Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ARLO
Ihate using my wound as an excuse. Shame sours my stomach. But this has to be believable… at least until I sort things out.
I grimace, aware of the stretch of scar tissue, the way it pulls at my shoulder as my mount moves beneath me. Nothing feels natural about this. Hell, I only learned to ride months ago.
But orders are orders, and assignments are assignments. Besides, as Sheriff McLeod warned, the last thing we need is a land war and the Feds coming down on Rough & Ready Country. All because two stubborn ranchers can’t abide sharing a fence line.
Leonora Winchester was not what I was expecting, though.
I sneak a glance at her, so relaxed in the saddle. A natural. Her black hair is knotted in a thick braid down the middle of her back. Lustrous in the sunshine and infused with sandalwood and something more fragile—rosebuds.
Her round cheeks have deep dimples when she smiles. Her face heart-shaped with ebony eyes framed by thick fringes of lashes.
Too poetic for a law enforcement description. But no less accurate.
“Fences need mending,” Leonora’s voice cuts in, sweet like birdsong, but with a sharp practical edge.
I nod once.
“Between the snowstorms this winter and my cattle-rustling neighbor…”
I shift in the saddle. Grimace. “Cattle rustling’s a big claim.”
“Well, he’s a thief. What do you expect me to say?”
I shrug.
Her eyes narrow. “Look, if you don’t have the stomach for this kind of thing, maybe you need to find a different ranch.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Land wars aren’t for everyone,” she says.
“Are they for you?” I ask, careful not to let my eyes linger on her face.
“I need a ranch hand who’s steady under fire. That you?”
Good question. My stomach knots. The taste of grit fills my mouth. Distant pops echo where they shouldn’t.
“You okay?”
“Sign said you needed a ranch hand. Simple.”
“You’re right,” she says, unconvinced. Her eyes scan the distant treeline where pasture gives way to pines. “Just look at that,” she hisses nudging her horse to the left.
I follow, less smooth than she and her Palomino, Buttercup. But my stilted training gets the job done.
Leonora dismounts, grabbing a section of sagging barbed wire. “For heaven’s sake, you could drive a semi through this hole. Don’t think it’s accidental.”
She’s not careless. And she knows her land. No hesitation near fence lines. Eyes that register every dip and draw of the changing terrain.
And more than that, she’s not someone trying to sneak graze a herd across a broken fence.
Sheriff McLeod’s words wash back over me. Don’t assume the loudest complainant is the cleanest one.
“Can you grab the stretcher?” she asks, drawing me back from my thoughts.
I freeze, hesitating for one moment. Her eyes catch it, darkening even more than their normal ebony. I see doubt growing there.
Not a good start.
Instead, I head to the horses, unpacking what we need for fence mending. Then, we work together in silence—me stretching and holding, her hammering and cutting until we fall into an easy rhythm.
“Tighter,” she scolds more than once, working with grim determination. “Been a while since you mended fences?”
I grunt, pulling tighter, putting more force into the stretcher. Cow manure and dried grass thread the air, dark and earthy. In the distance, I hear soft lowing.
“Wait, I get it,” she suddenly teases, a soft giggle catching me off guard. “You’re one of those urban cowboys who works dude ranches or something.”
I glare. Clearly not a compliment.
“Or maybe you’re one of those rodeo boys who always hung out with the buckle bunnies instead of mucking stalls, stretching barbed wire, doing the things that…”
“The things that matter?” I finish bitterly.
She shrugs. “Not sure they do anymore. Not when neighbors lie and steal. Not when fences fall not because of weather or time but brute force and maliciousness.”
She leans into the wind as she works, steady as granite. And I notice her braid coming loose, the way the three strands unravel, and my fingers ache to dip into the chaos.
But no, this is a job. Nothing more.
Our eyes meet. For a fraction of a second, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. “Come on, cowboy. Got to patch the whole length of this before dark.”
She jumps into the saddle as if it’s nothing. It only makes my studied mount that much more awkward. I see the skepticism flicker behind her gaze. But she says nothing, pressing her full lips into a line.
The low tones of cattle calling grow louder as we approach the herd in winter pasture.
Leonora leans forward in the saddle, counts aloud.
Stops.
“One short,” she whispers, averting her eyes.
“You sure?” It’s a stupid question. This woman’s sure of everything out here on her ranch.
“Probably drifted.” Her face is a mask, but tension rolls off her like waves of heat.
My shoulders tighten. This doesn’t look like drift.
“More reason to push hard, mend more fences,” she says quickly, spurring her mare forward.
As daylight ebbs away, I spot rising dust. A truck idles on the ridgeline—the wrong side of the boundary marker.
Leonora sees it, too, frowning but not speaking.
We don’t head back to the ranch house until well past sunset, our horses picking along in the twilight without hesitation.
“Seen a mountain lion out here lately,” she says casually. “Something to keep in mind when you’re alone.”
“You mean like this?” I ask.
“We’re not alone.”
There’s something tight under the words. Makes me want to reach out.
Not part of the job, Kincaid.
“I saw you earlier, crouched by the trough, touching tread marks, checking patterns. You noticed the tire tracks, too.”
I nod.
“That’s what we’re dealing with.” Then, she rides ahead, making me push Thunder harder to keep up.
After a quiet dinner, Leonora shows me to a guest bedroom.
“Clean towels are in the bathroom. More blankets in the closet. We start at dawn. Make yourself at home.”
Then, she heads down the dark hallway to her bedroom, disappearing. I hear the deadbolt click.
Smart woman. As far as she knows, I’m just a drifter who followed a “ranch hand wanted” sign down a long driveway.
As I place my folded clothes in the dresser, I notice a flash of light outside. At the window, I pull the curtain back a hair, watching headlights slow-roll past.
Wrong speed. Too slow to be passing through.
My badge stays buried at the bottom of the duffel. But my gun doesn’t.