Chapter 5
five
Gage
Iused to love mornings. It was always so peaceful getting up before you knew the rest of the world was awake. I did my best thinking and my best work before the sun rose because no one was around to bother me.
Mornings were mine—quiet, predictable, under control. I enjoy my peace, I need it, but lately I haven’t found much of that, and the absence of it grates more than I want to admit.
In just a couple of days, Sloane has become a real pain in my ass—loud, unavoidable, and impossible to ignore no matter how early I get up.
A part of me thinks she’s doing it on purpose, so she can force me out of here, pushing and needling until I’m the one who leaves, but another part of me thinks that this is really just how she is—unyielding, inconvenient, impossible to sidestep. No wonder no man has snatched her up yet.
Well, maybe she has a fella. I’ve never bothered to stand in the same vicinity long enough to ask, and I don’t plan to, but if she does, I have to wonder what man would be okay with his woman rooming with a stranger. What kind of chaos would willingly sign up for that?
It doesn’t matter, anyway. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
It isn’t my business. I repeat it like a rule, hoping repetition makes it true.
I went to bed hungry last night, but I know it’s my own fault.
Hunger is easier to deal with than conceding ground.
I won’t admit it to her, though. I can bet anything that the food tasted as good as it smelled, and the thought needles at me longer than it should, but I’m bullheaded.
If I set my mind to something, you best believe I’m going to stick to it, even when it costs me.
The problem, however, isn’t the fact that I am as stubborn as a mule; it’s the fact that she is equally as stubborn as I am, and she doesn’t back down just because I expect her to. At every turn, she defies everything I say.
If I tell her to leave the books alone, she goes around touching the books. If I tell her not to bother the ranch hands, what does she do? Talk to them without my consent.
I’m not used to that—to being ignored, challenged, or dismissed on my own land.
At any rate, it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting my peace back, restoring things to how they’re supposed to run. I can handle someone being a pain in the ass; I deal with enough people who annoy me from time to time, but in the mornings, I run this place—quiet, uninterrupted, on my terms.
After all, this is all temporary, right? That’s the deal, the timeline, the promise I cling to. Soon she’ll be gone, and I will never have to see or think about Sloane Carter ever again.
It truly will be a peaceful day—or at least, that’s what I need to believe as I head out the door.
This morning is my first real attempt at reclaiming it. I made my cup of coffee and met Hank, Jesse, and Mason out at the ring, the routine steadying me the way it always does.
They stand around, talking amongst themselves, and one of our colts, Sammy, walks around the ring to get himself some exercise, unaware of the weight we’re about to place on him.
After everything that’s happened the last couple of days, today should’ve been simple — because Sammy is officially a part of Hollis Ranch. He’s getting his brand, a mark of belonging and responsibility, and it’s an important occasion since he’s named after Uncle Sam.
As I walk over to the ring, I hear footsteps running up beside me, too fast, too close, and a streak of brown hair flashes past my shoulder. What the hell? I didn’t wake her up purposefully because I didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere near this.
I reach out and catch her wrist, stopping her short and pulling her back, reacting on instinct before I’ve even decided to.
“Where are you going?” I ask, already shaking my head. “You can’t come into the ring. Stay back behind the rail — it’s dangerous.”
“To observe.” She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she gestures past me toward the ring, easy and unbothered, and lifts her free hand in a small wave.
Hank waves back immediately, Mason waves excitedly like a weird teenager, and Jesse nods toward us, like her presence here is already settled business.
They’re already acting like she belongs, and it sets my teeth on edge.
“Hank invited me during dinner last night,” she adds, breathless now that she’s stopped moving, “but I’m also here to talk you out of it.”
“You had dinner with Hank?” The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with something that has nothing to do with food.
“And talk me out of what?”
“I intended to have dinner with someone else, but he decided to blow me off. Can you believe the nerve?” she says, narrowing her eyes—not directly naming me, but we were both there, we know what happened.
“But should you really be branding a horse?” she continues, shifting her weight and angling her body toward the ring. “Studies show that it is psychologically damaging.”
I roll my eyes. “Ah, here we go,” already bracing for the lecture I know is coming.
“What? It’s true! Imagine if you had a hot iron placed on your skin. How’d you feel?” she asks, finally tugging her wrist free and planting her hands on her hips, squaring up to me like she’s ready for the fight.
“Listen, Hollis Ranch has been doing this for the last four generations. The animals don’t bat an eye at us afterward,” I reply, leaning into the words like repetition alone should end the argument, walking around her to put space back between us and reclaim my footing.
“This is also part my ranch, Gage,” she says evenly, loud enough that the hands don’t have to strain to hear it.
I stop short and flip around. “No one is forcing you to stay, Miss Carter,” I reply, my words and voice low, measured in a way that’s meant to end things, not invite debate, showing how little patience I have left.
She walks up to meet me and levels her stare at mine, challenging, and then she smirks. “I think I’ll stay,” she says, the softness of her voice a deliberate contrast to the line she’s just drawn, doing nothing to disguise her stubbornness.
She walks away to meet the rest of the ranch hands, like the argument never happened and her place here is already settled. It isn’t just Sammy that we’re branding.
We got another horse recently—a stallion. And if I’ve learned anything about stallions, it’s that they can be temperamental, unpredictable when they’re pushed too hard. The breeder named him Capone and swore he throws strong stock, but we haven’t done much with him yet beyond securing him.
It makes me a bit nervous, more than I care to admit, but it was the last deal Uncle Sam secured before his death, so naturally, I wanted to honor him.
I step inside the ring and place my cup down, heading over to the hot iron, the weight of the moment settling heavier than it should.
I look over at Sloane, who keeps her distance by the rail, watchful but silent, which makes me thankful.
