Love Born on a Cattle Drive (Preview)

Prologue

Silvercreek, Wyoming Territory – Late Spring, 1882

The scent of wild sage and fresh-turned earth lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp sting of loss that pressed against Virginia Bennett’s chest. Ginny stood at the foot of Boot Hill, her hat clutched to her side, black braid whipping in the restless wind. Around her, the townsfolk gathered in a loose half-circle around the fresh grave, boots shuffling in the powdery dust, heads bowed beneath the morning sun.

She’d worn her father’s old Sunday coat, sleeves rolled, its rough wool heavy on her shoulders—far too big now, just as his absence was too big, too hollow. The preacher’s voice carried over the breeze, low and solemn, the words meant to comfort, to offer peace, but Ginny barely heard them. Everything since the doctor’s visit had been a blur—a handful of quiet days, her father’s sharp decline, the secret he’d carried about his illness. Now she was left with the echoes and the silence.

Her gaze swept over the crowd. Neighbors and ranchers, townsfolk she’d known her whole life: Martha and Hank Ellison, Mrs. Embers with a tray of sticky buns set on the wagon bed. Even old Sheriff Caldwell had put aside his suspicions about a woman running a ranch to stand with his hat pressed to his heart. They looked at Ginny with a strange mixture of sympathy and curiosity, as if waiting to see whether she’d crack beneath the weight or rise to meet the challenge.

Whispers had already started among the townsfolk—most doubted a woman could run a ranch, let alone survive a season without a man to do the heavy lifting. Some pitied her, others watched with a glint of morbid interest, certain she’d fail. Out here, folks believed a woman’s place was inside four walls or tending to the chickens, not out riding fence or facing down drought and debt.

But she only felt numb—numb and untethered, her chest aching in a way she hadn’t known was possible. Her father was gone now, too. And with him, any reason to feel like a daughter anymore.

The preacher spoke the last words, and the crowd began to shift, boots scraping, murmurs rising as hats tipped in Ginny’s direction. She nodded at them, her chin held high, jaw clenched to keep from trembling. She would not cry in front of all Silvercreek. She would not give them the satisfaction.

Wainwright stood apart from the rest, arms folded across his chest, a deep frown carved into his face. He owned the next ranch over and never made a secret of his opinions—loud enough for anyone in earshot to hear. Wainwright didn’t offer condolences or a handshake. Instead, he gave Ginny a pointed look and muttered, “it’s a hard land for the fatherless.”

Ginny met his gaze, refusing to look away. The words weren’t a warning—they were a challenge, and everyone in Silvercreek heard them.

Ginny forced herself to lock eyes with Wainwright until he turned away. It wasn’t deference on his part, but it wasn’t on her part, either. That counted for something.

She finally turned, pulling herself together. And then she saw him.

Ronan McCallister.

The boy her father had taken in all those years ago was a man now—family, and yet he was a stranger. He’d only been three years older than her, but he’d seemed so grown back then. And then as teenagers they seemed like one and the same for a while, inseparable.

Until he’d left.

He moved through the crowd with the same quiet intensity that had always set him apart. Tall and broad-shouldered, hat pulled low, the sun catching on the scar at his right temple. For a heartbeat, Ginny’s breath caught—surprise mingled with the sharp memory of childhood resentment and something older, more complicated. She hadn’t seen Ronan since the winter her mother had passed away. She hadn’t expected him to come at all.

He stopped a pace away, boots planted firm in the dirt, brown eyes unreadable. “Sorry for your loss, Ginny.”

His voice was low, just rough enough to scrape against old wounds. The condolences, coming from him, tasted like dust. She braced herself, green eyes flashing. “Didn’t expect you’d ride all this way for a funeral.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Your father was a good man. Deserved better.”

She bit down on the retort—on all the things she might have said about debts unpaid and men who ran off without a word. The sun felt too bright, and the crowd was thinning, faces turning away to leave her with the only man she’d ever wanted to impress, and the only one who’d ever truly disappointed her.

“You can say your piece to my father, if you like,” she said stiffly, glancing aside and nodding toward the freshly covered grave. “He always did respect you.”

Ronan’s gaze flickered, just a hint of something softer before he covered it. “He respected you more. Don’t forget that.”

