Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Eli
Ishouldn't have just walked away like that.
The thought hits me for the hundredth time as the shovel drives into hard earth. I reset my grip, muscles protesting, and thrust again. The post along the west wall has been shifting for months, ground too soft from last week's weather. Should've fixed it sooner.
Temporary fixes. That's how everything's been run lately.
I wipe sweat from my forehead, jaw tight. The barn looms behind me, empty and quiet. I've been working alone since yesterday.
Since the fight.
Two days since Cole made his offer in town. One day since Hazel proposed rebuilding the training program and I asked the question she couldn't answer.
And now this.
You're not the only one who lost your dad.
I'd watched her face when I said it. Watched the words land like a physical blow. And I'd meant them—every one of them. The way her expression crumpled before she locked it down made something in my chest twist sideways.
She'd stood there, mouth opening and closing, trying to find a response. And then I'd walked away like a coward.
Part of me wants to find her. Tell her I didn't mean it like that. That I wasn't trying to weaponize her grief against her.
But I was. And she needed to hear it.
Even if it makes me feel like shit.
I drive the shovel down again, harder this time.
The problem is, she still didn't answer my question.
Are you staying or not?
That's what this comes down to. Not whether she's sorry. Not whether she understands what the last five years cost us. Whether she's willing to stay and do the work.
And she couldn't even say it.
I'd seen it in her eyes—the panic, the doubt, the way she looked at me like she wanted to but couldn't make the words come out. That hesitation told me everything I needed to know.
She's already halfway gone.
The realization sits heavy in my gut, familiar and cold. I've been here before. Watching her pack herself up piece by piece until there's nothing left but the shape of her absence.
I'm not doing it again.
I straighten, testing the post. Still loose. Needs more depth. I dig again, letting the rhythm take over, focusing on the bite of metal in dirt, the strain in my shoulders, the way my breath evens out when there's work between me and my thoughts.
The air sits heavy and wrong, pressure building behind my eyes.
Storm weather. The kind that makes the horses restless and the cattle skittish.
The sun climbs higher, but the light feels strange.
Muted. Sweat dampens my shirt despite the wind picking up, carrying the smell of rain that isn't here yet.
This is what I'm good at. Fixing what's right in front of me. Holding things together even when they're worn thin.
Even when they don't want to be held.
I reset the post, pack dirt back in around the base, tamping it down hard. The work steadies me. Brings my pulse back under control.
Chace comes across the yard at a near-run, easy grin nowhere in sight.
I clock it before the words land. Chace doesn't run unless something's wrong.
"What?" I ask, straightening.
Chace stops a few feet away, hands on his hips. "Looks like a line got cut on the east pasture sometime last night."
My chest tightens. "How bad?"
"Hard to say yet," Chace says. "But it's where the fence dips near the tree line. If they pushed through there…" He exhales. "We're missing cattle."
"How many."
Chace exhales. "At least twelve. Could be more."
I swear under my breath, the sound rough and immediate. I drop the shovel where it stands, metal clanging against dirt.
"Damn it."
The east pasture. We'd moved that group out there days ago. Fresh grass. Plenty of room. I'd walked the line myself before dark.
"How long you think they've been gone?" I ask, already moving.
"No telling," Chace says, falling into step beside me. "If they got out early enough, they could've covered miles by now. Especially if something spooked them."
My mind is already running through it. Terrain. Water sources. If they broke as a group or scattered. Whether someone drove them or just let them bolt.
"Alright," I say, decisive. "We saddle up. Grab a couple guys from my place who can ride and track. No point throwing bodies at it if they don't know what they're doing."
Chace nods. "I can get Caleb and Mark."
"Do it," I say. "Tell them to bring ropes, extra tack, and water. We're not chasing shadows."
I cut toward the barn, pace quickening. "I'll call Addie. She's got good eyes and she knows the land."
Chace glances at me. "You think she's up for that?"
I don't slow. "She'll want to be."
I pull my phone from my pocket as I go, already dialing. The barn doors loom ahead, red paint dulled and flaking, hinges creaking as I shove one open.
"Addie," I say the second the line connects. "We've got cattle out."
I listen, jaw tight.
"East pasture. Fence was cut. We're missing at least a dozen."
A pause. Then: "Yeah. I know."
I duck into the tack room, muscle memory taking over. Saddle off the rack. Cinch checked. Bridle in hand. My horse lifts its head from the stall, ears flicking forward like it senses the shift.
I continue. "No telling how far they've gone. I need you geared and ready in twenty."
Another pause.
"Good," I say. "Bring extra water and whatever you think you'll need. This could take a couple days."
