Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 56395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Sweat traced slow paths down the hard planes of his chest and stomach, darkening the waistband of his jeans. The black ink of the skull on his forearm flexed every time he drove a nail. The larger tattoo on his right arm shifted with every swing of the hammer, the Black Crowns MC emblem on his right pec rippling along with it.
“You’re going to put a nail through your hand if you keep watching me instead of the board,” he murmured without looking up.
My cheeks heated. “I’m supervising.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t call me on the lie. I cleared my throat and forced my attention back to the task we were completing.
“When I finally get the rehab side going, I want this whole row converted. Wider stalls for horses that need more space while they recover. Then turnout pens off the back so they can ease into being outside again. And eventually more stalls over there”—I pointed toward the far end of the barn—“with better ventilation and a separate section for quarantine if we ever need it.”
Brogan listened without interrupting. When I finished, he set the hammer down, pulled the measuring tape from his back pocket, and started to jot down the length of the current stalls, the distance to the back wall, and the open space outside.
He didn’t explain what he was doing. He just made notes on his phone before moving to the next section.
I watched him for a moment, my heart feeling fuller than it had since my grandfather passed. Brogan wasn’t just fixing what was broken today. He was planning structures that would take months—maybe longer—to complete. Arranging his future around my dream.
Acts of service were his love language, and they moved me in ways words never could. He didn’t make speeches about forever. He just started building it. And it only made me fall for him more.
The next couple of hours flew past, and then Bex’s dad pulled into the driveway, dust kicking up behind his cruiser. Brogan stepped out onto the porch as the sheriff climbed out.
“He’s expecting us,” Bex’s dad told us. “Still not sure he’ll talk, but it’s worth a shot.”
Judge’s motorcycle rolled in only a minute later. He climbed off, removed his helmet, and fixed the cuffs of his button-down dress shirt like he was heading into a courtroom instead of to a dusty ranch.
I walked down the steps. “I’m coming too.”
Bex’s dad looked mildly surprised, but when Brogan nodded, he didn’t argue. “Your call.”
We split up for the drive. The sheriff took his cruiser while the rest of us climbed into Brogan’s SUV. I started to open the back door so Judge could have the front, but Brogan’s hand settled on my lower back.
“Passenger seat.”
“But Judge’s legs are longer,” I protested.
“Passenger seat, Jacqueline.”
I huffed but climbed in. Judge just smirked and folded himself into the back without complaint. Brogan drove, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh the entire way.
The rancher’s place was smaller than ours, the fences in worse shape. The man who met us at the gate looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. His gaze darted between the sheriff’s cruiser to Brogan and Judge, then to me before he finally spoke.
“I don’t know anything,” he grumbled.
The sheriff kept his tone even. “We’re not here to cause you trouble. Otis Rutledge recorded a partial plate matching a trailer that went missing from your place. We’re just following up.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know anything about anyone named Wade.”
“No one’s asking you to make an official statement today,” Judge murmured. “We’re simply trying to understand the pattern of thefts in the area. If someone has been threatening you or your family—”
“I said I don’t know anything.” The rancher’s voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “You should all just leave it alone.”
I watched the way his hands trembled before he shoved them into his pockets. There was no anger in me toward this man, only sympathy. Wade had taught people that speaking up came with a price.
No wonder Grandpa had tried to collect proof instead of relying on witnesses.
Brogan’s hand brushed the small of my back as we turned to leave. He didn’t push the man. There was nothing to gain by forcing someone already living in fear.
As we walked back to the vehicles, I glanced up at Brogan. He was already watching me, reading whatever was on my face.
The drive back to the ranch was quiet. Brogan’s fingers stayed tangled with mine, his thumb moving in slow, absent strokes like he needed the contact as much as I did. Judge didn’t try to fill the silence, and when we finally pulled into the driveway, the sun was already dropping behind the hills.
Judge lingered only long enough to exchange a few low words with Brogan, then left us alone.