Chapter 16
sixteen
Gage
I’m halfway to Buckley before it hits me that I didn’t argue with her once.
Not about the paperwork. Not about the route. Not even about the coffee she refused when I offered to stop.
Sloane sits beside me in the truck, one of my hats pulled low over her hair, the brim shadowing her eyes as she flips through the folder on her lap.
Every page is tabbed. Labeled. Cross-checked.
She moves through it with quiet efficiency, like this is just another task to manage—not something tied to months of tension and mistrust.
She doesn’t ask if I’m ready.
Doesn’t prompt.
Doesn’t push.
She trusts me to do this—because I finally didn’t argue.
The realization settles low in my chest—not pressure, not panic. Responsibility. The kind I don’t want to shrug off or resist. The kind I chose when I told her I’d handle it.
I reach over the console and lace my fingers through hers without thinking. For half a second, I expect her to pull away. Instead, she squeezes back—quick and sure—then turns her attention back to the folder like this is normal.
Like we’re not rebuilding something fragile one choice at a time.
I keep my eyes on the road, even though every instinct in me wants to look at her. To check. To make sure she’s still there. Old habits die hard.
The miles stretch out ahead of us, fence lines blurring past, the land flattening as we leave Bell River behind. I catch myself wanting to fill the silence—to explain, to apologize again, to say something meaningful.
I don’t.
That’s the difference.
I let the quiet exist. Let the space stay unfilled. Let her breathe without me crowding it.
She shifts in her seat, her knee brushing mine. Not accidental. Not deliberate either. Just there. My thumb traces a slow circle against her knuckle, grounding myself in the simple fact of her presence.
This feels… different. Unfinished. But real.
The sign for Buckley comes into view, green letters flashing past the windshield. I lift her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles, quick and restrained. She looks up at me then, her mouth tilting into a soft smile that hits harder than any argument ever did.
“So, this is where you disappear into bureaucracy?” she asks.
“Temporarily,” I say. “I plan to survive.”
She snorts, shaking her head as I pull up in front of city hall and cut the engine. I hop out, circling the truck as she rolls the window down and hands me the folder.
“I’ll hopefully not be too long,” I say.
“Just you going instead of me is a step in the right direction,” she replies.
I grin. “Last thing I need is to deal with your wrath again.”
She gasps, lifting her boot like she might actually climb out and kick my ass. I laugh and step back before she can try.
I step inside Buckley’s city hall and immediately feel out of place.
The building smells like old paper and cleaner, the kind that’s been diluted one too many times. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the hallway walls are lined with framed photos of smiling officials who look like they’ve never touched a shovel in their lives.
I follow the directory to the floor that manages irrigation and water supply, my boots echoing louder than I’d like against the tile.
Sloane warned me about this part.
Not the logistics—the resistance.
I take a number, sit, wait.
A man across from me keeps glancing at the folder on my lap like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. A clerk finally calls my number, her expression neutral but guarded, and leads me into a small office with a desk that’s seen better decades.
“What can we help you with?” she asks, fingers already hovering over her keyboard.
I lay the folder down carefully.
Not rushed.
Not aggressive.
Measured.
“I’m here to report an illegal water diversion tied to a development site outside Bell River,” I say. “I’m the co-owner of the affected property.”
Her brows lift a fraction. “Bell River,” she repeats, like the words taste sour.
I don’t miss it.
I walk her through the documentation—maps, timestamps, photos. I explain how the secondary line was installed without updated permits, how the draw exceeded the approved allotment. I stick to facts. Dates. Evidence.
No accusations. No emotional appeals.
There’s a pause as she flips through the pages. Then she leaves the room.
I wait again.
When she returns, she’s brought someone else with her—older, sharper eyes, suit jacket draped over one arm. He asks questions. I answer them. When he presses, I don’t fold. I don’t posture either.
I hear Sloane’s voice in my head: *Let the paper do the talking.*
After what feels like an hour, the paperwork is filed, stamped, and flagged for review.
“An investigator will be assigned,” the man says. “You’ll be contacted.”