I hang up and slide the phone back into my pocket, already moving. The barn fills with sound as I work—leather creaking, metal clinking, hooves shifting impatiently in stalls.
This isn't an accident.
That thought settles cold and certain in my gut.
A clean cut. No break. No storm damage. Someone took the time to do it right.
The question is who.
Cole's land runs along that fence line.
The thought hits immediately, sharp and unwelcome. The Peterson place he just bought sits right there. And the timing—right after he made his "neighborly offer" to buy us out in town.
Too convenient.
I push the thought aside. No proof. Could've been anyone—kids, drifters, someone cutting through and not giving a damn about fixing what they broke.
But Cole's face flashes in my mind. That satisfied smile when he walked away from Hazel. Like he'd already won something.
The timing feels wrong.
Everything about this feels wrong.
Mae appears on the porch, hand shading her eyes against the strange light. "Eli?"
"Fence got cut," I call back, not slowing my pace. "We're going after them."
Hazel steps out behind her, already dressed for riding. She must've been inside helping Mae when Chace found me. Her hair is pulled back, jacket on, boots laced tight.
She's ready.
Mae's face tightens with worry, but she nods. "Be careful."
"Always am," I say.
Mae's eyes flick between us—me in the barn doorway, Hazel on the porch. Whatever she sees there makes her mouth press into a thin line, but she doesn't comment. Just turns and goes back inside, leaving us alone.
Hazel crosses the yard toward me, moving with purpose. Her expression is set, that familiar mix of concern and steel I've seen a thousand times.
She looks like she didn't sleep either.
Good. At least I'm not alone in that.
"What's going on?" she asks.
I don't dress it up. "Fence got cut on the east pasture. We're missing cattle."
Her expression sharpens instantly. "How many?"
"At least twelve. Could be more."
She exhales, hard. "When?"
"Sometime last night." My gaze flicks past her, tracking the sky, the men moving, the way the day has already gone wrong. "We're heading out now."
"I'm coming with you."
"No."
The word is out before I think about it. Flat. Final.
Hazel stills. Her jaw sets. Eyes flash.
"Excuse me?"
I exhale through my nose, irritation threading through the urgency. I don't have time for this. Not after yesterday. Not with everything unsettled between us. "You're not riding out into this."
She steps closer. Too close. Close enough I can see the stubborn set of her mouth. The fire in her eyes that I know too well.
"Eli—"
"No," I cut in, jaw tightening. "This isn't—"
"Eli Dawson," she says, voice low and dangerous, "this is my ranch."
The words hit harder than I expect.
Harder than You're not the only one who lost your dad hit her.
We're standing close enough that anyone watching would see this for what it is. Not just an argument. A line being drawn.
Her chin lifts. Doesn't back down an inch.
I hold her gaze, feel the pressure of it, the truth she's throwing in my face whether I like it or not. "This isn't about ownership."
"It damn well is," she says. "Those cattle are mine. That fence is mine. And whoever cut it did it on my land."
The wind picks up harder now, rattling metal somewhere near the barn. Dust swirls across the yard. The storm sits heavy on the horizon, waiting.
Neither of us moves.
"I know this land," she continues. Voice steady. Certain. "I know where they'll head. I'm not sitting on the porch while you go chasing my family's livelihood."
I scrub a hand over my face, frustration flaring hot.
I want to tell her she gave up the right to call it "her ranch" when she left five years ago. Want to throw yesterday back in her face—all her careful talk about training programs she might not stick around to see through.
But standing here now, watching the set of her jaw, the way she's already dressed for work, boots laced, jacket ready, I see something else.
She's not asking permission.
She's telling me.
I remember the cattle move last week. The way she handled the left flank without question, read the herd, didn't hesitate. She knows what she's doing out there. Has always known.
That doesn't make this easier.
And part of me—the part that's too tired to keep fighting her—respects the hell out of that.
"Damn it," I mutter.
I look at her again and see it—the resolve. The refusal to be sidelined. The same stubborn streak that's always made me respect her and curse her in equal measure.
The same stubborn streak that made me fall for her in the first place.
"Fine," I say finally.
Her shoulders ease just a fraction.
"But you hurry the hell up," I add immediately. "Pack like you might be gone overnight. Warm clothes. Water. Whatever you think you need." My eyes harden. "We don't turn back just because it gets uncomfortable."
She meets my stare without blinking. "Wouldn't dream of it."
I nod once, sharp. That's all I've got time for.
Then I turn and march back toward the barn, jaw set, stride hard.
Maybe she'll leave after this. Maybe she won't.
But right now, we've got cattle to find.
And for once, she's not running.