Page 60 of Branded

“Exactly.”

“And if we do get noticed? If Marshall spots us?”

“Then we ride like hell.” I swing into the saddle. “But we won’t need to. Trust me.”

“What I’ll do to you if this goes south will make you wish you were taken by Thomas Marshall,” he grumbles.

“Is that a threat or a warning?” I ask, turning in the saddle to look at him.

“It’s a promise, baby.” He laughs lightly.

We ride out into the night, just the two of us, heading back toward the property line and whatever waits beyond it. The temperature has dropped, cold air biting through my shirt, and the stars overhead seem impossibly bright.

“You know the irony of this?” Sebastian says quietly as we ride.

“What?”

We reach the cut fence line and pause, listening. No sounds beyond the normal night noises: insects, distant coyotes, the wind through mesquite. No engines, no voices, no indication anyone is watching.

“Last chance to turn back,” Sebastian says.

“No way.” I urge Duchess through the opening. “Come on. Those cattle aren’t going to move themselves.”

We cross onto Marshall land for the second time tonight, and I try not to think about the ambush, the gunfire, the man I shot. I need to focus on the work ahead: finding scattered cattle, gathering them quietly, pushing them home.

This is what I’m good at. I’m a rancher. And ranchers take care of their own.

I will prove to Sebastian, and to myself, that I’m more than just a woman he bought at an auction.

21

SEBASTIAN

We find the first group of cattle about a mile south of the property line.

Eight head, huddling up together in a shallow draw, nervous and alert. I can see their brands in the darkness: ours, no question. They scattered during the gunfire and are now lost on unfamiliar ground, exactly like Lennox predicted.

She holds up her hand, signaling me to stop. We sit on our horses about fifty yards out, letting the cattle settle and get used to our presence without spooking.

“Slowly,” she whispers. “We approach from behind and to the side. Give them space to move forward but not scatter.”

I watch her work, moving in the saddle like she moved on top of me yesterday morning, and what I would give for her to be riding me instead of that horse.

She moves Duchess forward at a walk, angling wide, and the cattle shift nervously but don’t bolt. I mirror her position on the other side, creating a loose V that gives them only one direction to go: north, toward home.

“Easy,” Lennox murmurs, though I’m not sure if she’s talking to the cattle, the horse or herself. “That’s it. Just start moving. You know where you want to go.”

The lead cow, an older Angus with a distinctive white patch, takes a tentative step forward. Then another. The rest follow, that herd instinct kicking in, and suddenly we have eight head moving north at a steady walk.

“Keep them bunched,” Lennox says quietly. “Don’t let any break off. If one goes, they’ll all scatter.”

God, this woman is going to be the end of me. I need her as much as I need air to breathe.

We move through the darkness like ghosts, two riders and eight cattle, making almost no sound beyond hoofbeats and the occasional low from a nervous cow. “There.” Lennox points ahead. “More of them. Maybe ten head.”

She’s right. Another group clusters near what looks like a stock tank, probably drawn by the water. We approach the same way, slow and wide, and within minutes, we’ve merged them with our growing herd.

Eighteen head now. Five more to find.