Page 29 of Wrecked for Love
Fritz nodded, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Figured I found the right man. Thing is, I’m lookin’ for work. Ain’t afraid of hard labor, and I can handle cattle better than most.”
The men around me shifted uneasily, eyeing the stranger. I didn’t blame them. Ranch life taught you to be wary of folks who showed up out of the blue. But I gave them a nod, and they knewwhat to do. They moved on, securing the cattle while keeping a close watch on the herd and the land.
I turned back to Fritz, giving him a measured look. “Really appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Fritz.”
“Call me Fritzy,” he corrected with a grin.
I tipped my hat. “Here’s the thing. We’re full up right now, and the budget’s tighter than a calf in a branding chute. Winter’s coming fast. But if you’re sticking around for a while, come back in the spring. We start calving early February and could sure use an extra pair of hands.”
“Fair enough. Thanks, Mr. Lucas,” he said, turning to leave.
“Hey,” I called out after him, tossing over my canteen and a couple of extra pies. “Take these. Can’t let a man walk away hungry.”
Fritzy caught them with a spark of energy. “Sweet! Thanks, Mr. Lucas.”
I watched him as he disappeared down the driveway, the ranch slowly settling back into its rhythm as the sun sank lower. Another day at The Lazy Moose, and nothing was ever simple.
Hank came back, brushing off the fence incident like it was nothing. “Just a one-off,” he declared.
We hadn’t had trouble like this in a while, but I knew well enough that threats were always lurking, especially from one family. The Vosses. Sneaky bastards, the lot of them. They hadn’t ranched in years, but they’d moved on to something far more dangerous. Their business included illegal prescriptions, stolen guns, hired muscle, and prostitution. Folks came and went without a trace, and they knew just how to push buttons—poke and prod—without ever crossing the line where the law could get involved. Most of the town gave them a wide berth. Hell, I did too, but every now and then, they made sure I couldn’t avoid them.
And then there was Tessa. The thought of avenging her death the old-fashioned way crossed my mind more than I cared to admit. Sometimes, it felt like my life’s mission. Taking down the Voss brothers with my own two hands was a temptation that kept me awake at night, no matter how hard I tried to shove it aside.
“Keep vigilant,” I told Hank.
“Always, El,” he replied, giving me a firm nod before heading toward the stable. He paused, though, looking back over his shoulder. “Hey, we’re headin’ to The Timber & Whiskey later. You should come.”
I shook my head with a half-smile. “You boys enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it.”
“Keeping that ‘Lone Buffalo’ reputation alive, huh?” Hank teased.
I laughed. “That’s Diesel’s job,” I said, dodging the dig by pointing at my alpha bull. Though truth be told, Diesel had a better track record with the ladies. I knew the nicknames folks tossed my way since Noah split. “Lone Buffalo” was one of the more flattering ones. It sure beat “The Mute Moose” or “Lord Lucas.”
Hank tipped his hat and rode off, leaving me alone in the fading daylight. I stayed back, letting my gaze sweep over the spread of land before me. It took more than just courage to hold on to a place like this. It took grit, determination, and a hell of a lot of patience. Between the Vosses always scheming and Mother Nature throwing her worst, something was always out to knock me down.
Straightening in the saddle, I made up my mind. A quick patrol around the east ridge wouldn’t hurt.
13
CLAIRE
The animal shelter looked exactly as I remembered, like the day I’d planned to leave Buffaloberry Hill for good. Yet here I was, still tied to the town that had quietly woven itself into my life, shaping my days in ways I never saw coming.
I pushed open the door, and while the outside hadn’t changed a bit, the inside was a different story. The cats’ cages had been replaced with larger, more comfortable spaces, giving them more room to move around. A stack of pet food, looking freshly delivered, was piled high against the wall. Clearly, Mr. Gunn had put the donation I gave to good use.
Padding over to the cages, I crouched to greet one of the cats. The black-and-white tabby hissed at me, claws out, clearly in no mood to make friends.
Just then, the back door swung open, and there he was—the infamous Mr. Gunn. He was in his seventies, small and wiry, with a permanent scowl etched on his face. Despite his size, he was carrying a stack of heavy dog food bags like they weighed nothing more than pillows.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice gruff as he set the bags down with a thud.
“Mr. Gunn?” I asked, trying not to sound too nervous.
“Yeah. Can I help you?” he repeated, sounding even grumpier than before.
“My name is Claire Ashbourne. I’d like to volunteer at your shelter.”
His face contorted in disbelief as if I’d just offered to adopt all the animals in one go. “Any experience?”
