The tire tracks carved a raw, ugly path through the hard-packed earth like scars that hadn’t healed right.
Cassidy crouched low beside them, boots crunching over dry clumps of summer grass, fingers brushing the edge of one print. Too narrow for a flatbed. Too smooth. No mud clung to the tread—just dust and intent. These weren’t ranch tires, These were city-bought and they didn’t belong here.
The morning sun was already high enough to bleach the sky pale and throw harsh light against the hills. Everything shimmered gold and bone-white—drought-dry, brittle. The kind of heat that made wood crack and sweat cling before noon.
Ruckus lingered a few paces behind her, silent, ears pricked. He didn’t growl, didn’t bark, but his eyes were locked on the gate ahead like something was still there. Cassidy rose slowly, brushing dust from her jeans. Her thighs were already damp beneath the denim, sweat sticking her shirt to her back. Her pink braid hung heavy down one shoulder, soaked through at the nape. The gate loomed just ahead, rusted chain snapped clean through like it had given up trying to hold anything back. It swayed on a bad hinge, creaking softly in the wind.
No one used this gate. It led into a dense patch of cottonwoods and rocky soil—good for firewood, bad for grazing. No reason for a stranger to come through here unless they meant to go unnoticed. Cassidy’s stomach knotted as she walked forward. The grass here was trampled in places, dead in others. Whoever it was, they’d come in fast, knew where the old road curved. Knew how to disappear into the tree line without leaving much behind.
She mounted Whiskey with one practiced swing, leather creaking under her as she settled into the saddle. The gelding shifted beneath her, patient and calm, ears twitching with every gust. She guided him forward at a slow walk, eyes scanning the fence line as they moved south. A single post up ahead stood darker than the rest—older, rougher, like it had been replaced and forgotten. Something caught the light just above it. Cassidy narrowed her eyes. The damn red cloth.
She rode closer, heart tightening with every stride. It was tied in a single knot around the top rail, ends fluttering softly in the breeze. Bright and violent against the faded gray wood. Too clean to be accidental. Too bold to be shy.
She didn’t touch it. Just stared. Her father used to say the land could talk if you listened long enough. Today, it felt like it was screaming into the wind. Behind her, hooves beat a slow rhythm over dirt. She stiffened before she even turned. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Colt rode like he belonged anywhere the horizon touched—loose in the saddle, reins held easy, weight balanced without trying. His bay gelding moved smooth beneath him, hooves muffled by the dry earth. The man looked like a story she didn’t want retold—gray shirt clinging to his shoulders, sweat dampening the collar, tool belt buckled low on his hips like he hadn’t stopped fixing things since the day he showed up. His blond hair was tied back in a low knot. Sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt. His mouth was set in that unreadable line she’d hated, always like he was two steps ahead and three steps removed.
Cassidy didn’t turn to greet him. She just tilted her head slightly, voice flat as the fence line. “Are you really this obsessed?”
He didn’t answer right away. Let his horse slow to a stop a few feet off. He took in the cloth, then her, then the gate in the distance. “Wasn’t planning to interrupt.”
Cassidy's mind was too filled with the red cloth to even bother fighting with Colt. It was clear that he had no intention to leave, like he wanted to repay a non-existent debt. She let a low sigh escape her and nodded toward the post. “You see that?”
He followed her line of sight. The red strip danced lazily in the wind. Something flickered in his eyes. Not surprise. Not fear. Just calculation.
“Yeah,” he said. “I see it.”
“And?”
“Looks deliberate.”
Cassidy exhaled sharp through her nose. “You don’t say.”
The wind kicked up again, carrying with it the dry, earthy scent of hayfields and dust. Somewhere far off, a windmill squeaked in protest. The land breathed around them—quiet, tense, waiting.
“Tracks came in from the east gate,” she said finally. “Chain was cut. Not a ranch vehicle.”
“You call the sheriff?”
“Not yet.”
He turned toward her, mouth pressing into something close to concern. “Why not?”
Because pride. Because fear. Because she didn’t want to answer questions she didn’t have answers to, and she sure as hell didn’t want another man in uniform treating her land like it needed babysitting.
“Because I’m not ready to explain what I already know,” she said. Colt stared at her for a long beat, face unreadable.
“Pride looks good on you, Hart,” he said. “Until it doesn’t.”
