can see the orange flames leaping ten, fifteen feet in the air. She’s standing there, feeding it something long and wooden. A beam? A fence post?
I dismount and lead Midnight into his stall. I unsaddle him quickly, my movements jerky with irritation. I give him a quick brush and dump his grain. He digs in happily, oblivious to my mood.
I walk back outside, heading toward the house. The wind whips at my hat, threatening to tear it off.
I stop a few feet away from the fire. The heat is intense, forcing me to step back. It feels like she’s trying to burn down the entire county.
“What is this?” I ask, the sound loud in the crackling of the flames.
She jumps, spinning around. She’s wearing that oversized coat and her boots are covered in soot. Her face is flushed, streaked with dirt. In her hands, she holds a broken picture frame. The glass is gone. The photo is blackened.
She throws it into the fire.
“Are you trying to signal Mars?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because I think they can see you.”
She glares at me, the firelight reflecting in her green eyes. She looks feral. Beautiful and terrifying.
“I’m cleaning house,” she says. Her voice is raspy from the smoke.
“By incinerating it?” I gesture to the flames. “That’s good lumber, Saramaria. Anthony didn’t buy scrap.”
“It’s my lumber,” she snaps. “And I’ll do what I want with it.”
I look at the pile of wood stacked near the porch. It’s the winter supply. I spent two days cutting and stacking that wood last month. It’s supposed to last us through February.
“You might want to ease up,” I say, keeping my tone light, trying to defuse the bomb she seems to be becoming. “If you burn through all that, we’re going to be freezing our asses off when the temperature drops tonight. I need that wood for the fence repairs I’m doing tomorrow.”
She stiffens. Her jaw tightens. She looks at the woodpile, then back at me. There’s no humor in her expression. No softness.
“I think you’ll survive,” she says, her voice dripping with ice. “You Alphas are always so concerned with your own comfort.”
I blink. That came out of nowhere.
“Okay,” I say, dropping my arms to my sides. I take a step toward her. “What the fuck did I do wrong?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at me, her chest heaving.
“I mean it,” I press. “I gave you the horse. I helped you with the dog. Rhett gave you the papers. I thought we were... I thought things were settling down. Why are you acting like this? Why are you burning down the yard?”
Her eyes flash. For a second, I think she’s going to scream at me. Instead, she lifts her chin, a look of pure, distilled arrogance on her face.
“Nothing, Alpha,” she says.