Page 90 of Branded

Fair warning, my dad’s been cleaning his guns all day. Not subtle.

Me

Great.

I rent a truck at the airport—a Ford F-250, practical, not flashy—and plug the address into the GPS. Forty minutes northeast, toward the mountains. This is Lennox’s world. The place that shaped her before California, before the auction, before me.

I need to understand it if I have any chance of understanding her.

The drive takes me through the town of Sweetwater. It looks like every other town that is hanging on for its life. Some shops are boarded up; some still have open signs in the windows, but clearly they haven’t been open for some time. A diner called Rosie’s that I’m sure Lennox mentioned the day I took her to town. Then I’m out into open rangeland, operations that range from modest to substantial. Montana ranching is different from Texas—more brutal winters, different terrain, hardier herds. But the fundamentals are the same. Land, cattle, legacy.

The things that matter.

The GPS directs me off the highway onto a county road, then onto a gravel drive marked with a sign: Broken Summit Ranch. Est. 1902.

Fifth generation, like mine. Different state, different challenges, but the same commitment to building something that lasts.

The ranch stretches out before me as I drive: pastures, barns, corrals, cattle grazing in organized sections. Well-maintained, efficiently run, the kind of operation that requires constant work and attention.

No wonder Lennox fit in so naturally at my ranch. This is in her blood.

I park near the house and kill the engine, suddenly more nervous than I’ve been in years. I’ve negotiated multimillion-dollar deals. Built an empire. Faced down competitors and critics. But the idea of facing Lennox’s father makes my palms sweat.

Because he’ll see through the lies. Men like Warren Briggs always do.

The front door opens before I reach the porch, and a man appears, early sixties, with gray hair and a weathered face, blue eyes sharp as they land on me. He wears jeans and a flannel shirt, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, his left side showing the subtle weakness. His left hand rests in his pocket, the arm held closer to his body than the right.

But the disability does nothing to diminish the threat in his stance. If anything, it makes him more intimidating, a man who faces down mortality and refuses to yield.

Warren Briggs. My father-in-law.

But I barely register him after that because behind him, stepping onto the porch, is my Lennox.

She is in jeans, a simple sweater, with her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, no makeup, no expensive clothes. Just Lennox, in her natural habitat, looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.

And I realize in this moment I don’t just miss her, I ache for her. This woman who defies me, challenges me, forces me to be better than my worst instincts.

I don’t think. I just move past Warren up the porch steps, straight to her.

“Sebastian,” she starts, surprise in her voice. I cup her face and kiss her, like I need to confirm she is real, that she is here.

She stiffens for a second, probably in shock that I’d kiss her in front of her father, but then she melts into me and kisses me back. Her hands come up to my chest, and for a moment, everything falls away, and it is just us.

When I pull back, I keep my forehead against hers. “Hi,” I say quietly.

“Hi.” Her voice is breathless. “You’re here.”

“You thought I wouldn’t come?”

“I wasn’t sure.” Her hands are still on my chest, and I can feel her trembling slightly. “My family.”

“I know. I’m ready.” I step back but keep one arm around her waist, turning to face the firing squad.

Warren stands on the porch, leaning on his cane, his expression unreadable. Behind him, framed in the doorway, are more people, Lennox’s siblings, I assume, all staring at me with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity.

“Mr. Briggs.” I offer my hand, keeping Lennox tucked against my side. “I’m Sebastian Drake.”

Warren shifts his cane to his left hand, the movement careful, practiced, and extends his right. His grip is still strong despite the stroke, testing the calluses of a man who still works his own ranch as much as his body allows.