Chapter 17
seventeen
Sloane
Red and blue lights flash around the ranch as two officers, including Sheriff Riggins, examine the scene.
I sit on the main house steps, watching it all unfold, staying out of the way while Gage talks to the sheriff.
My elbows rest on my knees as Bullet lies beside me, his head heavy against my thigh.
This could have been worse, so much worse. A few stolen pieces of equipment and some minor repairs are nothing the ranch hands, Gage, and I can’t handle. Who would do this, though?
From everything I’ve learned about Bell River, the place barely sees crime at all. A couple of rebellious teens wouldn’t be capable of picking up the pump machine on their own. No, this feels personal, but honestly, I couldn’t imagine who would go to this extreme.
Gage and Sheriff Riggins walk over. Bullet lifts his head, alert, but I run my hand over his head and neck gently, until he settles again.
“Sloane, this is Sheriff Riggins,” Gage says. “He has a few questions.”
I nod, knowing it’s all formality.
“Well, you must be that pretty lady from Daisy’s,” the sheriff says, tipping his hat.
Heat creeps up my cheeks. I may have stopped back a few times, okay, every morning, after my first visit. The coffee is delicious, and Gage still doesn’t keep creamer in the fridge.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, as Gage stated, I got a couple of questions for you.”
I nod.
“Gage states you were with him all day. Can you confirm this?” He asks, and I glance over at Gage for a moment, but then I have to remind myself that this is customary. Checking everyone’s whereabouts and if we’re all semi-connected in some fashion is the best way to get to the root of the issue.
“Yes, sir. We went to Buckley to file a report with the Water and Irrigation Board, then headed back here and spent a few hours on the south side of the property away from the ranch until sunset,” I explain as he writes it down, nodding to himself.
“And this report, does it have anything to do with that filing I got from the land assessor the other day?” He asks, making me grateful that Sheriff Riggins received it already and has already begun to look into it.
“It does.”
“She found illegal piping trailing from our property well to that construction site over yonder,” Gage says to the sheriff, pointing in the direction of the condo site. Sheriff Riggins shakes his head, scoffing.
“Those dang Horizon folk are nothing but trouble. I told the county it was a bad idea to do business with them, but they don’t listen,” he says, writing down the information in his book.
“So, Horizon's the likely source? I ask, and he looks up, nodding.
“They’re the only ones with the means and motive right now,” he says, pointing his pen at Gage. “You know, they approached your Uncle Sam with a considerable offer,” he says as Gage stands there, curious. I guess this is the first time he’s hearing about this.
“All the other land has been bought up around Hollis,” I confirm, and Gage shoots me a look—another thing he didn’t know, but something I learned months ago when we were still biting each other’s faces off like rabid dogs. I just failed to mention this piece because the piping issue took priority.
Sheriff Riggins nods. “I’ll bet anything they got something to do with all this mess,” he says, waving his pen around the ranch. “When Samuel said take a hike—well, you know how big city folk are. They get told no, they don’t accept that lying down.”
I try not to take that personally because he isn’t wrong. We don’t accept no, but he’s obviously referring to them using other means to get their point across.
“You got all you need?” Gage asks.
Sheriff Riggins flips through his notes, then nods. “I believe I do.” He looks between us. “I’ll look into this Horizon Group and see what I can find.”
He shakes Gage’s hand, tips his hat to me, then heads back toward his cruiser.
Gage turns to find the others, leaving me on the steps alone with my thoughts. The Horizon Group business card feels heavy in my wallet, like I’m carrying something poisonous. By all accounts, dealing with them is like shaking hands with the devil.
Still, based on how things are unfolding with Gage, I may not need to go that far with them. He’s trying—genuinely trying—but it’s too soon to trust the shift completely. People can backslide. I know that better than most.
I grab tools from the bed of Gage’s truck and head into the barn. Spare boards lean against the wall, stacked there by someone for later.
I kneel at the broken door and start prying away the damaged wood, working slowly and methodically, measuring each pull before committing to it.
Boots scuff behind me.
Gage drops down beside me with a quiet huff. “Did I ever tell you you’re good with your hands?”
I chuckle. “No. But I’ve never been one to wait around for a man to do the work for me.”
He smirks and reaches up to hold the board steady while I hammer. “I noticed.”
