Page 101 of Branded

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Cole looks at me. “You got gloves?”

“In my truck.”

“Get them. You’re gonna need them.”

I grab my work gloves from the rental truck and follow Cole toward the barn. The sun is just starting to lighten the eastern sky, enough to see but not enough to feel any warmth. My breath fogs in the cold air.

“So,” Cole says as we walk. “You really married my sister after three months?”

“Yes.”

“And you expect us to believe it’s real? That you’re not just, I don’t know, using her for something?”

I think about last night. About Lennox coming to my room, desperate to forget. About the way she responded to me despite everything. About the complexity of what we are trying to build.

“It’s real,” I answer. “Maybe not in the way you’re thinking. But it’s real.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”

Cole stops at the barn entrance. “Look. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Len. But she’s my sister. And she left here strong, only to come back looking broken. So whatever you’re doing to her in Texas, fix it. Or I’ll fix you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good. Now let’s see if you can actually work.” He pulls open the barn door. “Feeding first. Forty head in the close pasture, another sixty in the north section. Each gets specific amounts based on age and condition. You mess it up, they get sick. Got it?”

“Got it.”

For the next three hours, I work. Not directing ranch hands, reviewing reports or making executive decisions. But actual physical labor that makes my back ache and my hands cramp.

Measuring feed. Loading it onto trucks. Driving out to pastures and distributing it while cattle press around us, demanding and impatient. Moving cattle from one pasture to another with practiced efficiency that Cole makes look easy but requires constant attention.

The whole time, Cole watches. Looking for mistakes, for weakness, for signs I’m faking competence.

I don’t give him any.

I grew up doing this work. Yes, I’ve built resorts in California. Yes, I’ve spent the last decade in boardrooms as much as on horseback. But the fundamentals are still there. The muscle memory. The understanding of cattle behavior. The knowledge of how ranches actually run.

By nine, when Cage takes over, I’m sweating despite the cool temperatures, and my shoulders ache from hauling feed bags. But I keep up. Haven’t complained. Haven’t asked for a break.

Cole nods grudging approval. “You’ll do. Cage’s got you now. Try not to bleed too much on the fence wire.”

Cage is less talkative than Cole. He just hands me tools and puts me to work on a section of fence that has been damaged during the winter. Wire cutters, pliers, new wire, T-posts that need to be driven into near-frozen ground.

Hard, physical labor that has nothing to do with business decisions or profit margins. Just work that needs doing.

“You always do your own fence work in Texas?” Cage asks around ten, watching me wrestle with a stubborn post.

“When I’m there, yes. I’ve got hands who do most of it, but I like to stay sharp. Remember what the actual work feels like.”

“Len said you own resorts, too. Fancy California places.”

“I do.”

“Seems like a weird combination. Ranching and hospitality.”

“Different revenue streams. Same principles, though: understand your product, take care of your assets, build something that lasts.” I yank the post straight. “Plus, it lets me do both. Help when I’m in Texas, oversee the resorts from anywhere with internet.”