A silence stretched between them—full of all the words Ginny would never speak. She looked down at her boots, at the red dust clinging to her father’s coat. When she glanced up again, Ronan was already turning away, boots crunching in the dirt as he strode toward the ridge, his dog Rusty trailing close at his heels.

Ginny’s anger, fierce and sudden, melted into something duller—a heavy ache that made her shoulders slump. She watched him disappear into the distance, wishing she could hate him as easily as she once had. After her mother passed away, Ronan had vanished—just when she needed someone most. The wound left behind was older than grief, sharper than pride.

Martha Ellison’s hand found her arm, gentle as always. She had worked the Bennett ranch for years, keeping the household running and filling the space left behind by Ginny’s mother. Married to Hank—the main ranch hand—she had always been more than a housekeeper; she’d been like a mother to Ginny, her source of comfort and steady support.
“Come on, sugar. Let’s get you home.”

Back at the ranch, the rooms felt emptier than she remembered—shadows stretched long across the floor, and the ticking of the clock sounded unnaturally loud. Ginny sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea, staring out the window at the corral. Dusty, her faithful dog, lay at her feet, muzzle resting on her boot, brown eyes watching her with quiet concern.

Martha busied herself at the stove, the clatter of pans and the smell of yeast bread rising, as if the rituals of daily life could hold back the tide of grief. “You did right by your daddy today,” she said, not turning. “He’d be proud.”

Ginny pressed her lips together, fighting the sudden urge to weep. “I never wanted this, Martha. I never wanted any of it. I thought he’d always be here.”

Martha set a fresh loaf to cool, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned, her eyes as kind as they were wise. “No one ever does, child. But you’re strong. Stronger than you know.”

“Feels more like being hollowed out.” Ginny stared into her tea, hands trembling.

A long silence passed. Outside, the porch swing rattled in the wind. A hawk screeched somewhere out back. At last, Ginny looked up, voice barely a whisper. “Did you know he was sick? Before…?”

Martha hesitated, the truth settling heavy on her face. “He made me promise not to tell. He didn’t want you worrying, not with the spring drive coming.”

Ginny shook her head, jaw set. “He should’ve told me. I could’ve—” She broke off, emotion threatening to spill over.

Martha crossed to her, pressing a folded scrap of paper into her hand. “Someone else came to pay respects today. You saw him?”

Ginny’s fingers curled around the note, recognizing Ronan’s tight, slanted script. She stiffened. “Why did you send for him?”

“Your daddy respected him, same as I did. Figured he had a right to know.” Martha’s gaze softened. “He left this, should you need him.”

Ginny scoffed, tossing the note onto the table. “I don’t need him. I never did.” But her words lacked bite, falling flat in the quiet kitchen.

Martha only nodded, understanding running deep. “Sometimes, needing someone isn’t a weakness, Ginny. It’s what makes us human.”

Ginny stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “I’m turning in. Let me know if Hank gets in trouble again.”

She climbed the stairs, Dusty’s nails clicking behind her, the old dog’s presence a comfort. Inside her small room, Ginny dropped the coat to the floor, kicked off her boots, and collapsed onto the bed. Dusty circled, then settled at her feet, warm and solid.

For a long time, Ginny lay staring at the ceiling, her father’s letter tucked beneath her pillow, the old ache of longing and loss cutting deeper than any wound. The moon cast pale light through the window, silvering the room.

She listened to the distant sounds of Martha moving about below, the murmur of Hank’s voice drifting up as he returned home. Dusty whimpered once, then sighed, head resting on Ginny’s ankle.

Ginny pressed her face into the pillow, and finally let the tears come—quiet, shuddering sobs that left her hollow and spent. Tomorrow, she’d have to be strong again. Tomorrow, work would start.

Tonight, she was just a daughter, grieving the only family she’d ever known.

At last, Ginny cried herself to sleep.

Morning came harsh and gray, the kind of spring dawn where the air bit cold and the sun barely bothered to rise. Ginny woke to the familiar creak of floorboards and the far-off bark of Dusty chasing crows from the garden. For a moment, lying beneath the quilt her grandmother had pieced together, she allowed herself to believe it had all been a bad dream—that he’d be downstairs, coffee brewing strong and bitter, hollering at Hank to saddle the bay gelding and mind the gate.

