Page 59 of Leather & Lies

She’d hate me forever.

For the first time since I was a boy watching my father destroy everything around him, I feel something dangerouslyclose to fear. Not for my empire, not for my control, but for the possibility that I’ve achieved exactly what I set out to do when I claimed Shiloh—broken something beautiful beyond repair.

23

Shiloh

Dawn creeps through broken windows,painting shadows across water-stained walls as I roll out of my sleeping bag. The ancient floorboards creak beneath me, protesting like my muscles after another night on the floor. But this is my house. My floor. My choice.

The thought steadies me as I pick my way through debris to my makeshift kitchen—a camp stove perched on what used to be Mama’s antique side table. The surface is ruined anyway. Just like everything else the storm touched two nights ago.

Including me.

I reach for the battered coffee pot, only to stop short. There, gleaming like some alien artifact among the wreckage, sits a ceramic cone to make pour-over coffee, a kettle, filters, and the sort of expensive beans I’d only dreamed of when I was struggling to make ends meet. A folded note leans against it, the handwriting on the heavy cream cardstock instantly recognizable.

The cheap stuff is criminal. -J

My first instinct is to throw it through the window. Instead, I trace the sharp edges of his handwriting, remembering how those hands felt on my skin, how his perfectionism controlled every aspect of his life. Ofmylife.

The rich scent of coffee fills the air as I pour hot water into the cone and listen to it drip into my favorite coffee mug. Some habits are harder to break than others.

Outside, the devastation stretches as far as I can see. The storm took twenty years of careful maintenance and tossed it aside like kindling. The barn roof sags dangerously. The corrals list at angles that make my stomach clench. The ranch house—Christ.

I force myself to catalog the damage with a ranch manager’s eye instead of a daughter’s heart. Water damage in the east wing. Structural concerns in the north corner.

An engine rumbles in the distance. My shoulders tense as a truck crests the rise, but it’s just Miguel’s ancient Ford. My relief lasts until I spot the heavy equipment trailer behind him.

Jackson’s foreman stops at a respectful distance, rolling down his window but not killing the engine. “Boss said you’d say no.” The lines around his eyes crinkle. “Also said we’re to ignore that.”

I stalk across the muddy yard, ignoring how the morning chill cuts through my worn flannel. “Miguel, I can’t?—”

“Can’t pay us?” His weathered face breaks into a grin. “Good thing we’re on Jackson’s clock then.” He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence amplifies the sound of more trucks approaching. “Brought some equipment that might help. Unless you and your crew planned to move those trees with your bare hands?”

Pride wars with practicality as I study the fallen timber blocking access to the barn. The massive trunk would take me days to clear alone. Behind Miguel’s truck, I recognize more of Jackson’s senior ranch hands arriving—each man with decadesof experience, each one who’s taught me something over the years.

He sent his best. Not just hands, but mentors, friends, men I’d known my whole life, who’d watched me grow up, taught me what they knew about horses.

Tears pricked at my eyes. I was so fucking tired of not letting them fall. “I don’t need?—”

“Course you don’t.” Miguel’s already climbing down. “But that barn roof won’t fix itself. And Terry brought his welding rig for the corrals.” He doesn’t wait for my response, just starts directing the arriving trucks with the efficiency of someone who’s managed crisis repairs for thirty years.

I retreat to the porch, cradling my too-expensive coffee, and watch Jackson’s experienced crew with my own tackle tasks that would have taken us weeks alone. The men work with quiet competence, carefully avoiding my gaze. Giving me space to pretend this isn’t charity.

But it’s not charity, is it? The realization hits as I watch Miguel inspect the barn roof. Jackson sent a crew I’d respect, men whose expertise I trust. He’s not trying to control the repairs—he’s making sure they’re done right.

A flash of movement catches my eye—an unfamiliar truck crawling past on the access road. Something about the way it slows makes the hair on my neck rise. But before I can focus on it, Terry calls out about the corral supports.

Right. Focus on what I can control.

I set down my coffee and head toward the barn. Miguel’s right—that roof won’t fix itself.

By noon, my shoulders burn, and my hands are scraped raw, but we’ve made real progress. The barn has temporary supports, the worst of the debris is cleared, and Terry’s welding holds stronger than the original joints. I’m filthy, exhausted, and grimly satisfied.

Until I spot the feed delivery truck.

“Don’t need the whole load,” I call out, jogging toward the driver. “Just half?—”

He hands me an invoice markedPAID—standing arrangement with supplier.“Full delivery, ma’am. Weekly schedule’s already set up.”

---