6. Cag
CAG
The scent of magnolia and sweat clings to the rough beams of my loft, mixing with saddle oil and old wood and telling me last night wasn’t a dream.
I lie still, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs.
Beside me, Juliette is a warm, soft weight.
She’s tucked into my side, her breathing rhythmic and shallow, her chestnut hair a wild silk spill across my chest.
Mine.
The certainty sits deeper than thought, fixed somewhere beneath bone. It’s the pulse in my throat. Three years I’ve used work and wood to keep the empty parts of my life quiet. With Juliette beside me, none of them feel empty this morning.
I don’t deserve the way she looks right now.
Pale morning light filters through the high window, catching the freckles scattered across her shoulders.
She fits under my arm like she was cut to the shape of it, but I know better than to mistake that for soft.
I’ve felt the strength in those ballet-trained muscles.
I’ve heard the bite in her voice when she stands up to the world.
She’s a runaway, a designer, the daughter of an oil tycoon—and she’s tangled in my grease-stained sheets like she belongs here.
I shift, trying not to wake her, but my body is a cage of tension.
I want to pull her back under me. I want to stay here with her and refuse every demand waiting outside.
But I can hear the ranch waking up below us.
The distant clang of a gate. The low, guttural rumble of Andy’s diesel truck.
Reality is scratching at the door, and reality is a thirsty beast.
Juliette stirs. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and then those deep brown eyes are on me. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look for an exit. She reaches out, her hand tracing the scar along my jaw.
"Morning," she whispers. Her voice is a low rasp that makes my blood turn to molten lead.
"Morning." I catch her wrist, my knuckles brushing the underside of it, my hand swallowing hers. "You okay?"
She smiles, a small, tired thing that reaches her eyes.“Better than okay.” Her mouth curves with sleepy satisfaction. ‘But unless Pine Ridge has changed its dress code overnight, I’m going to need something clean.’
I roll off the cot, the cool air hitting my bare skin, and retrieve the cotton dress from the floor. It’s wrinkled from where I dropped it last night, but it will get her as far as the main house.
I hold it out.
“For now. Linda said she’d find you something clean.”
Juliette takes it, lifting one eyebrow. ‘Are you going to turn around?’
“No.”
“I thought cowboys were supposed to be gentlemen.”
“I’m a foreman. Different rules.”
She tries to glare at me, but the flush spreading across her face ruins the effect. I watch her pull the dress over her head, the cotton sliding down every soft line I spent the night memorizing. The sight of her dressing in my loft lands hard enough to steal my breath.
“Come on,” I say before I drag her back down onto it. “We’re going to the main house. There’ll be breakfast waiting.”
"Is it safe?" she asks, her humor flickering for a second as she smooths the dress down over her hips. "For me to be out there?"
"You're on Kramer land," I say, and the territorial edge in my voice is sharp enough to draw blood. "Anyone who comes for you answers to me first."
She nods, her jaw tightening. She’s thinking about him. Conrad Marchand. The man who treats people like line items on a ledger. The man powerful enough to make trouble for Pine Ridge while Black Aspen tightens its hold on the water.
I lead her down the ladder from the loft, my hand hovering near her waist the whole way.
The tack room is quiet, the smell of saddle oil and aged leather thick in the air.
My workbench sits in the corner, the old half-finished cottonwood hawk resting beside my whittling knife.
I didn’t start it for Juliette, but she’s the reason I picked it up again.
I look at it and feel a pang of the old ghost—the man who couldn't finish the cabin in the back pasture, the man who let the weeds reclaim the garden he’d started for a woman who didn't want him.
Not this time. The bird can wait. The cattle can’t.
We step out into the yard. The sun is just clearing the jagged peaks of the mountains, washing the world in thin gold. But the air is wrong. It’s too dry. Usually, the morning air on the Ridge is damp with dew, smelling of wet pine and rich earth. Today, it smells like dust.
I look toward the western quarter. The grass looks brittle, even from here. My gut twists.
"Cag?" Juliette says, sensing the change in me.
"The wind’s wrong," I mutter. "Wait here."
I walk over to the large galvanized trough near the barn. Usually, the float valve is hissing, keeping it topped off for the horses.
It’s silent.
I look inside. The water level is low. Way too low. A thin rim of dried slime marks where the water should be. I reach down and jiggle the valve. A pathetic, rusty gurgle is the only response.
