17
I haven’t taken my eyes off Conor from the moment she mounted Ketchup and followed me to the south pasture. In her silence, I don’t know how she’s processing the breakup with Miles, our kiss, or the view she’s currently taking in.
Her eyes drift over the eroded land, infestation of noxious weeds, and high mounds of dirt and debris shoved to the side. It’ll take years to remove the industrial waste and return the land to its natural habitat.
“Your father did this?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say quietly, unable to stifle the bitterness in my voice. “Turns out, this land is rich in oil and natural gas.”
She shifts in the saddle, and her luminous green eyes assess mine. “And your dad thought to profit from that.”
He thought to pay off insidious debts with it.
“This is related to…” Her eyebrows gather. “It has to do with why he wanted me dead? Everything that’s happened is connected to this, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I inch Barnabe closer to her until our legs brush. “I’ll fill in those blanks, but not today.”
She sucks in an impatient breath and swats a wayward strand of hair from her face. “If my mother saw this…”
“I know.”
Ava O’Conor died when we were babies, but we’ve heard the stories about her public protests against big oil and its corruption on the land.
“The rigs are gone.” She scans the destroyed field and chews her lip. “You and Jarret stopped the drilling and blasting?”
“Not soon enough. We’re still trying to clean up the mess.”
“But you stopped it. And now that you own the ranch, you won’t let this happen again?”
“As long as I’m alive, I’ll fight it, Conor.”
“Good.” She breathes deeply and adjusts the Stetson— my Stetson —on her head. “How many bales do you need to buck today?”
“About nine more hour’s worth, with your help.”
“Let’s get to it, then.”
As she turns the horse and canters away, I marvel at her remarkable beauty and resilience.
She’s a vision of windblown red hair, picturesque tattoos, and rugged denim. By the end of the day, those jeans will be ripped and caked with dust. There will be dirt under her nails, more scars on her hands, and not a lick of complaining from her sweet lips.
The resentment I expected from her about the drilling didn’t come. Maybe I’ve given her too many other things to be upset about, but I get the sense that she trusts me on this one thing. She knows this land means as much to me as it does to her.
She leans into the breeze as she rides across the field. Hair whipping behind her, she twists her neck to shout back at me, “Catch up!”
I swear I see a glimmering smile before she kicks Ketchup into a gallop.
With a grin that bares my teeth, I do what I’ve done my entire life.
I chase her.