Chapter 15
Late May
One Year Later
Sun bore down on Kyla’s bare forearms as she stood at the edge of the branding corral, boots sunk in dust, air thick with smoke, hide, and the sour edge of fear. Sweat slid beneath her shirt collar.
Calves bawled.
Fence boards moved under her palm. Voices rose and broke behind her, but she kept her eyes forward. This was her place now. She had crossed too much ground to pretend otherwise.
The branding pen cut a rough boundary through the afternoon. Inside it stood crew, cattle, history, and claim. She had rolled her sleeves high before stepping in. Denim clung at her hips. Dust coated her boots. Her hair had already come loose at the nape.
Around her, men and women ringed the fence with coils of rope, coffee mugs, and the patience of people who knew this work by heart.
Dogs slipped beneath knees and rails, tails sharp with interest. Sun flashed along steel bars and the black rim of the fire pit where irons waited in the coals.
Smoke carried scorched wood and old grease.
Kyla fixed her attention on the calves lined up for their turn.
Each one complained in its own raw voice, all leg and panic, all new to pain.
A little over a year ago, she had walked into this corral with city posture and borrowed courage.
Now her body knew where to stand, how to brace, when to breathe.
Laughter broke at the gate. Emmitt was easy to place without looking. Kyla rubbed her thumb once across the blue bandana tucked in her pocket and kept her breathing steady.
Titus stepped into the edge of her sight. No hat. Sweat darkened the hairline above his brow. Dirt streaked his forearms. His boots were set wide, ready for the next hard thing. He said nothing. He only stood close enough for her to register him without turning.
Then she saw what he carried.
The new iron rested in his hand with more care than the task demanded.
Burn lines crossed his knuckles. A chip of old blue paint clung near the handle.
At the base sat the small knife he had etched there for her, clean and plain.
Beside it stood the blocky B that made the thing theirs in a way no one in the county could mistake.
He held it out to her, handle first.
“Ready, Chef.”
His voice came low, meant for her even with the crew all around them.
She looked at him. His gaze dropped once to the knife tattoo at her wrist, then returned to her face. Nothing in him rushed her. Nothing softened either. He offered the iron and the moment with equal certainty.
Kyla wrapped her fingers around the handle. Warmth climbed through the wood into her palm. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist before he let go. Their hands overlapped for one brief second.
She nodded once. “Let’s see if I can do this without passing out.”
A shuffle ran the length of the fence. Someone whooped. Someone laughed under their breath. Crew moved into place at the chute while Titus stepped closer to the fire with her. The tip of the iron glowed red. Heat brushed her knuckles. She drew one long breath through her nose and steadied herself.
Titus stayed near enough that his sleeve nearly touched hers. Sweat, smoke, leather, and cattle wrapped around him. He had pulled on gloves, but he watched her hands, not the iron, not the crowd.
Emmitt barked for quiet. Rope hands dropped into position around the first calf. Kyla lifted the iron and tested its pull in her grip. This first mark would be hers. She did not need him to say it. She could read it in the set of his mouth.
She lifted her chin.
She was ready.
The world narrowed to hide, smoke, and pressure. Kyla squared herself and pressed the iron to the calf while it fought against the squeeze. The hiss rose fast. Smoke burned her eyes and filled her mouth with a bitter metal taste. Sweat tracked from her temple to the hollow at her throat.
Titus braced the calf’s head. His bare forearm brushed hers as he set his own body against the animal’s struggle.
A drop of sweat fell from his jaw onto her wrist. She jerked once at the heat and then corrected.
He did not look at her. He only tightened his grip and leaned his shoulder into the work.
She counted breaths. One. Two. Three.
The iron stayed true.
Someone behind her grunted approval. Another hand tossed over a spare glove when the seam on hers split. Kyla took it without looking away from the calf. The smell of burnt hair crowded everything. Her back ached. Her fingers trembled. She pushed harder and kept her jaw shut.
The calf kicked. Dirt burst up. Its hoof missed her shin by inches.
Kyla shifted on instinct. Titus moved with her, forearm closing the space before she could lose her balance.
For a second, her cheek came close enough to his jaw that she could feel the scrape of afternoon stubble without touching it.
She lifted the iron clear and Titus checked the mark. His chin tipped once. No wasted praise. No need.