Panic, cold and sharp, needles my skin. A ranch without water isn't a ranch. It’s a graveyard.
"Hey!"
I turn to see Andy walking toward us from the main house. He’s wearing his 'Boss' face—the one where his brow is a permanent furrow and his eyes are narrowed to slits. He looks like he hasn't slept a minute.
"Cag," he says, his voice gravelly. He glances at Juliette, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second before returning to me. "The western tanks aren’t refilling. I just came from the pump house. The creek intake is pulling almost nothing."
"Black Aspen," I spit. The name tastes like poison.
"They did more than just shut the gate upstream," Andy says, rubbing the back of his neck. "They’ve diverted the flow entirely. They’re claiming 'emergency maintenance' on the tributary. Their filing lets them hold it while the claim is pending, and pending can mean months. We both know what this is. It’s a chokehold. "
I look back at Juliette. She’s standing by the barn door, in Linda’s cotton dress, her face pale and her shoulders locked straight. She heard him. From the look on her face, she’s afraid her father could somehow be involved.
"I'm going to the upstream gate," I say, my hands curling into fists. "I'll break the damn thing off the hinges if I have to."
"No," Andy says, stepping in front of me. "That’s what they want. They’ve got surveyors out there with cameras. You touch that gate, and they’ll have the sheriff out here with a warrant for your arrest before noon.
We play it smart. We use the backup tanks for the livestock today.
But we need to get Juliette inside. Linda’s got something for her. "
I want to argue. I want to roar. I want to find the man who turned off that valve and show him exactly what a Kramer does when his land is threatened. But Andy is right. If I’m in a cell in Pine Valley, I can’t protect her.
I walk back to Juliette and put my hand on the small of her back. "Come on. Inside."
We walk to the main house in silence. Dust lifts around my boots as we cross the yard. Somewhere upstream, Black Aspen is holding back water Pine Ridge has depended on for generations.
Inside the kitchen, the air is warmer, smelling of frying bacon and strong coffee. Two plates wait on the long oak table. Beside one of them rests a neatly folded pair of jeans and a soft blue blouse.
Linda looks up as we enter, her eyes settling on Juliette with the same quiet understanding she offered yesterday.
“Juliette,” she says softly. ‘I found these at the house. They should fit better than anything Cag owns.’
Juliette sits and runs her fingers over the blouse, careful and almost disbelieving. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’
“Maybe not.” Linda pushes a steaming mug toward her. ‘But I remembered the chamomile.’
The faint, sweet scent rises between them. Juliette looks down at the clothes, and I see her fighting to keep her emotions from reaching her face.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Linda gives her a gentle smile. ‘Eat while it’s hot.’
For one brief moment, the kitchen settles around us, warm and quiet. Then the back door slams open.
Benjamin walks in, smelling of horse sweat and dust. He doesn't look at us. He goes straight to the sink and splashes cold water over his face. When he stands up, his expression is grim.
"The south-pasture troughs aren’t refilling," Benjamin says. "The herd’s already bunching near the gate. We need tanks down there before they start pressing the fence."
I stand up, my chair screeching against the linoleum. "I'm hauling the portable tanks. We’ll pump from the creek in the north quarter. It’s still running, isn't it?"
"Barely," Benjamin says. "But it's better than nothing. I’ll help you haul the pressing table out of the old workshop if we need more space for the gear.
" He pauses, glancing at me with a ghost of a smirk.
"Unless your grandmother's ghost is still haunting it.
She always did say that table was the heart of the ranch. "
"Not now, Ben," I growl.
Juliette stands up, her eyes wide. "Let me help. I can... I don't know what I can do, but I can't just sit here while your ranch dies because of my father."
"You stay here," I say, my voice coming out harsher than I intended.
I grab her shoulders, my fingers tightening against the soft fabric of her borrowed blouse.
"You stay here with Linda. You’re the target, Juliette.
If they see you out there, it gives them an excuse to escalate.
They want you scared. They want you to think that the only way to save us is to go back. "
"And if I do?" she challenges, her chin lifting. "If I go back, does the water come back on?"
"No," I roar, the sound echoing in the kitchen. "Because you aren't going back. Not today. Not ever. You’re mine, Juliette. If I have to carry every drop of water from the mountain myself, I’ll do it before I let him use you as a bargaining chip."