Page 24

GRACE

Forks scrape plates, and chairs are pushed back. The lunch table clears, and I stand, wincing as soreness radiates from deep between my thighs and hips.

God, Jaxon, what did you do to me?

Just the memory of the power behind his thrusts and the way he took me apart, over and over, like he figured he got one shot and wanted to give it his all, makes me flush white hot.

I grab my empty plate, walking stiffly toward the sink, pretending nothing hurts except my ears.

The kids are still yelling and chattering.

The men move in their usual rhythm: boots on, hats grabbed, calls tossed back and forth.

How easy has it been to get used to everything that’s playing out around me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Brody.

He’s near the door, tugging his scuffed boots on, hat low over his eyes, already half out before anyone can speak.

Broad shoulders strain the seams of a sun-faded T-shirt, and his jeans are stained and torn at one knee, worn from their share of brutal days.

There’s always dirt under his nails. Always a frown between his brows.

Brody Delaney looks like the land shaped him out of rock and grit and said, stay angry .

He’s like a ghost in this place. A man who exists but is so withdrawn, it’s almost like he’s not here at all.

I need to write about him in the way I can about the others, so it’s now or never.

Setting the plate down, I call out, casual as I can manage, “Brody.”

He pauses, stiffens, then looks at me over his shoulder with that penetrating stare. His eyes are the same color and shape as Corbin’s but reveal nothing of the same openness and warmth of his brother’s.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and step closer. “Mind if I tag along this afternoon?”

The reaction is instant. His jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffen, and he looks at me like I suggested we share a bubble bath.

“No.”

I blink, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. “Wow. Tell me what you really think. Not even a ‘maybe’?”

Before he can answer, Conway passes behind him, clapping his hand against Brody’s back as he goes. A wordless cue. I swear the entire house tilts with it.

Brody huffs out a breath. He avoids Conway’s serious gaze and yanks his gloves from his back pocket. “Fine,” he mutters. “If you can keep up.”

I grab my water bottle and follow him out the door before he can change his mind. Beau shadows us instantly, his big tail sweeping the dust behind him. I smile. Challenge accepted, Cowboy.

***

The sun shows no mercy, and neither does Brody.

When we reach the far pasture, we discover a section of fence has buckled under last week’s windstorm.

The heat radiates up from the dry dirt like an invisible second sun intent on grilling us from beneath.

Somewhere nearby, a cow moos in that lazy way, as if annoyed by the disruption to her afternoon.

Brody walks ahead without looking back, with long, determined strides, and a cloud of silence. I’m practically jogging to keep pace.

We pass the barn, the fencing, the grazing fields, and keep going. A herd of black cattle watches us from under a scraggly oak, tails flicking at flies, eyes blinking under long lashes. One chews, staring at me so hard it feels like I’ve caused offense.

I finally gather the nerve to ask, “So… what exactly are we doing?”

He stops near an old, battered flatbed trailer stacked high with heavy fence posts. “Replacing rotted posts on the north pasture.” His voice is rough; gravel dragged over concrete. If I had to guess, it’s from under use. Maybe his vocal cords have crusted over.

I nod, even though I have no clue what that entails. “Okay.”

He tosses me a pair of work gloves from the truck bed without warning. I barely catch them.

“You’ll need these.”

A curious calf wanders up beside us, gangly and big-eyed, its wet nose nudging the fence post with a soft thunk . Brody gently waves it off with a grunt. The calf blinks once and trots back to its mother, tail swishing.

I slide on the gloves, watching Brody grab a post as if it were made of Styrofoam, while I try to remember which end of the hammer is supposed to face the nail.

The work is brutal. Brody digs deep into the earth with a post-hole digger as if it weighs nothing, his arms rippling with effort, and sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

His shirt’s discarded after ten minutes, tucked into his back pocket, leaving broad shoulders and a carved back that flexes with every thrust into the dirt.

There’s a quiet focus to him, like the rest of the world fades when he’s working.

I drag the old posts into a pile, awkward and sweating, my sore muscles screaming rebellion with every step.

All the while, I catch myself watching him and wondering how a man that silent can be so loud without saying a word.

What I need right now is a long soak in Epsom salts, surrounded by scented candles and whale music. Or maybe a very oily massage at the hands of a strong and willing cowboy.

Instead, I’m saddled with Brody, who’s more Terminator than human. I glance up at him, expecting him to offer some instruction, a suggestion, anything. But no. He works in silence as if I don’t even exist. I may as well be another stray dog following him through the dust.

Fine.

I grit my teeth and keep going, determined not to ask for help.

Beau flops down under the shade of the truck, watching us like he’s our overlord. I swear he’s smirking at my awkwardness and Brody’s disinterest.

We work side by side for nearly two hours. The sun climbs, the sweat rolls, and my back aches. Brody works relentlessly, and the silence stretches so thick it squashes my chest.

I can’t tell if this is a test or if he really doesn’t give a damn I’m there. It’s probably both.

And it’s turning into a battle of wills. Who’ll break first?

I know it’ll be me.

Dust kicks up with every heavy step of Brody’s boots. I have to jog to keep pace. The sweat beads along my spine, sticking my T-shirt to my back as Brody carries a coil of fencing wire on one shoulder as if it weighs the same as a down quilt.

