Chapter 8
eight
Gage
Bullet’s barking echoes across the lower pasture as I pin another calf between my knees and snap a tag into place. The sky’s gone the color of old steel, heavy with the kind of storm that turns the ranch into a mud pit for days—but honestly? The weather’s still not the worst part of my morning.
I wipe sweat from my brow, straighten up, and that’s when I see my truck rolling across the property—slow, deliberate, completely unauthorized. Of course, the second I get a good look at the driver, my teeth grind.
Sloane. Of course it’s Sloane.
She pulls into the edge of the trees, kills the engine, grabs a bag of tools from the bed, and disappears into the woods like she owns the place. Right there, mid-pasture, soaked in sweat and irritation, the thought slams through me—
I really cannot stand that woman.
Every time I get a plan together to push her out of my hair, she finds a new way to screw it up. I mean, what gives her the right to listen in on my conversation? Sure, it was about her, but that doesn’t make it any less private.
If she’s offended, that tells me she knows damn well she’s been a thorn in my side. Sure, I’m probably a thorn in hers, but at least I’ve got a reason—this ranch is my livelihood, my family legacy.
She’s here out of obligation. Temporary obligation.
But yesterday made one thing painfully clear: she isn’t going anywhere. She’s going to dig her heels in, prove me wrong, and make damn sure she’s wedged in my side for the next six months. Fine. I can do the same.
Hell, I can do it better.
For now, I shove it down, because there’s still cattle to tag and prep before the next pickup run. I listen to the low rumble of the truck engine fading down the property line—my truck, in her hands—and grit my teeth harder.
Jesse and Mason are working horses. Hank’s asleep on a barrel because the old man treats napping like a religion. So yeah—the person driving my truck straight into the woods is going to be Sloane.
Why the hell is she going down there—and with my tools?
She disappears into the trees, tools slung over her shoulder, and I force myself to look away—but the confusion sticks. She has no business out there. She sure as hell has no business poking around with equipment she doesn’t understand.
I shake my head and turn back to the cattle, tagging the calves that were recently born. It’s a relatively slow day, but an easy one.
The guys got most of the morning chores handled, and I’ve kept to myself, which is easier than dealing with her. For the rest of the afternoon, it’s been tagging and inventory. Mostly tagging and inventory for me.
By the time I finish the last calf, the sky has gone damn near black. Normally I’d have checked the radar, but with everything that happened yesterday? I forgot.
And it wasn’t just the argument.
It was how close we were.
I told Monty she was changing things, but this is the first time I start to understand how much. The branding was bad enough—but almost kissing her? That’s another level of trouble.
I can’t stand her, but the worst part? A tiny, stupid part of me wonders if kissing her would’ve finally shut her up.
A low roll of thunder vibrates across the land.
Yeah. The sky’s about to open up.
“Hey, boys!” I shout to Jesse and Mason. They look up. “Get the horses back in the barn. We’ve got a storm rolling in.”
They nod and jump into motion. I walk over to Hank, still asleep on his metal barrel. I nudge it with my boot until he jolts awake.
“Help me round up the cattle,” I tell him, and he nods as I whistle for Bullet. The dog vaults off the porch and sprints toward us, barking orders in his own little language.
Hank and I move fast, pulling cattle in row by row. The sky turns almost black overhead. Lightning forks across the horizon as Hank and Bullet drag in the last line right as the rain hits.
Hard.
We need the rain. Doesn’t make the timing any less inconvenient.
“That’s it. Just in time,” Hank comments, shaking his head as Bullet shakes out his fur.
“Thanks for the help,” I say as he latches the final gate.
“Well, of course. It’s my job,” he says with a smile—before frowning. He glances around the barn.
“It seems we’re missing a person.”
My stomach drops.
“Ah, hell.”
The rain is picking up fast, turning dirt into muck, and despite the visibility being trash, I can still make out the truck in the distance. The brake lights glow through the downpour, but there’s no movement.
I turn back to Hank.
“Take Bullet with you for the night. I’m going to get Sloane,” I tell him, and he tips his hat.
“Sure thing. Make sure to take care of Miss Carter for me,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
Of course he’s already warmed up to her, which is both annoying and frustrating—especially when she does things like this that make me need to clean up her mess.
