Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
LEONORA
My eyelids shoot open at the rumble of an idling truck engine. I rub my face, shifting beneath the covers. Then, I hear it—a metal clank like a fence opening.
I sit up stock-straight, heart hammering behind my ribs. Not again. Throwing back the covers, I cross the room to my shotgun, bare feet cold on the creaking floorboards. Tube loaded, action closed, chamber empty, safety on. The way I always keep it.
Downstairs, I sit in the rocking chair my dad built opposite the hearth, trembling with anger and adrenaline. My ears strain for any sound that would make me chamber a round. A distress call from the herd. A barn door opening.
Instead, I’m met with silence. Heavy and wrong. No engine now. Just apprehension you can taste.
I don’t turn any lights on so I can track headlights or shadows crossing curtains by the full light of the moon.
Above me, the stairs squeak and pop. I look up catching sight of my new ranch hand. Still too handsome, even by the soft glimmer of lunar light. Burgundy hair turned dark and dangerous, eyes warily surveying every exit, each access point before coming back to me.
Pine sap and oiled leather wrap around me as he draws closer, face unreadable but taut. Crouching next to me, he whispers in velvety tones, “What’d you hear?”
I let out a sigh I didn’t know I was holding. “A truck engine and then a sound like someone was opening a fence. It’s been like this for weeks.”
He ruffles his hair, jaw tightening between his ruddy beard. “Better check it out then.”
“Not alone. We go together.”
He nods once.
“Let me just grab a coat and boots. Do you need a shotgun?”
“No, ma’am.”
I glance over my shoulder, arching a brow.
“Always pack. Never know.”
Outside, a new coat of powder dusts the expansive pastures, glowing with white light.
“Fresh tracks,” Arlo says, bending to touch the imprints. “Same as by the trough.”
“My neighbor, I’d wager.”
He grimaces. “Trespassing?”
“Yep, and maybe more.”
“You two fighting?”
I shake my head, lips tightening into a thin line. “Not yet… but definitely coming.”
“Over?”
“He wants my water. And up here, water means land,” I whisper, breath catching in my throat at the distant sound of cattle.
Arlo instinctively puts himself in front of me and the noise, his body moving lithely like someone used to patrolling the dark with a weapon.
Anger floods me, voice trembling as I vow, “If Martin does anything to my herd.”
“Want to take a truck up?” Arlo asks, nodding toward the winter pasture.
“Truck’ll spook him. I want proof.”
“Horses, then,” the towering man says. I notice the lack of enthusiasm threading through his tone.
“If we stick to the woods, we might have a chance of surprising him.”
“That’s what we’ll do, then,” he says.
Fifteen minutes later, we ride silently side by side, great puffs of white shooting out in front of us when we breathe. I turn my collar up against the chilly air, and Arlo tugs his Stetson lower.
For a man who claims he grew up in the saddle, he sure looks awkward. But I don’t want to push things, bring up his injuries again. No telling what he’s been through. All I know is now—in the creeping quiet of our pursuit—he looks sharper. Awake. Like this is familiar ground.
When the herd is finally in view, I sigh with relief, counting them twice for good measure. “All accounted for. All good.”
“Maybe,” Arlo mutters, eyes on a fresh set of boot prints, an unlatched gate, and truck tracks.
“God,” I exhale.
“I’ll handle it.” He resets the gate, tests it twice.
The air feels cold. Quiet. I scan the pasture, eyes straining.
Then, I hear the crunch of snow. Turning, I see Arlo crouched on the far side of the trough.
My chest tightens as I maneuver Buttercup toward him.
He looks up at my approach, kneeling next to a newborn calf. His face tightens. “Looks dead.”
I dismount, kneeling beside Arlo. So close I can feel the heat radiating from him. “Still breathing.. I think.” But cold and stiff like the kits I saved this morning. “We’ll bring him back with us. See what warming up and milk will do.”
“Not your bra?” Arlo says drily, and so deadpan it takes me a second to realize he’s joking.
“Can you manage him?” I ask, eyeing the horse. A true test of a cowboy.
“‘Course,” is his only reply, bristling at the question as if I shouldn’t ask.
But when I watch the clumsy way he carries the calf, eyeing me hesitantly before he drapes it over the saddle, I no longer feel regret for asking.
When he acts like he’s going to lead the horse back, I freeze, stunned by the move.
“No, you need to be in the saddle, giving him some of your body heat.”
He nods, eyeing the unmoving calf and the saddle like they’re his enemies. Then, he mounts slowly, tenuously. A moving contradiction.
“This goes without saying, but keep him over the pommel, as close to your body as possible. That way, we start the warming-up process before we reach the ranch.”
Gratefulness flashes behind his eyes, then, with a tip of his hat, he nudges Thunder forward, holding the baby like it could break, eyes still scanning the dark.
At the ranch, we stop in front of the stables, and I jump down, heading for the calf. “We’ll keep him here tonight, just to make sure he’s in the clear.”
Arlo grunts. “Starting to move now. Reviving a bit.”
“Nothing a little warmth and milk won’t fix. Wasn’t expecting this arrival so late. Bred for fall calves,” I add, grunting when he transfers the little guy to me. “Light. Too light.”
Arlo jumps down, grimacing at the landing. Then, he reaches out his arms, the surest he’s looked around livestock since arriving. “I’ve got him.”
I nod, grabbing the reins to lead both horses. He doesn’t say another word, just follows behind me.
“Extra stall there.” I watch as Arlo deposits the baby in a soft mound of straw, hands steady as he arranges stray grass around him like a nest. The little one lifts his head finally, big black eyes filled with trust.
Arlo’s eyes meet mine for a split second, and the stables go warmer and safer. We work in silence, untacking our mounts. Every chance I have, I side-eye him, puzzled by the practiced care and precision. He could almost convince me … almost.
Back in the house, I work on reconstituting powder into fresh, warm milk. When I enter the stall with a big calving bottle, the cowboy sits in the straw, rocking the calf like a human infant.
“Already perking back up. Glad we found you,” I whisper, kneeling beside them. “Here,” I say to the cowboy, and our fingers brush as he takes the bottle. “Done this before?”
His face falls. “Have head knowledge. Been a while, though.”
Instead of making it a thing, I rise. “Let’s stand him up. It’s easier that way.” Arlo watches raptly as I straddle the calf from behind, still shaky on his hooves. Then, I shove a thumb into his mouth until I get a strong latch. I swap it with the nipple. The sucking grows stronger with each gulp.
Arlo shifts awkwardly, crossing his arms over his chest. I feel his gaze linger. When I look up, he glances away, red traveling up his neck. He clears his throat too loudly.
“Remember to keep his nose below his eyes when he feeds.”
He nods once, frowning.
“Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Seems a shame to let this hot water go to waste,” I ask when we’re at the ranch house again.
Arlo’s mouth twitches. “Coffee, please.”
As the French press brews, something catches my eye at the window. Movement by a tree… maybe. My breath hitches, shoulders tensing before I realize it’s nothing.
While I work, Arlo builds a fire in the living room hearth. Golden light warms the surfaces as we sit in silence next to each other on the couch, both staring at the crackling blaze.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” I say finally, noticing how the coppery light turns his trimmed beard and hair shades of burnished flame.
“Not much help. Not when it comes to reviving the dead.”
I chuckle. “A necessary talent in this line of work.” The creases in his forehead deepen. “It’s okay. I’ve got you covered.”
He stares into his coffee, face torn.
“I feel safe when you’re here,” I confess. “That’s enough.”
He doesn’t look relaxed. He looks ready. “Won’t let anything happen to you.”