Another calf came in bawling. She switched hands, ignored the fire in her wrist, and set the next brand with the same care she had once given a knife line through onions, meat, or carrots.
Titus moved beside her in the same rough rhythm, one step ahead when the animal lunged, one step back when she needed room.
His palm landed once at her lower back as she leaned in over a smaller calf. Quick. Certain. Gone before anyone could make a story of it.
The day burned forward. Sun reddened skin. Flies gathered. Smoke sat thick at the back of her throat. Crew noise came in bursts around the work.
A boy got his rope tangled and the older hands laughed him raw. Emmitt cursed him straight. Coffee mugs changed hands. Someone shoved a sandwich toward her and she ignored it.
Kyla kept going. Her thumb cramped. Her shoulders screamed. Her gloves darkened with sweat. Each calf came and went in the same hard rhythm. Brand. Lift. Shift. Breathe. Titus’s eyes found hers when she needed the next push, and every time the message stayed the same.
Stay in it.
She did.
By the final calf, her muscles shook with fatigue, but the iron never drifted.
Titus caught her elbow once when her footing slipped in the churned dirt.
His touch stayed only long enough to set her right.
Their hands met again around the handle, accidental if anyone asked, not accidental to either of them.
When the last calf cleared the chute, voices burst out from every side of the pen. Relief. Laughter. The rough joy that came after good work. Titus stayed at her flank, chest rising hard.
Then Kyla stepped toward the fence post beside him and pressed the iron to the wood. The hiss cut through every other sound. Smoke rose in a tight curl. Wood darkened under the mark. For one second, all the noise around them pulled back.
She lowered the iron and turned. Her fist closed in the front of Titus’s shirt and she dragged him down toward her before the crew or the cattle could decide this belonged to anyone else.
“Mine,” she said against his mouth.
He answered by turning her into the fence, one hand spread at the back of her head so the plank never touched skin. The kiss came rough, hungry, and entirely public.
Dust shook loose under their boots. Her hands went to his belt and then to his shoulders when he caught both her wrists and pinned them at the rail above her head.
“You sure.”
Her chest rose sharp. “Don’t ask twice.”
The crew made noise behind them. Someone laughed.
Someone swore. No one stepped in. Titus kissed her again, slower this time, and then faster when she bit at his lower lip and dragged him closer with her knee between his thighs.
His hand slid to her hip, then under the hem of her shirt to bare skin. Her breath broke.
The boards dug into her back. Dust clung to the sweat at her neck. The whole corral kept breathing around them, and still the moment belonged to them alone. He pressed his forehead to hers once, both of them breathing hard.
When he stepped back, it was only far enough to look at the brand smoking on the fence post. Then he reached for her hand. Their fingers locked, hot and dirty and shaking from labor.
Together they walked to the fire ring. The blaze had settled into low red coals. He crouched and lifted the new iron from the edge of the pit, showing it to her in the open light. The knife at the base. The B worked into the handle.
Kyla took it in both hands. No smile. No speech. Only that deep, intent focus she gave anything that mattered. Then she laid her free hand against his chest, right over the place where his pulse ran fast and hard beneath sweat and denim.
The crew gathered near the cookshack with cups raised and grins they did not bother to hide. A whistle cut through the air. Someone called out that the county would be talking by supper. Someone else answered that there were worse things.
Emmitt’s voice carried over them all. “About damn time.”
Kyla leaned into Titus’s side. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple, taking his time with it. This time, she leaned back into him in full view of everybody. Behind them, the post still smoked. Ahead of them sat coffee, bad jokes, dust, and all the work that would come after this.
Titus squeezed her hand once and led her toward the cookshack. Kyla went with him, head up, brand in hand, her place no longer in question.
The noise of the pen rushed back in all at once. Boots grinding, rope snapping taut, a calf bawling sharp enough to scrape nerves raw.
Kyla stepped away from the post, chest still rising hard, the taste of smoke and iron sitting heavy at the back of her tongue. Her hand tightened around the iron handle for one last second before she lowered it.
“Next one up,” Emmitt barked.
Work did not pause for anything. Not for marks in wood. Not for what had just passed between her and Titus in full view of the crew. Kyla turned back toward the chute.