Chapter 21
aria
Ihear the lowing before I see the break.
It’s not yet five a.m., and the sky over Grady Ridge is streaked with rust and violet. The air bites sharp—spring still pretending it’s winter—and the grass glints silver with frost.
The bacon on the stove sizzles.
I’m halfway through brewing coffee when the sound registers.
Something’s wrong.
My cattle aren’t where they’re supposed to be. I just know it.
I twist the burner off and rush to the door, yanking on my jacket and shoving bare feet into boots. Cold hits me like a slap as I run toward the south end.
I immediately see their dark shapes moving in the early light, a churn of hooves and raised tails kicking dust across the access road.
Two dozen Angus cows, loose.
“Shit.”
My stomach turns to stone.
I sprint toward the barn, calling out. “Earl! Tomas! We’ve got a breach!”
I find Scout, our old but steady gelding, already saddled from last night’s late feed run. I swing up, fingers clumsy on the reins, and kick him into a lope toward the fence line.
I find the hole in the fence a quarter mile down.
The top wire’s been sheared off. The T-post is twisted and half-pulled from the earth, the other cables sagging uselessly. This is what I’ve been afraid of—all the wear and tear that we’re not able to fix quickly enough.
Scout stamps and shifts beneath me.
I swing down, hit the ground hard, and crouch beside the damage, hands trembling as I inspect the break.
Panic starts to crawl in.
If the cows get down to the county road or spook and break for the trees, we could lose them. And we don’t have the manpower to manage it alone.
Behind me, tires crunch across gravel. I whip around.
Maverick’s truck skids to a stop in the yard.
He’s out before the engine’s even off, already taking it all in—the loose cattle, the downed fence, me standing in the wreckage.
“I saw it on the drive in,” he says grimly, pulling his phone out. “Zane, breach at Longhorn. South line. Bring the rig and a couple of hands.”
He meets my eyes. “Where’s Earl?”
“On his way. Tomas and the new guy, too. But we gotta move now.”
Already, Scout is skittish, and the herd is getting antsy—snorting, shoving each other, milling in disarray. A few have drifted toward the pasture gate, but one wrong move, and we’ll have a full-on stampede.
“We do,” Maverick’s voice is clipped.
“I’m going to go wide, right flank. When they get here, you get Tomas to take the ridge and Earl to push from the access,” I instruct.
I angle Scout along the edge, calling to the herd in low, even tones while Maverick moves fast on foot, cutting toward the center of the pasture. He’s keeping his voice low so as not to spook the cattle further.
He waves his arms wide, guiding the cattle calmly.
When one of the steers breaks off, Maverick sidesteps quick, boots kicking up dust, and redirects it with nothing more than a sharp whistle and a step forward.
“Easy. Easy now.”
Tomas appears like a shadow cutting through the morning mist. Earl isn’t far behind, riding hard, his old sorrel gelding sweating already. Wes rolls in on an ATV, dust trailing behind him like a comet tail.
“You good?” I shout as I ride past Wes.
He lifts his chin, squinting into the early light. “Saw them from the ridge. Thought I was seeing ghosts. Hell of a sight to see with my morning coffee.”
We press in tightly, pushing the cattle slowly and deliberately.
It’s like steering a living, breathing tide. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, every sense heightened.
Maverick’s crew arrives fifteen minutes later in a cloud of diesel and dust. Zane and two ranch hands hop out. They’re armed with panels and wire coils.
Soon, a portable post pounder thuds as they go to work on the fence line.
“Reset the T-posts,” Zane barks. “String the top wire first—we’ll patch the lower ones once the herd’s back in.”
We work like a machine.
One hand runs the gates.
Another builds a catch funnel.
Tomas and Earl tighten the press.
Wes maneuvers his ATV.
Maverick and I guide the last stragglers back in—a red calf limping slightly, two yearlings confused and cranky.
I slide from Scout’s back, every muscle aching, boots caked in mud, hands raw from pulling wire.
When the final cow crosses the threshold and the gate slams shut behind her, a cheer goes up.
I lean against the nearest post, catching my breath. Maverick walks up beside me, jaw set, shirt plastered to him with sweat.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I tell him.
He smiles. “No thanks needed. This is what we do around here, darlin’.”
I purse my lips, nod. I know that neighbors help neighbors in ranch country; I just didn’t think anyone would be there for me.