I nod. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
When I step back outside, sunlight hits my face like a reward I didn’t know I needed.
Sloane is still in the truck, music low, one knee pulled up on the seat as she scrolls her phone. She’s wearing Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, a tank top that shows just enough skin to be distracting without trying. My flannel is knotted around her waist like it belongs there.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
I stop a few feet away and just… look.
The way her hair curls at her shoulders.
The concentration on her face.
The ease of her presence.
I clear my throat.
She jumps, then laughs when she sees me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to admire you,” I say.
Color blooms across her cheeks, and something warm settles in my chest. “I liked you better when you trash-talked me.”
“I can multitask,” I reply, leaning my arms on the open window. “You’re beautiful.”
She leans across the console and kisses me—soft, unhurried. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just… there.
When she pulls back, her fingers brush the scruff along my jaw, her smile slow and knowing. I catch the dimples then, really see them, and wonder how the hell I missed them for so long.
“I wanna take you somewhere,” I say.
She doesn’t ask where. Just nods. “Okay.”
The drive back to Bell River is quiet in the good way. When I turn off the main road and cut the engine near the old clearing, she looks around, curiosity lighting her eyes.
“Are we allowed to be here?”
“It’s still our land,” I say. “All of it.”
Her eyes widen. “You own this much and didn’t tell me?”
“Thought I’d save a few surprises.”
I hop out and hold my hand out to her. She takes it, trusting, and I guide her through the drooping branches of the weeping willows. The leaves brush over our shoulders, creating a curtain, the world beyond fading away.
When we step through, she gasps.
The field opens up before us—wildflowers stretching out in every direction, color layered over green like it’s been waiting to be noticed. The noise of the road is gone. The air feels different here. Lighter.
I’ve never brought anyone here.
Not once. Not even when I thought I was in love.
And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like a loss.
I wrap my arms around her waist, pressing her back against my chest. “You haven’t even seen the best part,” I tell her, forcing myself to step away before I do something reckless.
I guide her toward the mesquite tree at the edge of the field, its branches wide and low, the trunk solid and familiar beneath my palm. I sit first, leaning back against the bark, and she settles between my legs without hesitation—like she belongs there. Like it’s natural.
My arm comes around her slowly, resting across her middle. I don’t pull her closer. I don’t need to. She leans back into me on her own, her shoulders easing, her breath evening out as if the tension she carries everywhere finally loosens its grip.
“This is beautiful, Gage,” she murmurs.
Her voice sounds different here. Lighter. The edge I’m used to hearing has softened, replaced by something quiet and real. I feel it settle into my own chest, and the urge to protect it—to not break this moment—hits harder than anything else today.
“I’ve never brought anyone else out here,” I admit.
She tilts her head slightly, looking up at me. “Why not?”
I swallow. “Because it was mine. Because I didn’t want to share it with someone who could ruin it.”
Her gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching. “And me?”
I exhale slowly. “You already ruined everything for me,” I say. “Just… not the way I thought.”
A breath passes between us. The field hums with insects, the breeze stirring the flowers around us. I can feel her pulse under my arm. I keep my grip loose, deliberate, like tightening it would cross a line I’m not ready to cross yet.
“That day at the branding,” I continue, my voice lower now, “that’s when I knew things were changing. I grabbed the clippers instead of the iron without even thinking about it.
You didn’t ask me to. You didn’t push. You just… stood there and expected better.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush me.
“I didn’t want to admit it,” I say. “Didn’t want to see it. But you changed how I see this place. How I see myself in it.” I pause, choosing the words carefully. “If, somehow, I end up back where I started when you leave… at least I’ll know I tried. That I didn’t hide.”
Her fingers curl around my forearm, not holding me, just anchoring. “Tried to do what?”
“To be better,” I say. “To prove I’m not the man you met that first week.”
What I don’t say presses hard against my ribs. *Stay.*
I don’t let it out.
It’s too soon.
And I won’t trap her with words I’m not ready to earn.
She turns then, slow and deliberate, shifting just enough that her knee presses between mine. Her hand comes up, cupping my jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
The kiss she gives me isn’t rushed.