The door comes together quickly. Aside from the latch—which will need a trip to the hardware store tomorrow—it’s solid enough. We stand and inspect it together. Gage shakes his head, clearly impressed.
I don’t say anything, but I know this surprises him. I fixed the water main. Replaced the piping. Repaired the barn door with minimal help. If he hadn’t already handled the outer fence, I would’ve tackled that too.
“What’s next?” I ask.
He gestures toward the barn, then hands me a clipboard. “Can you double-check the equipment list for the insurance claim? I’ll repair the pasture-side door.”
I give him a mock salute. He rolls his eyes and heads off as I cross-check serial numbers against the inventory.
I round the corner to inspect one last area when a sharp crack splits the air.
“Ah—shit.”
I spin around. Gage’s fallen back, gripping his arm. Blood seeps dark through his flannel.
I drop the clipboard and jog over. “Let me see.”
I lift his hand carefully. It’s a deep gash—ugly, but not catastrophic. I shrug out of my flannel and wrap his arm tightly. “Everything else can wait. Let’s get this cleaned up.”
I help him inside, pausing just long enough to make sure the front gate is locked.
When I return, Gage’s at the sink, running water over the wound. It runs pink, then darkens into red. He hisses.
I grab the first aid kit and a towel from the mudroom and set them on the table. He joins me, resting his arm on the wood.
“Feels like déjà vu,” he says quietly. “You’re patching me up this time.”
“Thankfully, my wound healed,” I reply, smiling as I clean his gash. This one’s worse than mine was. He sucks in a breath when the antiseptic hits the cut.
After ointment and gauze, I wrap it securely, check it once more, then meet his eyes.
I linger longer than necessary, my fingers resting against his skin even after the bandage is secure in place. The contact feels different now—less clinical, more charged. I’m aware of the quiet between us, the way his breathing hasn’t quite steadied, the way mine hasn’t, either.
When I secure it in place, I rest my hand over it and meet his gaze. It doesn’t feel volatile or reckless. It feels deliberate. Chosen. The awareness sends a shiver down my spine, leaving me exposed in a way I don’t retreat from.
He rises from the chair, stops in front of me—and then drops to his knees.
I freeze.
Gage Hollis—on his knees for me.
The shift in power steals the air from my lungs. This isn’t a performance. It’s raw. Earnest. He looks up at me, breathing deep, controlled.
“I’m not great with words,” he says, “but I know every time we’ve been together has been… messy.”
I lift a brow.
“Not because the act itself was bad,” he adds quickly. “But because it was tangled up with anger or confusion. There was never any space in between. I should’ve been clearer with you the other night.”
A small smile curves my mouth.
He’s not asking me to interpret him anymore. He’s putting it out there—unpolished and exposed. This awkward, earnest man, trying so hard not to trip over his own feelings, softens something in me.
I realize then this isn’t about forgiveness anymore. It’s about trust—fragile, tentative, still forming, but real. I don’t want leverage. I want forward motion.
I take his face in my hands and kiss him deeply. He grips the chair behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
The kiss isn’t frantic. It’s grounding. I feel him steady beneath my hands, feel the tension ease just enough to let something warmer settle in its place.
I pull back just enough to keep him close, licking my lips, tasting him. “Take me upstairs,” I murmur.
He rises in one smooth motion, gathers me into his arms, and our mouths crash together again.
The kiss lands harder this time—hungrier, less restrained—like the choice has finally been made and neither of us is pretending otherwise.
His hands slide to my hips, then lower, hooking securely beneath my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as my fingers thread through his hair. He groans softly against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, sending a pulse of heat straight to my core.
He turns and carries me up the stairs, never breaking the kiss.
Each step jars us together, friction building with every movement, my body instinctively rolling against his.
He kicks his bedroom door open and sits on the edge of the bed with me straddling his lap.
I’ll bring up the mattress inequality later.
Right now, all I register is the solid heat of him beneath me and the way his grip tightens like he’s afraid to let go.
His hands slide under my tank top, then it’s gone. Cool air skims my skin for half a second before his palms replace it, rough and reverent all at once. I unfasten my bra and toss it aside as he kisses down my throat and across my chest, leaving me breathless and pliant.
Every kiss feels intentional, claimed—not rushed, not careless.