6. Cag #2
Her eyes soften, the fire in them turning to something warmer, something more dangerous to my heart. She reaches up, her hands flat against my chest. "Then go. Fix it. But come back to me."
I don't answer with words. I can't. I lean down and crush my mouth to hers, a hard, desperate kiss that tastes of coffee and defiance. I break away before I lose my resolve, turning on my heel and heading for the door.
The yard is already moving—trucks backing toward tanks, gates opening, and men shouting measurements across the dust. The Kramer brothers are a well-oiled machine when the world is against us.
We’ve fought blizzards, we’ve fought predators, and we’ve fought the bank.
But you can’t fight a dry pipe with a gun or a rope.
I spend the next four hours in a haze of brutal labor. Hauling plastic tanks onto the flatbed. Running the pump until gasoline coats my tongue. Driving across the western quarter while every weakening trough reminds me how fast the reserves can disappear.
I see the cattle. They’re crowding the cottonwood shade, restless and breathing hard in the rising heat.
They look at the truck with dull, expectant eyes.
When I open the valves on the tanks and the water starts to splash into the dry troughs, the sound is like a miracle.
They crowd the troughs, hooves churning the dirt as water splashes over the metal rims.
I stand by the truck, leaning against the hot metal, watching them. My shirt is soaked with sweat, my hands are blistered, and my jaw aches from clenching it.
This is what he wants. Someone at Black Aspen wants Pine Ridge desperate enough to accept whatever terms come next. Whether Marchand is part of that plan is a question I intend to answer. He thinks a man’s loyalty to his land has a price.
He’s wrong.
I look toward the property line. In the distance, near the upstream gate, I see a white SUV.
It’s parked on the shoulder of the public road, just sitting there.
A man in a high-vis vest is standing next to it, holding a clipboard.
He isn’t doing maintenance. He’s watching us and documenting our reaction.
Rage, pure and blinding, boils up in my gut. It’s the same rage I felt when I stood at that altar and realized the woman I’d built a life for had never intended to show up. It’s the rage of a man who has been left with nothing but scraps.
But I’m not that man anymore. I have Juliette in my loft. I have a bird to finish whittling. I have a woman who looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in a world of shadows.
I climb back into the truck and slam it into gear. I drive back to the main house, the dust trailing behind me like a funeral shroud. When I pull into the yard, I see Dwight Puddy’s truck parked near the barn. The ranch vet is out here, probably checking the stock for dehydration.
I jump out of the truck, my legs heavy. I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s still there, that she hasn't vanished like a mirage in the heat.
I find her on the porch of the main house.
She’s sitting on the steps, her knees pulled up to her chest, still wearing the blouse and jeans Linda found for her.
She looks small against the backdrop of the massive timber house, but when she sees me, she stands up, and the strength returns to her posture.
"Did it work?" she asks as I approach.
"For now," I say, stopping at the bottom of the steps. I’m covered in grit and grease, a far cry from the men she’s used to. "We’ve got enough water to keep them alive for a few days. But the creek is dropping. If it doesn't rain, or if they don't open that gate..."
"He won't open it," she says, her voice flat. "My father doesn't negotiate. He consumes. He’ll wait until the cattle are dying and the bank is calling, and then he’ll offer you a deal. Me for the water."
"Then he’s going to be waiting a long time," I growl. I step up onto the porch, invading her space, surrounding her with the scent of sweat and determination. "Because I’m not giving you back, and I’m not surrendering this ranch. I’ll fight for both."
She looks up at me, her brown eyes searching mine. "Cag, you’ve worked your whole life for this. Your brothers, your family... I can’t be the reason you lose everything."
"You’re the only thing I’ve found in three years that was worth keeping," I say, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "This ranch is my history and my responsibility. You’re not competing with it, Juliette. You’re standing beside me while I protect it."
The honesty of the words scares me. I’m a Kramer. We don't do poetry. We do work. But with her, the words just come, raw and bleeding.
She reaches out, her fingers brushing the dirt on my cheek. "You’re a mess."
"I’m a man who stays when the work gets hard," I say, catching her hand and kissing her palm. "And I’m staying with you."
A dry gust cuts across the yard, carrying dust from the western quarter. The ranch is losing water by the hour, and I don’t have time to stand here pretending the maps inside can wait.