It’s deep. Intentional. And loaded.
I let myself feel it—just for a moment—before I pull back first, resting my forehead against hers, my breath uneven.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?” she asks softly.
“For giving me the chance to show you who I am,” I say. “And for protecting this place… even when I didn’t make it easy.”
She smiles, small and warm. “Anytime.”
We sit there longer than we should, watching the sun dip low enough to set the field on fire with gold. I don’t touch her again. I don’t need to.
This moment matters because it’s unfinished.
When we pull back into the ranch, voices carry from the yard before I even cut the engine. Hank. Jesse. Mason. Arguing.
Sloane stiffens beside me, sensing it the same second I do
Something’s wrong.
We hop out of the truck, and the tension hits before anyone speaks.
Hank and Jesse are standing shoulder to shoulder near the barn, both of them stiff, faces hard. Mason hovers a few feet away, hands jammed into his pockets, gaze fixed on the dirt like it might swallow him whole.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask.
Sloane steps up beside me without hesitation, her presence steady even as Hank and Jesse turn their attention fully on Mason.
“Well,” Mason starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I went out to the bar tonight. Brought a girl back to my cabin. We were… you know.”
He glances at Sloane, clearly uncomfortable.
I don’t bother reacting. Trust me—she knows.
“…anyway,” he continues, voice dropping, “Hank and Jesse were out checking the fence line. I forgot to lock the ranch gate and—”
“And someone took advantage,” Hank cuts in, stepping forward. “Stole half the damn equipment while numb-nuts was getting his rocks off.”
My stomach drops.
“Are you sure?” I ask, already moving.
I don’t wait for an answer. I head straight for the cattle barn, boots crunching over gravel, pulse thudding in my ears. The closer I get, the worse it looks. The lock on the door hangs broken, metal twisted like it was pried open with purpose.
Inside, the space feels wrong. Empty. The pump system is gone. Just… gone.
I stand there for a second, staring at the bare concrete where thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment used to sit. Rage coils tight in my chest, hot and fast, threatening to explode.
“That’s not all,” Jesse says from behind me. “The ultrasound unit’s missing. And the machine we use to test bacteria in the milk.”
I turn slowly, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. “Anything else?”
“That’s all we could confirm so far,” he replies. “We haven’t checked every building yet.”
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to get ahead of the spiral. Someone didn’t just wander in here. They knew what to take. They knew where it was.
“It’s okay.”
Sloane’s voice cuts through the noise, calm but not unshaken. She steps closer, her hand brushing my arm—not to stop me, just to anchor me.
“I filed full equipment insurance when I arrived,” she says. “Everything major is covered. Replacement, loss, damage. We’re not ruined.”
I look at her, stunned.
My uncle never would’ve thought of that.
I sure as hell didn’t.
Relief eases some of the pressure in my chest, but it doesn’t touch the anger. Someone broke onto my land. Someone crossed a line.
And they did it while we were gone.
The thought makes my blood run cold.
“I’ll call Sheriff Riggins,” I say, already pulling my phone from my pocket.
“For now, nobody touches anything else. Leave it exactly as it is.”
Sloane nods, slipping seamlessly into place beside me. “Document everything you find,” she adds. “Photos, serial numbers, locations. I’ll handle the insurance paperwork first thing in the morning.”
Hank and Jesse nod, already moving to do as told. Mason lingers for half a second longer, guilt written all over his face, before following after them.
I scan the property, eyes sharp, instincts on edge. The cattle are calm. The horses shift in their stalls, ears flicking but otherwise fine. Bullet trots over, tail wagging, completely oblivious.
That almost makes it worse.
“This doesn’t happen in Bell River,” I mutter.
Sloane turns toward me. “Not without a reason.”
I meet her gaze, the weight of the day pressing down hard. “If you hadn’t insured that equipment—”
“But I did,” she says gently, patting my cheek. “I told you. You need me.”
A short, humorless scoff leaves me. “Yeah. Turns out you were right.”
And standing there, with the barn door busted and the dark pressing in around us, I realize something else too.
This wasn’t random.
And whoever did it isn’t done yet.