He gently touches my shoulder. “You’ll get it under control,” he assures me, like he knows what’s making me anxious and downright stressed.
“What if I can’t?” I whisper all my doubts and insecurities out in the open.
“I’ll help you,” he promises.
God help me, but it feels good to have someone who wants to give me a hand and not push me into the dirt.
Once the cattle are secured, we head back toward the house, the adrenaline leaving a slow, nauseating ache in my bones.
“I’m so sorry, Maverick. I was supposed to feed you breakfast,” I apologize as we climb the back porch steps.
"Now you get to feed all of us,” he says cheerfully.
“You know that’s not what I meant.” I feel shy.
He strokes my cheek with a gloved hand. “I know.”
We head to the kitchen, where we’re hit by the scent of bacon, biscuits, and coffee so strong it might walk itself over to you.
The crew files in behind me, boots clomping and spurs jingling, all of us coated in dust, mud, and sweat.
Nadine’s salt and pepper braid is tucked tight.
“You got them all back in?” she asks.
I don’t know how she does it, but Nadine always knows what’s going on.
“You didn’t have to cook,” I tell her.
“I didn’t,” she mutters and glares at me when I raise my eyebrows. “Vera did before she went back to Benji.”
“Thank God,” Mav murmurs. Nadine’s lack of cooking skills is legendary.
She growls when Mav’s crew and ours stomp across the clean kitchen floors. “Wash your hands outside in the sink and not in the kitchen.” She waves a hand and adds, “Vera is going to be right done annoyed when she sees the floors she cleaned last night before she left.”
The cowboys do as they’re told. They understand who has the power in this kitchen. They probably have a Nadine type at Kincaid Farms who keeps them in line.
“Thanks, ma’am, for feedin’ us,” Zane says politely.
“Wait until you eat her food before you thank her,” Earl deadpans as he drops his hat on the hook. “She can’t cook.”
“Oh, don’t listen to him. He’s just an ornery old man.” Nadine arches an eyebrow, cocks a hip, and plants a hand on her waist. “And Earl, I would feed the devil himself if he helped patch a fence at five a.m.”
“Vera cooked,” I announce.
Earl sighs dramatically. Tomas stage whispers a prayer, thanking God for the food that Nadine didn’t cook.
Nadine gives them both the stink eye.
The old oak table in the kitchen has seen years of knives, burns, and elbows, and is groaning under the weight of food—cast iron skillets of sausage and eggs, a tray of buttermilk biscuits still steaming, bowls of butter and jam, two pitchers of milk, and a pot of ranch-style beans for anyone still hungry after two plates.
Maverick drops into the chair beside me, stretches his long legs out.
Zane and his boys flank one side, already shoveling food like it’s a contest. Tomas pulls up at the far end with Wes, who gives me a sheepish smile before piling food onto his plate.
Earl sits near the window, back straight despite the exhaustion. He pours coffee in two mugs and hands one to Nadine without being asked.
She smiles faintly and squeezes his shoulder.
“I’d forgotten,” I murmur.
“Forgotten what?” Maverick asks.
I gesture at the scene. “The kind of morning that makes you remember why you do this.”
It’s loud—cutlery scraping plates, chairs creaking, boots thumping under the table. People are laughing again. There’s a tempo to it, like the beat of a heart that’s been bruised but is still pumping strong.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his eyes soft with affection.
Nadine stands at the head of the table like a general surveying her troops. “There’s a peach cobbler cooling by the window,” she says. “But none of you are touching it until I see two more fences patched and somebody cleans the mud off my porch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tomas mumbles, around a bite of sausage.
I grab a biscuit, tear it in half, smear it with butter and Wildflower honey from the pantry.
Maverick watches me like I’ve done something sacred.
“What?” I ask.
He leans in. “I just knew watching you eat breakfast would be the highlight of my week.”
“Flirt later,” Nadine quips. “Eat now.”
Maverick laughs. “Nadine, your tongue is as sharp as these biscuits are light.”
Nadine gives him a withering look. “You’re lucky to have biscuits.”
“Luckier that Vera baked them,” Earl grunts and gets a tap on the backside of his head from Nadine.
I watch the scene, and despite the fear of failure curdling in the pit of my stomach, I feel like I belong.