The words landed sharper than she expected. Cassidy straightened in the saddle, jaw tight. “Don’t you start acting like you know what’s good for me.”
Colt didn’t flinch. Just looked back at the cloth. Then the post. Then the ruts in the ground.
“Someone’s testing your boundaries.”
Yeah? Boundaries, you say? I know just the guy who has been testing my goddamn boun-
“No shit,” she muttered. The sky had gone high and flat above them, a bleached blue that offered no comfort. The red cloth twisted on the wind like it was waving them down.
“You waiting for them to cross the line twice, or do you want company riding it?”
She looked at him. His posture was relaxed, but his jaw was tight. He wasn’t pushing her. Not exactly. But he wasn’t backing off either. Cassidy clicked her tongue and whiskey shifted beneath her.
“We ride.”
He nodded once and followed. They rode side by side in silence, hooves thudding soft and rhythmic against the dry dirt, reins creaking faintly with each shift of weight. The land around them rolled wide and open—sunburnt pastures giving way to skeletal brush and long stretches of fence that curved like the ribs of something ancient. This part of Hartland had always felt older to Cassidy. Untouched in the ways that mattered. The kind of quiet that held memory like it was stitched into the soil. A red-tailed hawk wheeled high above them, its cry sharp and lonely.
Colt rode easily next to her, scanning the line, reading the lay of the land like it still spoke his name. The sun had kissed his skin a few shades darker since she’d last seen him shirtless, which—God help her—was still burned into her brain like a brand. Cassidy tried not to notice the way his forearms flexed as he shifted in the saddle. Or how his shirt clung in all the ways that mattered. She gritted her teeth and focused on the fence posts. It was easier to be mad when she wasn’t looking at him.
They reached the bend where the southern pasture dropped into a shallow gulch. Cassidy scanned the far side of the fence, eyes narrowing. There. A second marker. This one wasn’t cloth. It was cord—black nylon, frayed at the ends—tied low around the middle rail, like it wanted to be overlooked. Someone had meant for it to blend in. She dismounted before Whiskey even stopped fully, boots hitting the ground in a crunch of sun-dried grass. She crouched beside the post, fingers brushing the knot. It was tight and also recent.
Cassidy’s mouth flattened into a grim line. Colt stayed mounted but leaned forward in his saddle, watching her. The wind picked up again, lifting dust from the dry gulch, curling it into little ghosts.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
She looked up, squinting against the sun. “That someone’s marking sections.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Surveying, maybe. Claiming.” She stood, brushed dirt from her hands. “My father would've raised hell by now. Burned it off and waited with a shotgun.”
“You’re not your father.” The words came quiet. Matter-of-fact. No sting intended—but Cassidy felt it anyway. It slid beneath her ribs and settled there, heavy. She looked at him then, really looked. His face was older. A little harder around the eyes. Stubble ghosted his jaw. There was a cut on his knuckle, half-healed, fresh.
“You still have that knife scar?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Colt blinked. “Which one?”
“Left side. Just under your ribs.”
He smirked. “From when you lost your temper and threw that fence hook at me?”
“You ducked late.”
“You aimed low.”
For a moment, they were both smiling. Then it was gone. Cassidy turned away and climbed back into the saddle. They rode again—quieter now. Not peaceful, but worn smooth with memory. It was this kind of silence that made Cassidy remember the arena, the way Colt had leaned against the top rail back when they were younger, cocky and lean, one boot hooked over the bottom rung, sweat on his neck and dust on his jeans. She’d been sixteen, rope in hand, determined to master the throw her father had drilled into her since she could walk. She’d missed the dummy three times, Colt giggling at her the entire time but not with menace.
Up ahead, the fence dipped again into a low draw. Brush crowded the edges, dense with wild growth and burdock. She guided Whiskey around the edge, scanning for another marker. Another cut in the world her father had built. Colt slowed beside her.
“This isn’t random,” he said.
“No kidding, genius.”
“They’re testing you. Seeing how far they can press before you push back.”
Cassidy didn’t respond. Not right away. She stared out over the pasture. Golden light flickered over broken stalks, a buzzard circled low near the trees. Nothing moved below. But the land felt watched. She felt watched.
She finally said, “Then maybe it’s time someone got pushed harder.”