Hank stands beside her as Mason and Jesse work on securing Sammy.
They walk him over to me, and I hold the iron out, feeling every set of eyes on the ring, saying a few words. “All right, Sammy, with this brand, you will officially be a part of Hollis Ranch.
Like the person who had your name before, may you be strong and hardworking.” The words are familiar, practiced. “I apologize in advance for this, little fella,” I add, under my breath.
The heat rolls off the iron in slow waves, metallic and sharp, mixing with the familiar smells of leather, dust, and horse sweat. It’s a scent I’ve known my entire life. One that usually grounds me. Usually steadies my hand.
I’ve done this more times than I can count. Watched Uncle Sam do it. Watched my granddad before him. Clean, quick, efficient. No hesitation. Hesitation was always worse than pain.
That’s what I was taught. That’s what I believed.
Sammy shifts again, a soft snort leaving his nostrils as Mason tightens his hold. He’s young, still learning the limits of pressure, still trusting us to know better than he does. My grip tightens around the handle, muscle memory lining everything up automatically.
Angle. Placement. Time.
This is routine.
So why does my chest feel tight?
Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Sloane’s presence without looking at her. Not speaking. Not interfering. Just watching. Observing. Like she’s cataloging everything, filing it away. The thought irritates me more than it should. This isn’t a debate. This isn’t a classroom.
This is how it’s always been done.
I tell myself that stallions react harder than colts. That Sammy will be fine. That I’m overthinking something I’ve never questioned before. That this isn’t the moment to entertain doubt planted by someone who hasn’t lived this life.
My hand lifts anyway, iron poised—then locks mid-motion. I get ready to place the iron on Sammy’s skin—and stop before I commit to the motion.
Why? Why am I hesitating?
The iron is ready, the timing right, my hand trained to move without thought, but my body refuses.
Sammy grows restless as the seconds tick by, shifting beneath the hands meant to steady him.
I close my eyes tightly and clench my jaw, knowing I can’t afford to miss or rush this, and step back from Jesse and Mason.
“Release him. Let me get Capone done first,” I instruct them, forcing the words out, as Mason walks Sammy out of the ring.
I look back at Hank and Sloane. She’s leaning against the railing, listening to Hank talk her ear off—at least I think she is. Her eyes aren’t trained on him, but on me. She nods to Hank and responds to him, present enough to be polite, but her eyes never leave me.
Not curious. Not uncertain. Just fixed.
If she’s trying to stare holes into me, she’s doing a bang-up job.
Jesse returns with Capone, the black stallion big and much older than Sammy. I know if I can brand any of our new horses and not feel a little bit guilty about it, it’s Capone. Older. Heavier. Strong enough to take it—at least that’s the logic I reach for.
It’s easier to believe that than admit why my hand froze.
The thing that needles at me isn’t that Sloane’s a city girl. It’s that she didn’t just show up spouting opinions—she did her homework. She read the studies. She came armed with facts, not feelings, and that makes it harder to dismiss her outright.
I’ve worked with stallions long enough to know they react harder, faster, meaner when pain’s involved, and I don’t like that she forced that knowledge to the front of my mind right now.
Mason holds Capone in place as I place the iron back in the hot coals to heat it up again, my focus narrowing to timing and control, the heat biting through my gloves. I watch as it turns bright red and then tug it out, knowing I have one clean window to do this right, and walk back to Capone.
As I get ready to place it on Capone’s skin—before I even finish the motion—he lets out a sharp, startled squeal and surges forward. He rears and as his front end comes off the ground, his hooves strike the air as instinct takes over.
“Jesse, get out of here!” I yell, reacting without hesitation, as Jesse drops the rope and moves fast, clearing the area before Capone comes back down.
Capone takes off, spinning away from the pressure instead of charging straight through it, and I break for the side of the ring where Hank and Sloane have been standing.
He tears along the rail, head high and eyes wild, long strides eating ground as he breaks loose and looks for an exit, faster than any horse we’ve had.
As I reach the fence, he swings wide and then cuts back, misjudging the corner, momentum carrying him toward the rail just as Sloane scrambles for it, Hank already reaching for her—.
I haul myself up the ring fence rails, barely getting a leg over before I grab Sloane and yank her with me. She scrambles, half climbing, half dragged, boots slipping against the wood as she comes up beside me.
She sucks in a sharp breath as her weight hits the rail, fingers white-knuckled where she grips the top board.
My hand locks around her waist as Capone thunders past in a blur of muscle and dust, close enough that I feel the rush of air. My other hand comes down hard on her leg, shoving it tight to the fence so it’s clear of him as he surges by.
The impact rattles the rails beneath us, old wood groaning under the force of it.
I look over at Jesse. “We’re done hot-branding. We’ll clip and freeze brand instead,” I tell him, my voice clipped and final, and he nods, already moving to grab what he needs.
No questions. No pushback. Just action.
Hank reaches up to help Sloane down from the fence as I hop down beside her.
She won’t look at me, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder like she’s bracing for what comes next.
“I told you to stay out of the ring. It’s dangerous—you didn’t listen, did you?” I snap, not waiting for an answer as I turn away and stride off, anger rushing in to fill the space where doubt just was.
This tradition never had any issues until she showed up, and now I’m changing it because of her damn words—because I let them get under my skin.
“Are you kidding me?” she calls after me. “It’s because you tried to put a hot iron on his skin that he spooked. I didn’t go any farther once you stopped me. I stayed by the rail.”
“So at least own up to the fact that I was right.”
I turn back. “I told you to stay out of the way. You shouldn’t have even been there,” I say, doubling down because backing off would mean admitting she has a point, and she just shakes her head.