But the ranch was too quiet now, the halls empty except for her own footsteps. Ginny dressed in silence, twisting her hair back and pinning it out of habit, hands moving stiffly as if every task was one more stone in the pile of responsibility pressing on her chest. She tucked her father’s letter into her pocket before heading down.

In the kitchen, Martha had already stoked the stove and set bread to rise. She looked up as Ginny entered, eyes searching Ginny’s face for cracks that might have formed overnight. Ginny gave her nothing but a polite nod and went straight to the window. Out beyond the barn, Reed moved gingerly around the corral, tending to the horses, moving with easy confidence.

“I made coffee,” Martha said softly, “strong as sin and twice as bitter.”

Ginny mustered a smile and poured herself a cup, letting the heat burn away the dull ache in her throat. She took it outside, the screen door slamming behind her. Dusty bounded up, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. Ginny knelt, burying her face in the dog’s rough fur, breathing in the scent of earth and animal and comfort.

“Looks like it’s just us now, girl,” she whispered. “You and me, and a ranch full of trouble.”

She straightened, squinting into the morning sun. All across the land her father had tended—now her land—the grass shivered silver with dew, and the fence line cut a jagged path toward the distant hills. There was so much to do. Cattle to be fed, horses to be shod, bills to be paid. The weight of it all threatened to pull her under, and still she refused to flinch. Not in front of Reed, or Martha, or the neighbors who would be whispering by midday that David Bennett’s daughter couldn’t manage on her own.

She set her jaw and walked toward the corral, calling a greeting to Reed as she passed. “Don’t push that leg,” she said, voice gruffer than she intended.

Reed managed a crooked grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Gin. How you holding up?”

She shrugged, unwilling to admit she was barely hanging on. “There’s work needs doing. That’s all I know.”

The day unfolded in a haze of chores and obligations—feeding stock, checking the stream for signs of flooding, patching a loose board on the henhouse. Martha kept the house running with the same steady hand she’d used all Ginny’s life, keeping sorrow at bay with fresh bread and clean linens. Hank, quieter than usual, found things to fix in the barn, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

It wasn’t until the afternoon, when the house had settled into a rare lull, that Ginny found herself alone in her father’s study. She closed the door behind her, sinking into the cracked leather chair at the old desk. The ledger lay open where he’d left it, figures written in his precise hand—cattle tallies, supply orders, the last entry unfinished. Ginny traced the lines, her fingers trembling.

She sat at her father’s desk, her fingers tracing the edge of the ledger, mind racing. The kitchen was quiet now, shadows long in the late afternoon.

Ginny thought about Ronan’s note. She’d scoffed at it, determined to discard it completely, but the thought of reaching out lingered now, unwelcome and heavy.

She shoved the idea away, pride and worry fighting each other.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind—Trust who care for you, Ginny. Pride won’t mend a broken fence or bring in the herd.

She set her jaw, refusing to dwell on it. There was too much to do to start wishing for help from someone who probably wouldn’t come, anyway.

The hours slipped past, and dusk crept in, soft and golden. Ginny walked the fence line at sundown, Dusty at her side, the two of them small shadows against the vast sweep of land. She paused at the far corner, where the cottonwoods marked the boundary, and let herself remember the days when she’d been just a girl with dirt on her cheeks, racing the dogs, certain her father would always be there to catch her when she fell.

Back inside, Martha was setting supper—stew thick with potatoes, a heel of bread, and a single candle burning on the table. Reed and Hank ate in silence, glancing at Ginny as if she might vanish, too, if they looked away too long.

She forced herself to eat, though each bite tasted like sawdust. Martha pressed a hand to Ginny’s shoulder before clearing the plates. “You ain’t alone, honey. Not ever.”

Ginny nodded, unable to speak around the tightness in her chest. She lingered a while after supper, listening to the comfortable noises of the house—the low voices, the clink of dishes, Dusty’s steady breathing. But as the hour grew late, the weight of exhaustion tugged her toward her room.

She climbed the stairs slowly, feeling every year she’d lived and every year she’d never get back. Dusty followed close, as always. Ginny changed into her nightgown, pulled the quilt up, and pressed her father’s letter beneath her pillow. Dusty curled at her feet.

For a long time she lay awake, staring into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the ranch—the house creaking in the wind, the cattle bawling from the fields. She thought of Ronan, of the way his eyes had met hers at the graveside, unreadable as ever. She thought of all the things she’d never said, all the words left between them—regret, resentment, a kind of longing she barely understood.

