Page 13 of Leather & Lies

“The arch support in these is completely worn.” Tommy keeps his voice professional as he examines my old boots. “But the break-in pattern shows good pressure distribution. We’ll want something similar for?—”

“The Anderson line.” Jackson interrupts, nodding toward a row of boots I’d always admired but could never justify. “They’re still using that double-stitched sole?”

Tommy brightens, professional expertise overriding his nervousness. “Yes, sir. Best breaking boots on the market. The reinforced ankle support alone?—”

“They’re too fancy for—” I protest, once again.

“Try them.” Jackson’s thumb strokes the nape of my neck, the gesture both soothing and possessive.

The bell chimes as Morgan enters, bringing with her the scent of coffee and something sharper—tension. She moves toward the register with practiced casualness, but I catch how her eyes track Jackson’s hand on my neck.

“These fit perfectly,” Tommy says as he kneels to check the toe box. “But for working horses, you might want something more?—”

“We’ll take them.” Jackson’s voice carries an edge of command that makes everyone in the store still slightly. “And a pair of Ariats.” His fingers tighten fractionally on my shoulder.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Morgan’s voice is dry as she approaches. “Quite the shopping spree.”

Jackson’s hand stays possessive on my shoulder, but I feel him shift slightly. Repositioning. Like a predator scenting competition.

“Miss Drake.” His tone is perfectly pleasant. “How’s that mare of yours settling in?”

“Actually, I was hoping to discuss that with Shiloh.” She meets his gaze without flinching. “If you can spare her for a moment.”

The silence stretches just long enough to remind everyone exactly who makes these decisions. Then Jackson’s hand lifts from my shoulder. “Of course.” He turns to Tommy. “Show me what else you have in stock.”

They move toward the back of the store, leaving me alone with Morgan. But I feel Jackson’s attention like a physical touch, monitoring every movement.

“Are you okay?” Morgan keeps her voice low, her eyes on the boots Tommy left beside me. “Mom says you’ve been working with Shadow at Jackson’s ranch.”

My throat tightens at her concern. Morgan was my best friend. We grew up together, learning to ride at each other’s ranches. “I’m fine. Just busy with the new arrangement.”

She scoffs and raises her fingers to make air quotes and mouthsarrangement, even though I haven’t shared anything except that Jackson had hired me.

“Shiloh, are you really okay?” She glances toward where Jackson stands examining boots with Tommy. “Remember Victoria Reeves? How she threatened his control of the south valley properties?” Her lips barely move. “Ruled a suicide, despite the impossible angle of the bullet hole in her skull. That’s how Jackson operates—everyone knows the truth, but no one can prove it. And no one wants to try.”

The implication hangs heavy between us. Everyone knows Victoria’s fate after challenging Jackson. Just like everyone knows what happens to ranchers who stand against his empire. They don’t disappear—they simply become cautionary tales whispered over whiskey when cowboys think he’s not listening.

“I’m worried about you,” Morgan says softly.

I take her hand in mine. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“Come have lunch with me and the girls on Sunday,” she says, squeezing my fingers. “Please.”

“Ready?” Jackson materializes beside us, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. The interruption is deliberate, but I don’t say anything.

Morgan straightens. “Think about what I said.”

She leaves before Jackson can respond, the bell’s cheerful chime at odds with the weight of her warning. Jackson’s hand tightens on my back, and I know the questions will come later. In private.

“Sir?” Tommy’s voice carries a nervous edge as he emerges from the stockroom. “I have those other boots ready.”

Each pair Tommy brings out is perfect—he and Jackson discuss leather quality and stitching patterns with the focus of men who understand that good boots can mean the difference between a successful breaking session and a trip to the emergency room.

I recognize most of the brands—the kind of boots that lasted decades with proper care. The kind I’d always promised myself I’d invest in “someday.”

Jackson’s thumb traces small circles at the small of my back as Tommy rings up the sale—two off-the-shelf pairs instead of one. I catch the total and start to protest, but the warmth in Jackson’s expression stops me. Instead, I lean back into him, pulling his hand to my hip, and raise my face to his.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

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