The wind shifted again—this time with weight behind it. Cassidy felt it in the way the air flattened, how the silence stopped feeling like calm and started tasting like a warning. She glanced west. Clouds were building on the horizon, thick and bruised, curling in from the mountains like a slow punch drawn back.
“Storm,” Colt said, voice low. She didn’t need him to tell her, she knew the signs. Light slanting too sharply across the field. The sudden hush of birds going quiet. The smell—electric and dry—like the world was waiting to be struck.
“We need to head back,” she muttered, kicking Whiskey into motion. They rode hard for the barn, the wind growing teeth behind them. Grass flattened beneath hooves, dust curled in eddies. The sun disappeared behind a wall of dark. By the time they crossed the main yard, the first drops hit—thick and cold, like spit from the sky. Cassidy dismounted fast, unlatched the barn doors with a grunt, and shoved them open. The hinges groaned in protest. Lightning flashed as they ducked inside. Thunder followed close behind—too close. The barn swallowed them in shadow, the familiar scent of hay, leather, and old wood wrapping around them like memory. Ruckus darted in behind them and curled into his corner like he’d known where to go all along.
Cassidy dropped Whiskey’s reins and leaned back against the nearest beam, breathing hard. Rain pounded the tin roof in sheets now, loud and relentless, drumming like war. She was soaked, shirt clinging to her chest, braid dripping down her back. The damp air stuck to her skin, sweat and rain merging until she couldn’t tell where one ended.
Colt stood a few feet away, arms crossed, listening to the storm. She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to invite anything in. Definitely didn't want to remember the dream this morning. But the barn was small and silence had a way of dragging everything else out into the open.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said after a moment.
“You were.”
“I live here.”
“Doesn’t mean the sky owes you safe passage.”
She snorted. “You quoting something now?”
He shrugged. “Just saying what your dad used to say.”
That shut her up. Not because it hurt—though it did—but because hearing her father’s voice echoed through someone else’s made her bones ache.
“He had a hundred sayings,” she said, after a beat. “Most of them made no damn sense.”
“Still stuck with you, though.”
Cassidy leaned her head back against the wood, eyes closing for a second. Rain roared on the roof. A flash of lightning lit the stalls in cold white. For a heartbeat, Colt’s outline looked sharper than it should have—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes on her like she was the storm.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
She opened her eyes. “Talk about what?”
He didn’t look away. “Why you really hate me.”
The words landed heavy between them. Cassidy didn’t answer right away. Colt watched her the way a man watches wildfire—equal parts awe and self-preservation.
“You left,” she said finally. “When he got sick. When I needed someone who understood what this place meant. You didn’t call. You didn’t write. You just vanished.”
“I didn’t know how to stay.” he said, voice like gravel.
“You didn’t even try.”
He stepped forward, just one pace. “I was broken, Cass. I lost the rodeo. My shoulder was trash. Your dad offered me a job, and all I could think was how much of a failure I’d be showing up to shovel his stalls.”
“You think I gave a shit about your pride?” she snapped.
“No,” he said. “I think you gave a shit about me. And that scared the hell out of me.”
Her heart thundered louder than the rain, her fingers twitching at her sides. Colt took another step. “I didn’t leave to hurt you. I left because I didn’t know how to deserve you.”
Lightning flashed again. The air between them snapped tight. And then he was closer—so close she could smell him: cedar and storm and man. His hand lifted, hovered near her waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. She didn’t move. His fingers brushed her hip. Light. Careful. Testing the line.
Cassidy’s breath caught. He leaned in. Voice low, breath warm against her temple. “Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t. Her hand came up—rested on his chest. His heart was hammering beneath it. The moment stretched, breath and heat and want coiled tight between them. She turned her face toward his, cheek grazing cheek. His lips brushed hers. Almost. Barely. Waiting. Cassidy closed her eyes.
And then she pulled away.
One step. Then two. Rain filled the gap.
“No,” she said, voice raw.
Colt didn’t chase her. Just stood there, jaw tense, eyes burning.
“I’m not here to force anything, Cassidy,” he said quietly. “But I’m not walking away again either.”
She stared at him. Rain dripping from her chin, fingers clenched at her sides. She was furious with him, with herself, with the storm.
Outside, the storm began to pass. But inside, everything still felt like thunder.
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