Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
LEONORA
Orange flames flicker in Arlo’s pupils for half a second before I turn.
“No!” My voice sounds far away, hand coming to my mouth to swallow my panic.
Then I run, Arlo’s footfalls close behind.
By the time I reach my great-grandfather’s barn, tears streak my face. I stare up at the ancient structure, unraveling inside. Not because the building had any use. But because it means everything to this land. To me.
The wind shifts, flames doubling back toward us. Heat slams into my face. Then, I hear it in the distance. The sound of the cattle in the north pasture.
Arlo’s eyes scan the perimeter, face rigid and calculated. “Movement near the treeline.” His voice is stone.
My eyes follow his. Then I see it, a lone horse and rider where there should be no one. Our eyes meet across the pasture, and I note the covered face before he disappears into the trees.
“Clyde,” I hiss, shoulders tightening. I’d know the way he rides anywhere.
That’s when the sound of the herd hits me again. Lowing. Agitated. I gasp.
“This isn’t an accident,” Arlo growls.
“Or intimidation,” I stammer.
“It’s a distraction.” His voice is gravel, face menacing.
“Call the fire department,” he hollers over his shoulder, already heading toward the stables. “I’ll get the herd.”
“Wait, Arlo,” I cry, fingers balling at my sides. “It won’t be a fair fight.”
“No, it won’t,” he promises.
“Don’t you dare play hero,” I call after him, knees weak beneath me.
“I don’t play, Leonora.” And he’s gone.
I wheel back around, facing the fire, hand shaking as I find my phone. After the call, I beeline to the stables, releasing the horses and calf just in case. The chickens and rabbits are farther from the barn, thankfully. But if the house goes, I’ll have to release them, too.
Smoke burns my throat now, filling the air black and angry. In the distance, I hear gunfire, and my chest tightens.
I can’t breathe.
I saddle Buttercup quickly, hands trembling with anger. I don’t have time to retrieve the shotgun from the house, so, I raid the safe I keep in the stable for predator emergencies, strapping on my waist holster.
I wipe my cheeks, fighting through the cold wind and blurred vision toward the winter pasture where everything that matters lives.
That’s when it hits me like a gut punch.
I’m pursuing more than cattle.
When I catch sight of Arlo’s beige Stetson in the distance, my throat tightens. Behind me, I hear the intensifying wail of fire trucks. Buttercup moves swiftly beneath me as I crouch low in the saddle, urging her on.
Arlo’s in the dirt and red-churned snow.
Two men on him. A boot on his shoulder. Another with a pistol drawn.
“No,” I shriek into the silence, as if my voice could banish what I’m seeing.
I can’t lose him. Not now when I’ve only just found him.
Arlo rises to his feet, hands in the air. Unafraid. Cool and controlled as he speaks with them. The ranch hands circle like hyenas, faces twisted and mocking.
Suddenly, a volley of bullets comes from the right of the pasture.
Arlo dives.
The ranch hands freeze.
From the treeline, mounted sheriff’s deputies emerge. And one blond man in front with a white hat.
Sheriff McLeod.
Calm. Controlled. Deadly.
Thank God.
Among the deputies stands Martin, red-faced and brazen as ever. “Saw the fire. Had to lend my neighbor a hand.”
I laugh under my breath. The nerve of this man.
Behind me, high-pressure water sprays in great gushes as firefighters swarm the building, calling to one another. But it feels like everything I’ve built—and my family before me—going up in flames.
I don’t look back again as I race across the pasture toward Arlo, Christian, and the deputies in their tan and black uniforms.
Martin’s face writhes as he catches sight of me. “Hate to say it. But all of this.” He motions with his hands. “All of this is her fault!” he screams.
Arlo’s fists ball, face hard as iron as he steps closer.
“Funny,” Christian intercedes first, cool and steady. "Because we found your fuel can.”
“B-b-but,” Martin stammers. “You can’t possibly mean… This is what happens when a woman tries to run cattle country.”
