Page 39 of The Guy Who Stole My Ranch

I didn’t have the liberty to think otherwise.

After she’d added a set of regular pliers, she turned and waved me after her. “Come on, let me show you how this works.”

I followed, feeling a bit like a puppy tagging along after their favorite human. I really needed a clear head for this, so I decided to distract myself with facts. “How often do fences break?”

“It depends. If the wires get bent, then the galvanized exterior cracks, and the wires can rust.” She stopped next to where the top strand of the fence had separated. Both ends hung in loose coils going opposite directions. “Once in a while, an animal will get excited about something on the other side of the fence and try to get through it. That can break them.”

I eyed the jagged barbs along the metal strands and wondered what animal in their right mind would risk getting mauled for a mouthful of grass.

Brooke picked up one side of the downed wire, made a face, dropped it, then went to the other one. “Grab that end, will you?” She pointed to the first one she’d inspected.

I carefully put the tools she’d given me down before I retrieved the metal.

“Bring it this way.” Brooke waved me toward her.

I complied. My wire went taunt a few inches from hers. I tugged and found that I could get them closer, but it seemed impossible to hold it there for more than a few seconds.

“That’s what the stretcher is for.” Brooke indicated the tool with the clamps on each end. “Let’s see if we can get this fixed in one try.”

“Why would it take two tries?” I handed her the stretcher.

“Because I’d rather not splice another piece in here, so we’re going to do it my way. We may have to undo it and start over.”

“Why not splice it in the first place?” I asked.

“I think it makes the fence weaker, but my dad disagrees. It’s a matter of preference and experience.”

The tone in her voice told me there was a story. “Was it a bad experience?”

She lifted her arm and pointed at her tricep near her armpit. An old, jagged, white scar marred her skin. “The most stitches I’ve ever had at once.”

I had no idea people counted the number of stitches they’d had.

A minute later, we had both ends of the wire in opposite sides of the stretcher.

Brooke had obviously performed this task many times, and she did a good job explaining each step to me. She even told me the two other ways people liked to twist broken fences together, but she assured me her way was the best way, and if I ever did it differently, she’d find out and scold me.

I always hired experts to train me, and with Brooke, I felt like I was under the tutelage of a master rancher. Each motion had a purpose, and each tool she’d brought was crucial.

After she’d twisted one side together, she had me do the other side.

Brooke had made manipulating the wires look easy. They were, in fact, cold and unbending. Everything shook up and down because it was suspended in the air. Just as I finished, I felt the bite of metal on my arm and then heard the rip of fabric.

I recoiled and cursed under my breath. While I’d been prepared to get dirty, I hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that I’d have to look at my own blood. A hot pulse shot through me, and the world lurched to one side.

Oblivious of my discomfort, Brooke used her teeth to pull off one of her yellow leather gloves. “Let me see.” She moved to my side and used my wrist to turn my arm so she could inspect the wound.

I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the wave of vertigo that threatened to topple me.

“William?” Brooke asked in a surprisingly concerned voice.

I opened my eyes, only then realizing that I’d closed them, and blinked.

“It’s just a scratch,” she said.

“Oh?” I asked in a shaking voice.

She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

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