Page 69 of Dust Storm

“Easy for you to say—fucking cocky cowboys,” I muttered under my breath as I gripped the horn at the front of the saddle.

Christian let out an easy laugh. “What’s the rule?”

I tapped a finger on my chin. “Rule number one: if you’re going to kill someone, make it look like an accident, cry at the funeral, admit nothing, and deny everything.”

“Jesus, you publicists are dark.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Griffith.”

He reached over and pressed his palm against the small of my back. “Posture like a princess. Sit nice and tall.”

“I am sitting tall,” I snapped. “I’m not exactly a waif.”

“You’re sitting like a gargoyle,” he countered, running his hand up the curve of my spine like a silent insult. “Shoulders back. Chest out. Back straight.”

I let out a dramatic huff and slowly fixed my posture. “Better?”

“Push your ass out. You’re caving in on yourself and sitting on your tailbone. It’s why you feel wobbly.”

Christian’s eyes on my ass made goosebumps flood my neck. I knew he didn’t mean it in any kind of way, but it had been a long time since a man looked at me without disdain.

He was warm and comforting. I was usually described as prickly, but I was beginning to understand why a cactus thrives in sunshine.

“There you go,” he said, giving me a tip of his chin. “That’s better.” Christian’s beard twitched around his mouth, and I knew he was trying not to smile. “You’re too formidable to cower. Don’t bow even if you want to.”

I flinched when Dottie shifted, itching to get going. “Is that your way of saying, ‘fake it ’til you make it?’”

He and Libby started off. Somehow Dottie knew to follow, and kept up with his slow pace. “Something like that.”

We rode silently for a few minutes, heading out to one of the empty pastures I wanted to see.

I had been keeping my revitalization plans close to the vest until I had everything in order. If he said no to adding a single revenue stream, he was going to throw a fit about adding a handful of them.

Land was one thing I would need, and the one thing he probably wouldn’t give up.

I was a fan of ripping the metaphorical Band-Aid off, but I was trying to make this as painless as possible.

“It’ll clear, you know,” Christian said out of nowhere.

“What will?”

He slowed up and looked over at me. “The dust storm.”

I stared at the chestnut hairs of Dottie’s mane. “What are you talking about?”

“All the shit that gets stirred up and clouds your mind. Eventually it’ll settle. You’ll be able to breathe easier.” He looked ahead. “Doesn’t make it better in the moment. Dust storms happen. It’s okay to close your eyes and stumble through.”

It was a nice little mantra I was certain he had coined when he was going through the loss of his wife.

But I didn’t need niceties.

I lifted my chin, pushed my shoulders back, straightened my spine, and loosened my hips. “I’ll be fine.”

And maybe one day, I would believe it.

Christian took me out to the west side of the ranch to show me the land.

CJ and the ranch hands had rotated pastures, moving the herd south a few days ago, making this the perfect place to stake my claim for the development projects I had up my sleeve.

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