“That why I caught your men trying to wrangle Ms. Wichester’s calves?”
“But those are my calves. Just trying to get them out of harm’s way.”
“On Ms. Winchester’s land?” Christian counters, eyes drilling into him.
“Yes.” His voice waivers. He pauses for a moment, like he’s looking for the right words. “Bred by my bull,” he counters, angry and blubbering, overweight face slicked in a sheen of perspiration.
Christian looks at me, face solid as granite.
“No, they were not,” I counter. “Had a bull up from Sierraville. I can provide papers.”
“Genetic test that one,” Martin commands, pointing toward the newborn, blinking wide-eyed toward the engulfed barn.
My blood boils as I realize how deep his plan runs. “That was your fault. You broke down my fences… to graze your herd on my land, to water them at my springs, and apparently, to muddy paternity for your steal!”
He snorts. “Tough case to prove. After all, the calves aren’t branded.”
“That’s because my ranch hand walked out before winter branding,” I fire back, stepping forward.
“You knew I don’t brand alone. You were counting on that.
I planned to finish once I had help. Funny how everything escalated after Clyde left to join your crew.
Funny how he isn’t standing by your side now. ”
Christian snaps, jumping down from his mount and shoving a finger in Martin’s face. “You’ve got about ten seconds to tell me the truth. Then, he turns toward me. “I imagine Clyde will be back around before all of this is finished. Likely talking a blue streak. Never struck me as the most loyal.”
“He’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you. Those unbranded calves are mine.”
Arlo steps forward, face red, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or that he left before branding the calves to create the perfect situation to steal from Leonora and push her off this land and water?”
“It should be mine,” Martin rages. “Mine. Can’t run a cattle operation up here without her springs.”
“Sounds like a confession,” Arlo growls.
“And premeditation on top of cattle rustling, trespassing, arson. The list goes on and on,” Christian says in low tones, reaching for his handcuffs.
Martin panics, hands sliding beneath the waistband of his belt to his revolver.
Arlo lunges forward, dragging him to the ground.
Not flashy. Efficient. Military fast.
Christian grimaces. “For God’s sake, I didn’t have enough charges for you? Now, you’ve got to add resisting arrest to the mix? Dumb bastard.”
Arlo rolls him over, catching the cuffs Christian throws him and clicking them into place. Too fast. Too expert. Now I see where this man belongs.
My stomach knots.
My throat tightens.
“Good job, Deputy,” Christian adds.
Arlo’s head comes up. A new fire burns inside, ready to explode. His eyes find me. I glare back, registering how recognition and regret swirl beneath the green.
He stands, sauntering toward me, Christian following. When the big man reaches me, he says for the second time tonight, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Christian crosses his arms over his chest, nodding when Arlo looks his way. “Might as well now.”
“I’m not just a ranch hand.”
“Of course, you’re not.” I felt it in the way he scanned exits. How he moved toward danger without hesitation.
I remount, tip my hat at Christian. “Sheriff.”
Then, Buttercup and I gallop away to count my herd, horses, and secure the wide-eyed calf. And to forget about the man already leaving me… because he was never mine at all.
Rage festers inside, dark and dangerous.
Hurt.
Shame.
If I ever see that red-headed ranch hand again, I don’t know what I’ll do.
But I want it to hurt him.
“Cursed lying cop.” The words come out bitter and sharp.
But I knew. I already knew.
Maybe that’s what hurts the most.
Arlo finds me later, standing in front of the smoking remnants of the barn where firefighters pick through broken planks, ash, the remnants of my family’s legacy here.
He wraps his coat around me without asking, and I bristle, anger and heat curling low.
I shrug out of the jacket, letting it fall into the snow. “You don’t get to protect me and lie to me.” My voice quivers with rage and grief.
He steps forward, eyes rising to the blackened char of the barn, then back to me.
“Let me stay, Leonora. Not as a cop.”
He swallows.
“As yours.”