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Jackson

“Get to the ridge.”

Four words that shatter what remains of my control. Because she’s right—the herd needs to be contained to higher ground. Because even drenched and furious, wearing nothing but a scrap of silk that clings to her curves, she’s thinking like a rancher. And because I don’t know if she’ll still be there when the crisis passes.

I guide Atlas along the ridge path, using the stallion’s bulk to block the cattle’s escape route north. The horse fights the bit, but I need him here—where his massive black form will read as an impassable barrier to the panicked herd. Below, Shiloh approaches the cattle from the opposite angle, her movements precise despite her bare feet and soaked clothing.

“Miguel.” I click the radio, eyes never leaving her position. “Status.”

“Six minutes out. Dylan has the floodlights and portable fencing. Waters rising faster than—” Static cuts through his report as thunder cracks overhead.

A group of heifers spook at the sound, breaking toward the gap between me and the flood waters. I spur Atlas forward, cutting off their escape. The stallion’s hooves scatter gravel as we pace the ridge line, keeping the cattle contained. One wrong move and I’ll lose the horse—a quarter-million-dollar mistake I can’t afford. But the alternative is watching fifty animals drown while my men race the storm.

Through the rain, I track Shiloh’s progress, every movement calculated to calm the frightened animals. I’ve watched her through cameras for months, studied her gift, collected every scrap of footage that proved her expertise. But seeing it in person, watching her work despite her fury, despite her fear—it steals my breath away.

No camera could capture the way she reads the herd’s energy, how she adjusts her body language to match their fear before redirecting it. All those hours of surveillance footage showed me her methods but missed her magic, the subtle ways she communicates with dangerous animals that can’t be reduced to pixels and data.

What I’m seeing now, working beside her as a partner instead of watching from afar—this is what I’ve really been hungry for all along.

“North creek’s breaching!” The radio crackles with fresh urgency. “Boss, we need to?—”

“Maintain course.” I force authority into my voice even as my chest tightens with fear for her. “Five minutes. We hold them for five minutes.”

Lightning illuminates the valley again. The flood waters rise with devastating speed, brown churning masses that threaten everything I’ve built. But Shiloh’s already got the lead cows turning, using their instinct to follow each other to guide them away from danger. I adjust Atlas’ position, creating a funnel between my position and hers. It’s a desperate gamble—if the herd spooks now, they’ll either drown or trample her.

The first distant rumble of ATVs carries through the storm. But we’ve got to hold them until then. Just me and a furious woman in a silk camisole between fifty panic-stricken cattle and disaster.

Headlights cut through the rain as the first ATV crests the hill. Miguel’s team spreads out along the western edge, their lights creating a barrier the cattle instinctively shy from. Dylan follows with the portable flood lamps, and the sudden illumination reveals the full scope of our situation—and how perfectly Shiloh’s positioned herself to handle it.

“Pass behind the lead cow,” she calls, her voice carrying that same quiet authority she uses with spooked horses. “Don’t break their sight line.”

My men obey without waiting for my confirmation. They recognize leadership when they see it, even dripping wet and furious.

Atlas dances beneath me as another ATV roars past, but I keep him steady. The herd’s following Shiloh’s lead, flowing away from the rising water like she’s guiding a stream. Not running, not panicking. Just moving with the same fluid grace she brings to everything.

“Sir.” Miguel’s voice carries a warning. “Second breach coming. Fast.”

I click the radio. “Five minutes. Give her five minutes.”

Because I can read the signs in her body language, just like I’ve watched her read them in frightened horses. Can see how she’s using the ATVs’ positions to create a path of least resistance, letting the cattle think escape is their idea.

It’s magnificent. She’s perfect.

A calf stumbles, threatening to break the pattern. Before I can radio a warning, Shiloh’s there. Moving like smoke through the herd, bare feet finding purchase in mud that should have swallowed her whole. The calf responds to her touch instantly, letting her guide it back to its mother without a sound.

“Jesus Christ,” Miguel breathes through the radio. “Is she even human?”

Watching her now, moving through the storm like she’s part of it, I finally understand what my cameras—my obsession—could never show me.

She was never mine to control.

The herd flows toward safety like water finding its path, guided by her knowledge and my men’s positioning. Not a single head lost. Not a single animal panicked—a perfect synchronicity of instinct and intelligence.

Until the north bank collapses.

The sound cuts through the storm like thunder—a deep, wet tearing as tons of earth give way. The flood surges through the gap, brown water churning with debris. The lead cow freezes, threatening to turn the whole herd.

And Shiloh—my brilliant, reckless, fury-driven woman—steps directly into the breach.

She steps between the lead cow and the surging water. One wrong move—one panicked animal—and they’ll trample her into the mud. The rational part of my mind calculates losses, assigns dollar values, tracks the flood’s trajectory. But every other part of me focuses on her, wearing nothing but that scrap of silk, moving like she fears nothing on earth.

Not even me.

She’s too far away for me to stop her, to do anything but support her and pray to a god I haven’t believed in since I was a child that she’ll survive this.

“Hold positions!” My voice carries over the radio before my men can intervene. Because I’ve watched her handle dangerous animals through a hundred different cameras. Know exactly how she’ll react.

The lead cow bellows, head lowering. In the ATV’s harsh light, Shiloh raises her hand. Not touching, not threatening. Just that quiet confidence I’ve come to appreciate, to respect.

“Easy, mama,” her voice carries through the storm. “Easy now.”

Atlas shifts beneath me, responding to her tone just like every other animal she touches. Just like I respond, even now, with evidence of my obsession scattered across my office floor.

“Sir.” Miguel’s voice holds raw tension. “We’re losing the bank. If she doesn’t move?—”

“Hold.” The word scrapes my throat raw. Because everything in me screams to drag her to safety. To control the situation like I control everything else. To protect what’s mine.

But she was never mine. Those cameras captured her image but missed her essence. The surveillance tracked her movements but couldn’t cage her spirit. And now, watching her stand between two tons of panicked beef and a flood, I finally understand what my need to control has cost me.

The lead cow takes one step. Another. Following Shiloh’s quiet guidance like she’s done this a thousand times. Like she’s not barefoot in a storm, standing between the herd and disaster. The rest of the cattle follow, finding the path she’s created between the ATVs’ lights.

“Holy shit,” Dylan breathes through the radio. “She actually did it.”

Yes. Yes she did. Without cameras or control or careful manipulation. With nothing but that bone-deep gift that first caught my attention. That made me need to watch her, to study her, to own her.

To lose her.

“Get those floodlights on the south bank,” I order, because giving commands is easier than feeling my chest crack open. “Miguel, bring the portable fencing up. Dylan?—”

“On it, boss.”

The next ten minutes blur into stark fragments caught in the ATV lights. My men moving with practiced efficiency. The herd slowly moving toward safety. Atlas trembling beneath me as debris slams into the bank.

And Shiloh. Always Shiloh. Moving through the chaos like she’s part of it. Guiding. Gentling. Commanding without a word.

When the last cow clears the danger zone, the silence feels louder than the storm. In the harsh artificial light, I watch her press her forehead against the lead cow’s shoulder, trembling with victory and exhaustion.

Then she lifts her head. Meets my gaze across the churning water.

I see my own reflection in her eyes—not a man who controls everything in his territory, but a man who tried to cage a wild thing.

And lost her.