7. Juliette #2
Cag grips my wrists, his hold firm but not painful.
His eyes are dark, banked with that territorial rage I’ve come to recognize as his default setting when I’m threatened.
"You are staying here. On Pine Ridge. Under my roof.
I don't care if the wells go bone dry and we have to haul water in by the gallon. You aren't talking to him."
"And if the ranch dies?" I challenge him. "If Andy loses his home? If your brothers have to scatter because there’s no water for the stock? Will you still be happy you 'protected' me then?"
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. The western quarter is already struggling, and the line of water trucks on the road makes it clear that word is spreading. People are scared. The Kramers are the heart of this valley, and if they fall, the rest of the town could be next.
I pull my hands free and walk to the window. Outside, the sun is beating down on the dirt. I see Sadie, Andy’s little girl, playing on the porch with a bucket of rocks. She’s only four. She shouldn't have to grow up in a place that’s being choked to death by my father’s greed.
"I love you," I say, my back to him. The words are heavy, more serious than anything I’ve ever said. "And because I love you, I won't let him do this. Not to you. Not to your family."
I feel him move behind me, his heat radiating off him in waves. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling the scent of my skin.
"You’re mine," he mutters against my pulse. "My woman. My responsibility. I’m supposed to be the one who fixes this."
"We fix it together," I correct him, turning in his arms. I reach up and cup his face, my thumbs tracing the scar on his jaw. "That’s what a partner is, Cag. You don't have to carry the whole world on your shoulders. Let me help you carry this. He’s my trauma, but he’s our problem."
Cag’s eyes soften just a fraction. The tension in his shoulders doesn't go away, but it shifts. It goes from the desperate, frantic energy of a man trying to stop a leak with his bare hands to the solid, immovable strength of a mountain. He leans down and presses his forehead against mine.
"I hate it," he whispers. "I hate that he’s in your head. I hate that he has this power over you."
"He only has the power I give him," I say, and for the first time, I actually believe it. "And I’m all out of gifts for Conrad Marchand."
We stand there for a long time, just breathing together.
The office is quiet, the only sound the ticking of the old clock on the wall and the distant lowing of a thirsty cow.
For one quiet moment, we stand on the same side of the truth.
We aren't just a cowboy and a runaway anymore. We’re a front. A line in the sand.
A knock at the door breaks the silence.
It’s Linda. She’s holding a tray with two glasses of iced tea, her expression unreadable but kind. She’s seen the papers on the desk. She’s probably seen them a dozen times before I did. She doesn't say anything about it, though. She just sets the tray down.
"Andy needs you at the main barn, Cag," she says softly. "The surveyor is back. He’s at the upstream gate again, and he brought some company this time."
Cag’s body goes rigid. The possessive, protective beast in him wakes up with a snarl. He looks at me, waiting this time instead of deciding for me.
"Go," I say. "I’ll be right here. I’m going to start making a list of every bank my father has ever used."
Cag kisses me then. It’s not the slow, sweet kiss of a lover. It’s the hard, desperate brand of a man going into battle. It tastes of salt and determination and the promise that no matter what happens at that gate, he’s coming back to me.
"The gate isn't safe," he says. "Work from here. Don’t give them a chance to get near you." He’s gone before I can answer.
Linda stays where she is, her eyes meeting mine with a silent understanding.
She knows what it’s like to have the world trying to tear down your peace.
She stood in the middle of her own version of this two winters ago, and she knows that sometimes the women are the ones who hold the line while the men are busy with the fences.
From the window I watch him cross the yard, his big frame moving with a purpose that makes my heart ache. He’s everything I never thought I’d find—rugged, honest, and so fiercely loyal it’s almost terrifying.
I turn back to the desk. The tea Linda left is sweating, condensation pooling on the wood. I pick up a pen—one of those cheap plastic ones with a chewed-off cap—and a pad of yellow legal paper.
At the top, I write: MARCHAND ASSETS - VULNERABILITIES.
My father thinks he’s playing a game of chess. He thinks he’s moved all the pieces into place and that the board is his. He’s forgotten one very important thing.
He taught me how to play.
And I’m playing for keeps.
I spend the next hour scribbling names, dates, and account numbers from memory.
It’s a strange feeling, reaching back into the cold, calculated world I ran away from.
It feels like putting on a suit of armor that’s three sizes too small—uncomfortable, restrictive, but necessary.
I remember the late-night dinners where my father would brag about his "acquisitions.
" I remember the way he talked about the water rights in the valley as if they were just chips on a table.
“The key, Juliette, is to find the point where the cost of holding exceeds the value of the prize,” he’d told me once over a glass of twenty-year-old scotch. “When the prize becomes a liability, a smart man cuts his losses.”
I’m going to make myself the biggest liability he’s ever seen.
Linda comes back into the room after a while, sitting quietly in the armchair by the window. She doesn't interrupt. She just watches me work, her presence a grounding force in the room.
"He loves you, you know," she says suddenly, her voice barely a whisper. "Cag doesn't do anything halfway. If he’s protecting you, it’s because you’re his whole world now."
I look up, my hand cramping from the effort of writing. "I know. But I don't want to be his world if it means his world is shrinking. He’s been through enough, Linda. Being left at the altar... he’s spent three years feeling like he was unfinished. I won't let him feel that way about this ranch."
"He isn't unfinished anymore," Linda says, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "I saw him whittling that bird for you. He hasn't finished a carving in years. You’re the reason he’s whole again."
The weight of her words settles into my bones. It’s a lot of pressure, being the reason someone is whole, but with Cag, it doesn't feel like a burden. It feels like a gift.
I look back at my list. It’s growing. I have names of shell companies, the names of the board members who hate my father’s guts, and the contact info for a journalist back east who owes me a favor from when I designed his wife’s wedding gown on a week’s notice.
The external threat is real. The water is disappearing. The surveyors are at the gate. But for the first time since I climbed into that truck, I don't feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m standing my ground.
"Linda?" I ask, looking over at her.
"Yes?"
"Does the ranch have a scanner? I need to get copies of these documents sent out."