Page 53 of Leather & Lies

I edge further onto the rock bridge, thighs burning as I fight to stay upright against the wind. The water below looks like liquid darkness, hungry and alive. One slip and?—

A massive log slams into the rocks below, the impact vibrating through my bones. The creek seems to reach for me, eager to add me to its collection of broken things.

“Please!” The raw desperation in Jackson’s voice almost breaks my resolve. “Shiloh, you’ll die out here!”

Liar. He doesn’t care about me. He cares aboutcontrollingme, manipulating me so he canuseme.

Lightning transforms the scene into stark black and white—me balanced on the rocks, him closing the distance between us with those long strides. In the electric light, I catch his expression. Not the calculated control I’m used to. Something wilder. Almost afraid.

Good. Let him know what it feels like to be powerless.

I take another step onto the rocks. The rain makes everything slick as glass, and my bare feet struggle for purchase. The creek seems to growl beneath me, promising consequences for any mistake.

My foot slips.

I twist mid-fall, years of ranch work giving my body the muscle memory it needs. My hip slams against the rock, sending fresh pain blazing through already-bruised flesh, but my hands find purchase on the rough stone. For one endless moment, I hang there—suspended between Jackson and the hungry water, between trust and betrayal, between drowning and surviving.

I haul myself back up, finding my footing despite the perilous surface. One step. Another. The far bank rises before me, promising escape.

“Shiloh!” Jackson’s voice holds something I’ve never heard before. Not command. Not control. Fear.

I don’t look back. Can’t bear to see his expression, to risk letting that magnetic pull between us draw me back to him. Instead, I focus on the shadowy shapes moving in the valley below. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something?—

Horror cuts through my personal pain as I realize what I’m seeing. The flood waters have cut off the lower pasture. Dark shapes mill in growing panic—the herd, trapped between rising water and the steep canyon walls. His men are too far out. Won’t arrive in time to prevent panic.

I could leave them. Could let Jackson deal with the consequences of his own actions.

A calf’s terrified bawl carries over the storm’s fury.

Goddammit.

I may hate Jackson Hawkins with every fiber of my being, but I won’t let innocent animals suffer for it. Squaring my shoulders against the rain, I start down toward the endangered herd.

Behind me, I hear Jackson curse. Let him follow. Let him watch—he’s going to anyway.

I have cattle to save.

The descent into the valley is treacherous, mud trying to pull my feet out from under me with every step. Lightning shows me glimpses of the full disaster—the flood waters have split the herd, pushing some against the canyon walls while others bunch together on a rapidly shrinking island of higher ground. Most are Jackson’s prized Herefords, their red coats turned black by the rain, but I spot several of old man Mitchell’s distinctive Black Angus mixed in. The storm must have taken down fencing somewhere.

Thunder cracks overhead and the cattle shift nervously, their movements bringing them dangerously close to the rushing water. A cow bellows in panic as her calf slips in the mud. The sound cuts through me.

More lightning illuminates the valley, and my heart stops. The flood waters aren’t just rising—they’re carving new channels through the soft earth. That island of high ground won’t last another hour. And if the herd panics, if they start to run?—

“Jesus Christ.” Jackson’s voice carries over the wind. He’s kept his distance since I crossed the rocks, but I hear the same horror in his voice that I’m feeling. “The north creek’s breached its banks. They’re about to be caught between two floods.”

I don’t acknowledge him. Don’t need to. The reality of what we’re facing transcends personal betrayal. Fifty-odd head of premium cattle, each worth more than my truck, trapped between rising waters. But it’s not about money—it’s about the terrified calf still crying for its mother, about generations of careful breeding that could be wiped out in one night of nature’s fury.

My body moves before my mind fully processes the plan. I start picking my way down toward the herd, using the lightning flashes to guide my steps. The rain has plastered my camisole to my skin, but I barely feel the cold. Analysis takes over—the habit of years spent reading animal behavior, understanding patterns of movement and fear.

We need the ranch hands. Need ATVs and horses and proper equipment. But first, we need to get the herd to higher ground before the water rises further.

“Get to the ridge.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but the animals have to come first. Behind me, I hear him rein in his horse, the radio still spitting urgent updates about rescue crews en route. “If you can keep them from bolting north while I bring them around the point?—”

“They’ll follow the old creek bed to high ground.” He finishes my thought, professional respect momentarily overshadowing everything else. “But you’ll be in the flood path if the water rises?—”

“I know what I’m doing.” I cut him off, unable to bear his concern. Unable to forget the videos, the photos, the violation. “Just get to the ridge.”

Another crack of lightning shows his face—torn between the need to protect his investment and the need to protect me. Let him struggle with it. I have work to do.

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