Page 47 of Claimed By the Cowboy
“Sounds like someone’s thorough,” Luna says, trying—and failing—not to smirk.
“He’s obsessive,” Delaney corrects, blowing on her coffee. “I know he’s passionate about the veterans program, but does every bolt in the supply shed need classifying with a serial number? I’m expecting to find barcodes on the hay bales next.”
“Ooh, are we talking about Drill-Sergeant Daniel?” a chirpy voice asks from behind us.
We all turn as George appears, wiping grease-stained hands on a rag as she strolls over from the far barn where one of the ranch tractors sits half-dismantled. She’s wearing coveralls, a baseball cap sitting crookedly on her chestnut hair secured in a messy braid, and oil smears her cheek.
George flops down cross-legged in the grass. “Daniel once made me re-label the entire trailer storage because my handwriting wasn’t legible enough for his system. Stood there with his clipboard like he was mapping out a ten-thousand-head cattle drive. Said the vets couldn’t tell if I’d writtenwrenchorwench. As if anyone would confuse the two. He’s lucky I didn’t throw thewrenchat him.”
“Speak of the devil,” Delaney mutters into her coffee mug.
Daniel strides into view. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed down in worn jeans and a Henley rolled to the elbows. The Army Ranger is still in him—the alert way he holds himself, how he scans the horizon before focusing on us.
Delaney sits up straighter, chin tilting in that subtle way it does when she’s about to spar. “Well, if it isn’t the supply-chain dictator himself.”
Daniel’s mouth quirks. “Glad to see you’re finally admitting the system works.” His gaze flicks to the tray. “And drinking my coffeewhile you insult me.”
“This is ranch coffee,” Delaney fires back. “It doesn’t belong to you.”
“You’re only saying that because you didn’t brew it right,” he deadpans, a spark in his gray eyes.
Luna and I exchange a look over the rims of our mugs, biting back smiles.
George mutters, “Here we go,” under her breath.
Sure enough, the two of them fall into what has become their usual rhythm—snappy back-and-forth, sharp enough to sting. But their banter is also threaded with a warmth they’d both deny if anyone pointed it out.
“I told you,” Delaney says, exasperated. “We have plenty of rope and med kits.”
“For this month,” Daniel replies smoothly. “But the fall gather’s around the corner. And if I don’t start lining things up now, we’ll be short on supplies before the first steer hits the pens. Not to mention the spring drive. Planning starts early if you want it done right.”
Delaney throws up a hand. “It’s early August, Daniel.”
“Exactly.” He doesn’t blink. “Which means we’re already behind.”
“Control freak,” Delaney mutters, taking a long sip of coffee.
Daniel smirks, clearly enjoying himself. Then he shifts, businesslike again. “Speaking of which, you ready to get back to it? The supply manifests aren’t going to check themselves.”
She stares at him as if she’s deciding whether to argue or dump her coffee over his head. Rising to her feet, she mumbles, “Fine, let’s get this done so I can get some peace.”
Daniel’s mouth twitches. “No peace for the wicked, Delaney.”
Delaney splutters, nearly sloshing her coffee. “Are you suggesting I’m?—”
Daniel turns and strides toward the barns before she can finish, shoulders straight, like he didn’t just drop a grenade.
Luna hides a grin behindher mug.
George snorts.
Delaney glares, her cheeks pink. “Infuriating man!”
She slams her mug onto the wooden railing before stomping after him.
Luna leans closer to me, whispering, “She’s going to murder him one of these days.”
“Or kiss him.” George smirks as she pushes to her feet. “Could go either way.”
