Page 33 of Leather & Lies

“Your mare’s already saddled.” His voice carries a hint of gravel that says he’s been up for hours. “We’re burning daylight.”

Bastard.He’s touched my gear without permission, saddled Whiskey, as if she were his, and not mine.

“The northern line first,” he says, swinging into his saddle with fluid grace. “Storm’s coming in from the west. We’ll work our way back ahead of it.”

I do my own tack check, anyway, taking my sweet time just to prove I can. His jaw tightens. Good. But when I finally mount up, I have to admit every piece of equipment is exactly where I’d have put it myself. The realization pricks under my skin—he’s been studying me for a long time.

As we ride out, the rising sun paints stark shadows across the stable yard. Ahead of us, the terrain rises in waves—gentle slopes giving way to steeper hills thick with pine and juniper. Behind us, morning fog still clings to the valley floor.

Jackson sets a brisk pace. His posture is relaxed, at home in the saddle in a way he never quite manages in his tailored suits. Out here, with nothing but horses and horizon, he seems almost human.

“Tell me about the grazing rotation.” His voice cuts through my thoughts. Not a request—a test.

I study the land as we ride, noting the subtle signs most people would miss. “You’re using high-intensity, short-duration grazing. Moving the herds every three to five days based on grass recovery.” I gesture to a patch of luxuriant green. “That section’s nearly ready for the next rotation. The forbs are at peak nutrition but haven’t gone to seed yet.”

He doesn’t respond, but I catch the slight nod. Professional respect, however grudging, is still respect. The trail narrows, forcing us single file as we climb. Jackson takes point, and I definitely don’t notice how his thighs grip his mount’s flanks, how his powerful shoulders shift with each step.

The ground grows treacherous, loose shale hidden under deceptive grass. Ahead, Jackson reins in, studying the path. But I know this type of terrain—spent years learning its secrets while he was busy building his empire.

“Pull right,” I call out. “That whole left side’s unstable.”

He hesitates, and for a moment I think he’ll ignore me out of stubborn pride. But then he guides his stallion onto the lineI indicated, letting me take the lead. The power shift sends an unexpected thrill up my spine.

We pick our way forward, the horses placing each hoof carefully. The ground here is like our relationship—beautiful but treacherous, with destruction lurking just below the surface. One wrong step could send us both tumbling.

“This is why I need you here.” His voice is quiet, almost lost in the whisper of wind through pine needles. “You see what I miss.”

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I’m not ready to examine. I focus on reading the terrain instead. Behind me, Jackson follows my lead without question.

Partners,whispers a traitorous voice in my head.We could be partners.

I scoff. He’d refused that once already.

Thunder growls in the distance, an echo of my own internal storm. Above us, dark clouds gather. We have hours of riding ahead, and nowhere to hide from either the weather or these dangerous thoughts.

I urge Whiskey forward. The sooner we finish this inspection, the sooner I can retreat behind my carefully constructed walls. But as Jackson falls in beside me, our horses matching stride for stride, I wonder if those walls haven’t already started to crumble.

As the trail opens onto a natural plateau, my breath catches. The entirety of Jackson’s empire spreads below us like a living map. Lush valleys carved by spring-fed creeks. Forests climbing the ridgelines. Pastures dotted with black Angus cattle that look like ants from this height. All of it his.

All of it what my ranch could have been, if Daddy hadn’t been—my mind shies away from the criticism of my father, even if he deserved it.

“Your father was a good horseman.” Jackson’s voice is neutral, but I stiffen anyway. “Although he never understoodthat running a successful ranch takes more than just good horsemanship.”

The words hit like a slap. “Don’t talk about my father.”

“Someone should.” His tone turns hard. “His addictions nearly cost you everything.”

“And you were there to pick up the pieces.” Bitterness coats my tongue. “How convenient.”

But I wonder who might have bought the mortgage—what might have happened to me— if anyone else had discovered how deeply my father had leveraged the property. Hurt wrenched through me—my father’s gambling addictionhadcost me everything. Including my freedom.

Thunder cracks closer now, and Whiskey dances beneath me. I gentle her with practiced hands, watching the shadows of clouds race across the valley below. The wind carries the scent of rain and sage, and something else—the electric tension that precedes a storm.

“You think I orchestrated his downfall.” It’s not a question. Jackson turns in his saddle to face me, and the intensity in his ice-blue eyes pins me in place. “Your father was gambling away the ranch long before I entered the picture. I just made sure I was the one holding the notes when it all fell apart.”

“Why?” The question tears free before I can stop it.

His stallion shifts restlessly, but Jackson holds my gaze. “You know why.”

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