She turned her face to the pillow, silent tears soaking the linen. “I’ll take care of it, Pa,” she promised the darkness. “I’ll keep it going. I’ll try.”

Chapter 1

Dawn had always been her father’s hour. Now it belonged to Ginny. She rose before the sun, the house dark and still, the only sound the rhythmic thump of Dusty’s tail as the dog watched her dress. She slipped her father’s letter from under her pillow—edges soft from too much handling—and read the familiar lines in the dim half-light:

You’re stronger than you know, Ginny-girl. Don’t let pride keep you from the folks who care about you. Trust your own heart and remember you’re never alone—not truly.

She pressed the paper to her lips, breathing in the faint scent of tobacco that lingered from his desk. Then she folded it and tucked it away, letting the words settle like a blessing in her chest.

Outside, the world shimmered with dew and possibility. The ranch sprawled out before her—fences, hills, cattle off in the grass. And another long day of work ahead. Ginny squared her shoulders, buttoned her work shirt, and headed for the barn, Dusty bounding at her side.

She’d been through all this before. The memory of her mother’s funeral pressed in—rain on the roof, Ronan standing just behind her, eyes rimmed red but jaw set hard as stone. He’d said nothing all day, disappearing before dusk.

She shook off the thought of him. Back then, she’d simply gone on, one foot in front of the other, because there hadn’t been any other choice.

Now, she did the same.

She found Hank in the yard, bent over a trough, the cows crowding in with rough affection. He looked up as she approached, a wry smile on his weathered face. “Mornin’, Ginny. Thought I heard you rustlin’ before dawn. Sun’s barely up.”

“Someone’s got to make sure these ladies don’t get too comfortable,” Ginny said, her voice brisk as she scratched the head of the nearest heifer. “If we spoil ’em, they’ll forget who’s in charge.”

Hank grunted, straightening. “World’s changin’. Never thought I’d see the day you’d be bossin’ me around, girl.”
She tried for a smile, but it felt tight. “You and me both, Hank. But here we are.”

He sobered, blue eyes searching her face. “You all right?”

She shrugged, tugging her hat lower. “Ain’t got much choice, have I?”

“Suppose not.” He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You let me know if you need anything, Ginny. Don’t matter what it is.”

“I know. Thanks.” She glanced past him, squinting at the corral where Reed was working a big sorrel gelding. “Go on inside, Hank. Martha’ll have your hide if you don’t eat something this morning.”

He snorted. “That woman’s been threatening me for thirty years. Ain’t scared yet.”

Ginny watched him shuffle off, fondness warming her heart despite the ache beneath. Hank was stubborn as a mule, but he’d always been steady, a second father when she needed one.

She walked to the corral, hands deep in her pockets, eyes fixed on Reed as he circled the nervous horse. Reed was already sweating, hair plastered to his forehead, face set in determined lines. He swung up onto the gelding’s back with a whoop, the animal lurching under him, hooves churning up dust. Ginny leaned on the rail, admiring the smoothness of his movements, the way he handled the reins with confidence.

The horse bucked, twisted, but Reed held fast, his laughter carrying across the yard. At last the animal settled, snorting and blowing, sides heaving. Reed slid off, landing with a thump and wiping his brow.

“Morning, Gin!” he called, grinning. “Didn’t expect an audience.”

Ginny shook her head. “You’re gonna break your neck one of these days, Reed.”

He flashed a sheepish smile, brushing dirt from his shirt. “Could be worse ways to go.” He hesitated, glancing down at his boots. “I, uh… needed to tell you something.”

She straightened, suddenly wary. “You’re not quitting, are you?”

“What? No. Nothing like that.” He scratched the back of his neck, face reddening. “I, um… asked Judy to marry me.”
Ginny blinked. For a moment, the world seemed to pause—the ache of her father’s absence making the good news feel both sharper and sweeter. “You did?”

He nodded, voice low. “Yeah. Figured maybe it was too soon, with everything that’s happened. But Judy—well, she said yes. Don’t know what I did to deserve her.”

Ginny managed a smile, letting real warmth fill her voice. “She’s lucky, Reed. And you deserve a little happiness. Lord knows this place could use some.”

