Page 16 of Branded By the Cowboy

She’s tall for a woman and walks like someone who’s had to hold her ground more than once. No flinching at the cold. She comments on things intermittently—the fence post nearest the ditch, which is newer than the rest. How the crows in the trees go quiet all at once. How the clouds have a greenish tinge that might mean sleet by nightfall.

When we reach the sagging fence line, I see it immediately—one of the posts is crooked. The wire’s been pulled, not by livestock. It’s too clean. Too intentional.

I crouch beside the post and run gloved fingers along the wood. It’s been cut like all the others. Fresh nicks. Clean slice. It’s not rust or wind damage.

It’s sabotage.

Again.

I don’t say it out loud, but I know she sees it too.

“That wasn’t caused by the weather,” Luna murmurs.

“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t.”

I look toward the tree line. Nothing moves. No tire tracks or footprints. Whoever it is, they know the land. They know where to strike.

Luna tugs her collar up against the wind. “Shay mentioned the weird stuff going on. Do you think it’s someone local?”

I do, but I don’t answer right away. I think it’s someone who wants us to fail. Someone who has a reason for poking holes in Havenridge’s foundation.

“I think it’s someone who knows exactly what they’re doing,” I say finally.

Luna studies me for a second, then nods.

She doesn’t ask questions or offer theories. She simply absorbs and accepts.

“You think something’s coming?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Our eyes lock, and heat crackles in the space between us—nothing to do with busted fences and everything to do with the way her pulse jumps at the hollow of her throat.

She holds my gaze, steady and fierce. “I think something already has.”

I don’t know if she means the mess we’re in or whatever this is crackling between us.

All I know is I'd walk through fire to keep her safe—this woman who’s barely been in my life a week.

A woman who's already under my skin so deep, I’m not sure I’d survive pulling her out.

Chapter5

Luna

We fix the post in silence, side by side. The wire bites through my gloves, sharp and cold, but I don’t flinch. I’ve done worse. Fixed worse. A snapped fence post is nothing compared to the kind of breaks I’ve had to repair in my own life.

Beside me, Angus doesn’t say much. He hands me nails, holds the post while I brace it, and works in steady silence. I’m grateful for it. The quiet. The lack of hovering.

Most men I’ve met assume a girl wouldn’t know a hammer from a hairbrush. But Angus? He doesn’t assume. He watches. Not in a creepy way. In a way that feels like he’s seeing the facts and filing them away. Like I’m passing some unspoken test.

The cold seeps in. The wind snaps at my braid. But I keep working.

So does he.

Eventually, the fence gives a groan of protest and settles back into place.

“That should hold,” I say, brushing my hands off on my jeans.

He grunts something in agreement. That’s about as verbose as he gets.

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