Page 26 of The Cowboy and the Stray

I went back to the table, gathering up plates and cups, collecting my composure like scattered dishes.

Reid was in a lively discussion with Eli, their hands painting vivid pictures in the air. Midge caught my eye, the hint of a smile in her expression. Gray noticed my approach and stood, reaching for the dishes in my arms.

"You should take a break," he said, and I was pretty sure he meant it. But I couldn't. Not until I'd proven I wasn't a complete liability.

"Let me," I said, my voice firmer than my confidence. "It's the least I can do." Let me fix at least one thing today.

He hesitated, then nodded and resumed his seat. I busied myself with the task of making things right, pouring juice and wiping up spills, ignoring the dull ache in my chest.

Sloane was at the table, watching me as I took empty plates. She nodded once. A small gesture of approval?

I pretended not to notice, but my heart did. Loudly.

When the last dish was dried and the table wiped clean, I stepped back. To catch up with my emotions.

It was almost too much to take in, so I retreated to my bedroom to calm down for a minute.

I flopped onto the plush bed, exhausted by the morning's emotional marathon. And found a stack of books on the nightstand, their colorful covers a bright promise of distraction.

Midge. She'd delivered, apparently.

Riding Hard. The title was ridiculous, the cover even more so. I picked it up with a grin, picturing Midge's unrepentant smirk.

Therapy by cowboy smut. Sure. Why not.

13. CALDER

I took off across the front field, boots pounding the sunbaked earth. I'd been pacing the porch for an hour, too restless to do paperwork, too distracted to help the hands, thoughts chasing themselves in useless circles. So I ran instead, let my body do what my mind couldn't manage. Find a direction and commit to it. I needed to burn it out or it was going to boil over.

My legs stretched out, hitting a rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat. Running cleared my head, always had. I preferred doing it in my fur, but something about the single-minded physicality of it, the steady cadence of steps on dirt, the building ache in muscles that had a purpose. I craved it on days like this, when the weight of the pack settled heavier than usual across my shoulders. Better to carry it in my body than let it crush my damn mind.

It was a weight I'd gotten used to over the years, one made up of a thousand small things that added up to one immovable truth. Everything came down to me in the end. Responsibility was my birthright and my burden. Most days, I bore it gladly, took pride in it, even. But some days, it sat like a stone in my gut. Some days, I nearly choked on it.

Today it was the fences, miles of posts and wire that needed mending after the last big storm. It was the cattle, sleek and hungry, waiting on the year's first cutting of hay. It was the grown men who still looked to me for every decision, every job, every dollar. And it was the knowledge, cold and certain, that every choice I made rippled outward, that my actions held the power to sustain or to destroy. There was no margin for error. Especially with a human on the ranch.

I pushed myself harder, feet flying over the spur of limestone that cut across the north pasture. The creek glinted below, clear as glass but too low for May. We needed rain, and soon, or no amount of hay would keep the herd through summer. The thought added an extra weight to each step, the memory of drought like a noose around my neck. I'd watched the land wither once, watched my father move heaven and earth to keep us afloat.

Overhead, a red-tail hawk screamed, piercing and wild. I tilted my head back as I ran, caught the flash of rust-colored wings against the cloudless blue. The hawk wheeled and dove, intent on some luckless rabbit in the brush below. I wondered what it was like, to live so free of ties, beholden to nothing and no one. To go where instinct drove you, to take what you needed and never look back.

Freedom’s easy when you don’t owe anyone a damn thing.

But that wasn't the hand I'd been dealt. My cards read duty, obligation, service. A straight flush I couldn't trade in if I tried. Not that I actually wanted to.

Sweat ran stinging into my eyes. I swiped a hand across my forehead and squinted into the glare, caught the flash of my brother's golden head as he led a string of yearlings to the creek. Eli sat on a horse like he was born to it, all easy grace and careless confidence. He lifted a hand in my direction, teeth flashing in a grin I could see from fifty yards out. I raised my hand in return, tried to ignore the spark of irritation that chased away the momentary rush of pride.

My brother, the golden child. Beloved by all, responsible for nothing. It wasn't his fault, not really. He'd been little more than a baby when the world caved in, too young to see our parents’ bodies lifted from the ashes. Too innocent to understand the grim set of our grandmother's mouth. Eli had grown up with the luxury of choosing, while I'd been conscripted by blood and bone.

I wanted to protect him from the ugliness of it all, wanted him to keep that light in his eyes as long as he could.

I shifted, allowing my wolf out and ran until my lungs burned and my legs shook, until the only sound was the rush of blood in my ears. I ran until there was no room for anything else. Until the knot in my chest loosened enough to let me think again. Finally.

By the time the big white barn came into view, I was shifted back to my skin, steadier, more centered, the threads of control back in my grasp. This was who I'd been made to be, who I'd die being. Calder Maddox, my father's son, my pack's strength, unbroken and unafraid.

I headed for the trough to wash the grit from my face and hands, let the well water sluice cool and grounding over my heated skin.

Once I'd rinsed off, I stepped into the relative cool of the barn, the familiar smell of hay and horse leather settling on my shoulders like a hand. And there she was, like she'd been waiting for me without knowing it, that jumpy redhead who'd blown onto my land like a tumbleweed only a handful of weeks ago. Tess, with no past that Sloane could find. She stood stiff-backed by the horse stalls, a curry comb clenched tight in one white-knuckled hand. She looked ready to run. She kind of always looked that way.

She didn't belong here, that was plain as day. It was in the way she held herself, tense as a spooked deer, ready to bolt at the first loud noise. In the way her eyes tracked every movement, mapping exits and gauging threats. She was pure fight or flight, and it was obvious which she was leaning towards. Someone had taught her the hard way not to feel safe.