Page 26 of Leather & Lies

“Hard to respect a man who won’t get his hands dirty,” I say, arranging the steaks in the order they’ll need to come off. “They expected absentee ownership. Instead, they got weekly cookouts and the expectation that all hands break bread together at least once a week.”

Shiloh’s expression turns thoughtful as she studies me. I’d kill to know what she’s thinking, if Miguel’s stories are softening her. I don’t know why I want her willing, but the idea of her submitting to me because she wants to, rather than because she has to, appeals more to me every day.

“Thought you might want to know that new breeding stallion—the buckskin you bought from Johnson—he’s got that hitch in his step again,” Miguel says, changing the subject.

Shiloh straightens beside me, professional interest overtaking her wariness. “Still?”

Miguel’s lips twitch, his eyes flicking to me for permission before he answers. I nod once, a concession that doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them. He’s known Shiloh for a long time, and I appreciate the effort he’s making to talk with her, to include her in the event.

“It’s worse when we try to work him after he’s been stalled overnight. Johnson swore he’d be perfect for our rodeo horse program, but that leg?—”

“He needs consistent movement.” Shiloh’s voice carries quiet confidence. “Prolonged standing creates stiffness in the damaged ligament. You should?—”

She catches herself, glancing at me like she expects a reprimand for offering her expertise without my approval. Something uncomfortable twists in my gut at her hesitation, especially since I’m the asshole that caused it.

“Go on.” I keep my hand at the small of her back, a reminder of my presence without silencing her. “Tell Miguel how to handle the damn horse.”

I turn back to the grill, letting my approval remain unspoken as they talk through the horse’s injury. The steaks need turning, and the foil-wrapped potatoes have reached the perfect temperature.

Without thinking, I prepare a plate the way I’ve seen Shiloh eat through my video cameras: medium-rare steak, extra potatoes, easy on the sauce. When I hand it to her, something flickers in her expression—surprise at this small evidence that I’ve been paying attention to her preferences. She doesn’t know how closely I’ve been surveilling her for years. And she never will.

“Remember that bull from the Prichett auction?” one of the younger hands calls out to the group. “The one they said couldn’t be ridden?”

My jaw tightens. I know exactly where this is going. “Ramirez, don’t you have fence to check?”

But one of the other hands, Terry, who’s been working this land since before I was born—even longer than Miguel—either ignored or didn’t receive the message. “Hell yes,” he says. “Mr. Big Shot here overpays for this beast nobody could handle. We all told him not to buy it—too wild to be handled,” he says, gesturing at me with his beer bottle. “Then the next morning, we find him in the ring when he thinks nobody’s watching, determined to prove this bull could be broken.”

Shiloh’s attention snaps to me, her gaze suddenly assessing once more. It isn’t a story I like to share—a moment of stubborn pride that drove me to prove myself until I’d cemented my reputation.

“Eight seconds?” she asks, her voice carrying a note I can’t quite place. Not mockery. Something closer to genuine curiosity.

“Barely,” I answer despite myself, the memory still vivid. “Then he put me into the fence. They were fucking right.”

The men laugh, and I catch the easy camaraderie beneath their amusement. Not mocking their boss, but including me in the circle of men who understand what it means to take risks.

“Boss limped for a week but wouldn’t see a doctor,” Terry adds, obviously enjoying himself. “Same day he gets thrown, he sells it for a song, and we find a bonus in our checks. Called it a ‘performance incentive,’ but we all knew it was because Prichett tried to screw him on that bull, and he needed to prove something.”

“Could’ve killed you,” Shiloh observes, studying my face.

I shrug, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “Could’ve. Would’ve killed someone else if I hadn’t gotten rid of it.”

I should shut down the storytelling to maintain the careful image I’ve crafted. Instead, I find myself wanting her to hear more. Wanting her to understand how I’ve built all this fromnothing but grit and the determination to not be powerless again.

The evening mellows as the hands finish eating. Some drift away to their cabins, others gather around the fire pit Miguel built years ago. The tension in Shiloh’s shoulders has eased, whether from the food or the casual atmosphere, I can’t tell. But I find myself relaxing in response, my hand at her back less about control and more about simple contact. I like touching her. I like having her at my side. I like how she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention, as if I might not be the monster I’ve had to be to secure my legacy.

“Why do you still do this?” she asks quietly as I collect empty plates. “You could hire someone. Have it catered.”

“I’d spend years watching sitcom families do this—gather, eat together, build community.” My jaw tightens at the memory. “My old man only cooked when my mother was too bruised to stand. Food was just another weapon in our house.”

I hadn’t meant to reveal that much. Haven’t spoken of my father to anyone in years. But Shiloh just nods, her expression shifting into something too close to understanding for comfort.

“My dad was different,” she says after a moment. “Even when he was at his worst with the gambling, he always made sure I ate before he did. Not when he was drunk, but… I miss those moments.” She pauses, studying my face. “You’re building what you never had.”

The simple observation hits hard. This woman who’s fought me at every turn, who has every reason to hate me, sees right through my carefully constructed walls. Not with forgiveness—we are far from that—but recognition that cuts too close to the bone.

Fire crackles in the growing darkness as the remaining hands drift away, leaving us relatively alone by the flames. Shiloh’s profile in the firelight heats my blood—the proud angle of herjaw, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the subtle curves revealed by the flannel shirt she’s taken to wearing around the ranch. Mine. Every inch of her.

Except the part that still looks at me with a mixture of wariness and defiance. The part I haven’t yet managed to claim, no matter how thoroughly I’ve marked her body.

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