I don’t know if he picked the hardest job on purpose, but it feels intentional. “So, what’s the plan?” I ask, trying to be cheerful.

Brody grunts. “You hold. I fix.”

That’s it. No friendly banter. No playful teasing like Levi or Cody.

He’s like a caveman. Me man, you wo-man .

I press my lips together and follow instructions.

Holding heavy wooden posts steady as Brody muscles wire into place and hammers staples into the wood with brutal, punishing force is hard.

Every time I think we’re done, he moves to the next section without a glance back.

His body is a pure distraction. All lean muscle and sun-browned skin, moving with effortless strength that makes it impossible not to stare.

Veins trace down his forearms, his jeans hang low on narrow hips, and every time he drives the digger into the ground, his abs tighten in a way that should be illegal under the open sky.

I shift awkwardly, the sweat on my lower back worsening.

There’s raw, physical gravity to Brody. Primal and unpolished, he has no business being this sexy.

He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t smirk. Just works and works and works.

In all this heat, he never once complains, letting every hard line and silent flex of his body bear the burden and do the talking.

Finally, I break. “Do you hate me, Brody? Because that’s what it feels like.” God, I sound pathetic, but how the hell am I supposed to get to the bottom of this ranch’s most elusive cowboy in this heat and with his attitude?

His hammer freezes mid-swing. Slowly, he looks up at me, brow furrowing under sweat-damp curls. “What?”

“You barely talk to me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

He doesn’t.

The next stretch of fence feels even longer, but I keep my grip on the post, sweat dripping down my temple. Brody loops and tightens the wire with those rough, capable hands, his forearms flexing under the sunlight, marked with faint scars from years of hard physical work.

At the next post, the wire slips awkwardly through my gloved hands. It tangles. I mutter under my breath and wrestle it back into place.

Brody growls. “You’re gonna lose a finger if you don’t pay attention.”

The words snap like a whip. My back stiffens. I straighten, fold my arms across my chest, and meet his glare dead-on. “You done?”

The unexpected steel in my voice makes him blink. His mouth tightens like he wants to argue, but something flickers behind his eyes instead. Maybe surprise. Maybe respect.

He exhales, and the tension visibly drains from his shoulders. “Didn’t think you’d last this long.”

I shrug, still holding his gaze. “You don’t know me.”

He nods, then tosses the wire down and leans against the fence, finally wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. For the first time all afternoon, his posture softens as he takes a rare moment of relaxation.

“You think we’re crazy, don’t you?” Brody says, eyes scanning the endless rolling hills ahead of us.

I hesitate before I ask him to clarify. He could only be talking about one thing, and I don’t want to waste my words. He uses them so sparingly, so maybe that’s the approach he’ll respect. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”

Brody nods once, still staring out at the pasture and avoiding looking at me. The breeze ruffles his hair, cooling our sweat.

“I wasn’t on board at first,” he says gruffly. “Didn’t vote for it. Told Conway it was foolish to drag some poor woman into this mess.”

I watch him, surprised he’s opening up at all. His profile is sharp and unforgiving, but there’s a crack in the armor now. A sliver of vulnerability.

“Why?”

Brody shrugs, jaw working like he’s chewing on words he’s never said out loud. “We’ve already failed at it. Three times. Good women. Strong women. None could handle this life…” He shakes his head. “Couldn’t handle us.” He glances sideways at me, his gaze sharp. “You wouldn’t stay, either.”

I don’t take the bait. I don’t flinch.

“I’m not here to stay,” I say honestly. “I’m here to write.”

The wind shifts, carrying the faint scent of hay and musty animals.

Brody nods again like he expected the answer. “Good. Don’t let them charm you. Don’t let them under your skin or into your heart. This place looks pretty until you’re stuck in it. Get out while you can.”

I let the silence hang, let his words land, but deep down, something twists. A small seed of defiance.

“Maybe you’re wrong about me,” I say, softer this time but steady.

Brody doesn’t move for a second. Then, the corner of his mouth tugs upward with the faintest ghost of a smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

***

We return to the truck in silence. Brody stays a step ahead, shoulders tense but looser than before, like a man who’s finally laid down a burden.

The others are out by the barns, moving hay and tending to horses. The kids’ laughter drifts faintly across the fields. They must be done with their lessons and enjoying some wild time.

We leave the vehicle parked at a casual angle. As we approach the house, Brody slows and then stops just shy of the porch.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “you didn’t quit out there. Most would’ve.”

I meet his gaze, holding steady. “I don’t scare easily.”

His lips quirk again, the barest flicker of approval. “Figured that out.”

We stand there, the space between us lighter somehow, a thread of understanding tugging at the rough edges.

“Thanks for letting me come today,” I say, meaning it.

Brody tips his hat back a fraction, eyes squinting. “That’s Conway’s doing.”

I grin. “You didn’t stop me.”

He grunts, mouth twitching. “Don’t push your luck, city girl.” He’s two paces further away when he calls over his shoulder, “And don’t forget what I said.”

He strides toward the barn, leaving me with the knowledge that I’ve earned at least a sliver of ground. The Brody Delaney puzzle isn’t solved by a long shot, but I feel like I’ve unpicked the first thread.