I rush out of the barn as Hank and Bullet head off toward his quarters. I run down the hill, my boots slipping in the mud. Rain buries into my eyes as I get soaked to the bone.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
As I get closer, I see the back wheels spinning hard, spraying mud as she tries to reverse out. She gets out—already drenched—and tries to push the truck herself, but her boots skid and her hand scrapes along the bumper.
I wince as she cries out, the sound swallowed by thunder and rain. She’s covered in mud, her hand smeared with blood and dirt, and she still tries again, climbing into the front seat.
“Don’t do that!” I shout through the storm. She whips around, startled. I hold out my hand, bracing myself in the mud. “The more you try, the deeper the truck sinks. Just forget it. We’ll get it in the morning,” I say—nicer than I normally would be, but she looks miserable as hell.
She cuts the engine and shuts the door before taking my hand with her good one. I put her in front of me and guide her up the hill. She slips twice, and both times I catch her by the waist and haul her back upright.
Once we make it to the ranch house, things get easier. We burst onto the porch just as lightning flashes, followed by a thunderclap so loud it rattles the siding. Sloane jumps, shivering.
“Boots off before you step inside,” I tell her, kicking mine off and peeling off my socks.
I head into the mud room, grab one of my flannels, and hand it to her.
“Get changed. I’ll take care of that scrape,” I say, not giving her room to argue. She’s unusually quiet—a miracle—and I take full advantage of it.
She disappears into the bathroom and reappears a few minutes later. And God help me—
She’s wearing only my flannel. Bare legs, bare thighs, the hem hanging just long enough to barely hide anything. She blushes, looking down.
“I didn’t want to get any mud on the furniture,” she says softly.
I swallow hard and look anywhere but at those legs.
I take her muddy clothes, toss them into the wash, and grab the first aid kit. The storm still rages as I bring it into the living room, where she’s curled up on the couch, a blanket covering her lap.
Thank God.
I sit beside her and lift her injured hand onto a pillow as I open the kit.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I glance up but don’t answer.
“I found a water main station and was trying to figure out how old it was,” she says as I start to clean the wound. She winces against the sting.
“Our water station is on the opposite side of the ranch. Always has been. We serviced it last year—since I know how much of a stickler you are for regulations,” I say.
Her eyes shoot up. Confused. Too confused.
“How long has this been in your family?” she asks.
I shrug. “A long time.”
“And there are no neighboring ranches near you?”
I narrow my eyes, spreading ointment across the cut with more pressure than necessary.
“There’s never been a soul setting up shop within three miles of Hollis Ranch,” I say firmly. “So why are you fishing for information?”
“I told you—I’m trying to help,” she replies, shivering as I finish wrapping her hand. My fingertips brush her skin, and her breath catches—not from pain this time.
Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Earnest. Asking me to believe her.
Something in my chest shifts—dangerous and unwelcome. This is exactly the line I told myself I wouldn’t cross.
Not tonight. Not with her still bleeding. Not when I’ve already decided how this is supposed to end.
The walls I’ve built don’t feel so solid anymore. This is a mistake—and I'm making it anyway.
Not because I don’t want her—but because I do. And wanting her like this would wreck the leverage I’d been setting up since last night.
“I’m not your enemy, Gage,” she says quietly.
My jaw tightens as I lean in, the storm’s noise fading until all I hear is her breathing.
“Yeah?” I murmur. “Then what are you?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Mine do the same.
She swallows hard and lifts her wrapped hand, brushing the edge of the bandage along my cheek. The coarse fabric drags across my stubble, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Every clash. Every argument. Every time she’s driven me insane.
I should step back. I don’t. That’s the choice.
It all pulls tight and snaps between us as I move in—meeting her halfway.
Our lips crash together, a battle for dominance that feels inevitable after everything between us. She nips my bottom lip harder than I expect, and I groan into her mouth as I grip the back of her neck, holding her there, refusing to give ground.
She reaches for my wet flannel, working at the buttons one by one, but patience has never been my strength. I rip it off instead, buttons scattering across the floor. I pull the blanket away and tug the shirt over her head. She laughs into my mouth.
“Keep this up and you won’t have any flannels left,” she teases as I toss the fabric aside.
I push her back against the couch and drop to my knees, staring down at her half-naked body. I lick my lips as I undo my belt, hunger tightening low in my gut. She reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra, tossing it aside.
How did I not truly notice how beautiful she is?