Relief softened his features. “Thanks, Gin. Means a lot.” He leaned against the fence, glancing sideways. “You still planning on taking the herd to market next month?”

She nodded, bracing herself. “That’s the plan. We need the money if we’re going to keep the ranch. The herd’s all we’ve got left.”

Reed’s brow furrowed. “It’s a hard drive. You sure you want to do it without your pa?”

“I have to,” she said, voice clipped. “There’s no one else. And it’s my responsibility now.”

He hesitated, eyes gentle. “You’ve never been on a drive like that, Gin. It’s not just riding. There are river crossings, storms, rustlers—”

She cut him off, lifting her chin. “You saying I can’t handle it?”

He held up his hands. “No, ma’am. I’m saying it’s a hell of a thing, and I don’t want you getting hurt.” He smiled, trying to lighten the moment. “Besides, you’re liable to shoot me if I don’t help out.”

She snorted, grateful for the humor. “You’re damn right I am. I’ll need you with me, Reed. At least until you run off with your bride.”

He laughed, the sound genuine and bright. “You got it, Gin. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

He moved back toward the corral, grabbing the reins. “Gonna give this fella another go,” he said, voice a little lighter.

Ginny nodded, lingering at the fence. For a brief, fleeting moment, hope fluttered in her chest. Maybe things would be all right.

But then Reed’s boot slipped on the rail as he mounted. For a split second, he fought for balance, but the gelding spooked, jerking away. Reed’s grip gave out and he fell hard, landing with a heavy thump in the dirt. The horse backed away, nostrils flared, Dusty barking at the sudden commotion.

Ginny’s heart jumped into her throat. She vaulted the fence and dropped to her knees beside Reed. His face was pale, jaw clenched tight as he clutched his leg above the knee.

“Reed! Talk to me,” Ginny said, trying to keep her voice steady.

He winced, pain etched across his face. “Damn fool move, Gin.”

“Can you move it?” she asked.

He tried, barely shifting before letting out a rough groan. “No good. Feels wrong. Hurts like hell.”

Ginny waved Dusty back, her hands trembling when she steadied Reed’s shoulder.

“Don’t try again. Stay put. I’ll get help.”

She shouted for Hank and Martha, her voice cutting across the yard. Hank came running, wide-eyed, and Martha not far behind, already barking orders. Together, they helped Ginny get Reed inside, every bump and step making him grit his teeth.

Ginny fetched water and clean cloths while Martha did her best to keep Reed still, and Hank paced holes in the floor.

The doctor arrived what felt like hours later, his bag thumping on the table. He checked Reed’s leg, asked a few quiet questions, then turned to Ginny and Martha.

“It’s broken, all right. He’ll need time—weeks, maybe months. He’s not riding anywhere soon.”

Relief that Reed was okay mixed with dread for the work ahead. Ginny stood by, helpless as the doctor set the bone and Martha comforted Reed as best she could.

When it was done, Ginny finally let herself sink into a chair, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders.

When it was over, the doctor wiped his hands on a cloth, his face grave. “He’ll mend, Miss Bennett. But he won’t be riding for months.”

Ginny stared at the floor, her plans unraveling with every word.

The house felt colder as evening came, every shadow stretched long and thin. Ginny lingered in the hallway after the doctor left, hands pressed flat against the cool plaster wall. Dusty waited at her feet, brown eyes trained on her face, reading the worry she tried to hide.

She listened to Reed’s soft groans drifting from the parlor, Martha’s voice gentle as she fluffed his pillow and murmured reassurances. Hank stomped outside, slamming the barn door in frustration, the clatter echoing across the yard. For a moment, Ginny closed her eyes, letting the quiet wrap around her like a worn quilt.

The cattle drive loomed ahead, bigger and more daunting than ever. Without Reed, her strongest hand, there was no way she could manage the herd to market—at least not alone. She remembered the way her father used to command the men with nothing but a nod, his voice steady and sure, the others falling in behind him. She’d never been on a cattle drive before, let alone led one.

A soft knock sounded at the kitchen door, pulling Ginny back to herself. Martha stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, her hair escaping its bun in wisps of silver.

“You’ve barely said a word, child,” Martha said softly. “You can’t fix everything by staring it down.”