"Inside," I say, guiding Juliette toward the door. "I need to check the maps. If your father wants to play with the water, I need to know every spring and every seep on this mountain. He thinks he’s the only one who knows how to use the land. He’s about to find out how wrong he is."
We go into the house, and the silence of the kitchen is heavy. Linda is gone, likely down at the pump house helping inventory what’s left in the stored tanks.
I pull the old topographical maps of the Ridge out of the sideboard. They’re yellowed, the edges frayed, covered in my father’s and grandfather’s notations. I spread them out on the table, my fingers tracing the blue lines of the hidden springs.
"There," I mutter, pointing to a spot high on the western ridge, near the old cabin site. "There’s a seep there. It’s never much, but it’s constant. If we can pipe it down to the lower troughs..."
"It’s too far," Juliette says, leaning over the map. Her hair brushes my arm, carrying the faint magnolia scent I already recognize as hers. "You’d need miles of pipe. And pumps."
"Then I’ll get them," I say. "I’ll go into Pine Valley. Frank at the hardware store owes me a favor. He’s got the industrial tubing in the back lot."
"I'm coming with you," she says.
"No."
"Cag, I can't stay here like a prisoner," she says, her voice rising. "I'm not a child. I'm the one who knows how he thinks. I know the legal loopholes he uses. Let me help."
I look at her, really look at her. She’s not just a runaway bride. She’s a designer, a woman who builds things from nothing, who sees the structure beneath the silk. She’s a Marchand, whether she likes it or not, and she has the steel of that family in her spine.
"Fine," I say, the word like a confession. "But you stay in the truck. If I see one Black Aspen suit, we’re gone."
"Deal," she says.
I fold the map, my heart racing. It’s a risk. Taking her into town is the fastest way to draw every eye in Pine Valley. But I can't leave her. Every minute she’s out of my sight, I feel like the ground is crumbling beneath me.
We walk back out to the truck. The heat is rising, the sun beating down on the dry earth. As I climb into the driver’s seat, I look at the dashboard. The whittled cottonwood figure of the bird sits there, its wings still blocked out, unfinished.
I pick it up. I run my thumb over the wood.
“Dawson taught me to carve when I was ten,” I say quietly. “I started this hawk after he disappeared five years ago. I carved the body, started the wings, and then I put the knife down.”
“And now?” Juliette asks.
I run my thumb over the rough grain.
“Now I’ve picked it up again.”
I put the bird back down, the wings still blocked out, waiting.
I start the engine, the roar of the diesel a promise of war. We head toward the gate, toward Pine Valley, and toward the man who thinks he can take what’s mine. He wants a fight? He’s got one. And he’s about to learn that the man with the deepest roots is the hardest one to pull out of the ground.
As we hit the main road, I see the white SUV again. The man with the clipboard looks up as we pass. I don't slow down. I don't look away. I just grip the steering wheel until my knuckles are white, my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
She’s mine. The land is mine. I’ll use every road, record, and favor between Pine Ridge and the coast before I let anyone take either one.
The drive into town is silent, the tension in the cab thick enough to choke on. I can feel Juliette watching me, but I can’t tell whether she sees anger, fear, or both.
We pull into Pine Valley, the familiar sights of the Cozy Cup and Harrison’s Hardware appearing through the shimmering heat haze.
The town looks the same—peaceful, sleepy, unaware of the war brewing on the ridge.
But I can feel the eyes on us. The gossip network is already humming.
Someone at the gas station has probably told half the town about the woman who climbed into my truck in a shredded dress.
I pull the truck around to the back of the hardware store, away from the main street.
"Stay here," I command, my voice leaving no room for argument. "I mean it, Juliette. Lock the doors."
"I'm not a dog, Cag," she snaps, but she reaches for the lock.
I jump out of the truck, the heat hitting me like a physical blow. I head into the warehouse, my mind already calculating the footage of pipe we need. I’ll fix the water. I’ll fix the ranch. And then I’m going to find a way to make sure Conrad Marchand never sets foot in this valley again.
The rest of that closing beat stays as it is, so the full end of the chapter reads:
Because this isn't just about water anymore. It’s about her.
We’re back on the Ridge before noon with less tubing than we need and a bill Frank refused to write. Juliette goes into the house without being told. I go straight back out to the western quarter with Andy.
I don’t think once about what’s sitting on my desk.