Ginny shook her head, rubbing tired eyes. “I should’ve been the one out there, not Reed. If he hadn’t been breaking that horse for me—”

“Don’t go blaming yourself, Ginny Bennett,” Martha interrupted, her tone as firm as the lines in her face. “Accidents happen, even to the best hands. Your father knew it, and so do you.”

Ginny crossed her arms over her chest. “I need help, Martha. With Reed laid up, I don’t even have enough men for chores, let alone a drive.”

Martha nodded, reaching into her apron pocket. “Then it’s time to call in a favor.” She held out a folded scrap of paper, edges worn from handling. Ginny recognized it at once—Ronan’s address, written in the careful, blocky script she remembered from old notes on the barn door.

She hesitated, stubborn pride warring with desperation. “He’s probably long gone by now. He’s not interested in ranching—or helping me.”

Martha’s eyes were kind but unyielding. “He respected your father. And he’s got a debt to pay, if you ask me. Sometimes, pride’s a luxury you can’t afford. Especially with everything on the line.”

Ginny stared at the note, heart beating fast with a strange mix of hope and dread. “You think he’d even come?”

“If you ask? Yes. Men like Ronan McCallister don’t forget what they owe.” Martha squeezed Ginny’s arm, then busied herself at the stove, the conversation finished for now.

Ginny watched her go, anger and embarrassment prickling beneath her skin. She hated needing help. Hated feeling weak. But even more, she hated the thought of losing everything her father had built.

She slipped the note into her shirt pocket and headed outside, the sky ablaze with the gold and purple of sunset. Hank was mending a gate, his face drawn, hands shaking just slightly as he drove a nail home.

“Hank,” Ginny called, voice steadier than she felt. “I need you to ride into town tomorrow.”

He glanced up, wary. “Looking for more hands?”

“We’ll need at least two strong riders for the drive. Men you trust.” She hesitated. “If you can’t find any, I’ll hire whoever’s willing.”

Hank frowned, the lines in his face deepening. “Ain’t many I’d vouch for. Most won’t sign on with a woman at the lead.”

She met his gaze head-on, stubbornness kindling in her chest. “Then you tell ’em I’m not asking. I’m paying. And if they can’t stomach taking orders from me, they can find work elsewhere.”

A grudging smile tugged at Hank’s mouth. “That’s David’s girl, all right.” He wiped his brow with a bandana. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She nodded, her confidence slipping as she walked away. Dusty padded alongside, silent as a shadow. When Ginny reached the far fence, she stopped, leaning against the rail, looking out at the herd grazing in the evening light.

In her pocket, Ronan’s note burned against her skin.

She took it out, staring at the address, the memory of his eyes at the funeral—dark, unreadable, holding a world of things she’d never understood. The thought of asking him for help made her stomach twist, but the truth was plain as the dust on her boots: without more hands, without someone who’d done this before, she’d lose the ranch for good.

She folded the note back up, the paper softer now, like it had given in. “Fine,” she muttered to herself. “You win, Pa. I’ll swallow my pride—for the ranch.”

The next morning, Ginny rose early, heart pounding, and penned a letter in her neatest handwriting. She kept it short and to the point—just enough to explain the situation, ask for help, and, against her better judgment, say please. Dusty watched her the whole time, as if understanding the gravity of it all.

By midday, she handed the sealed letter to Hank, who tucked it into his vest before heading to town. She watched him ride out, the weight of uncertainty settling on her shoulders.

Back in the house, Ginny lingered at the foot of Reed’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his breathing as he slept. He looked so young, so vulnerable, without his usual bluster. She pulled the quilt up over his shoulders, smoothing his hair away from his brow.

“We’ll make it,” she whispered, more for herself than for him. “I swear it.”

Later, Martha found her in the kitchen, kneading dough with determined force. “You did the right thing, Ginny,” she said quietly. “Your father would’ve done the same.”

Ginny didn’t answer, but the truth of it sat with her through the afternoon. She was still afraid, still uncertain. But she’d taken the first step.

Outside, the evening wind rattled the windows, and Dusty curled up at her feet, a silent, steady companion. Ginny set her jaw, rolling out the dough with a firm hand.

Her mind spun with questions. Would Ronan answer her if she asked for help? Would anyone follow her lead on the drive? Or was she about to lose everything her father had built? The only certainty was that tomorrow, the waiting would end—and the first real test as the head of the Bennet Ranch would begin.