Page 51 of Branded

“Every man is armed: rifles, sidearms, whatever. James brought the thermal imaging equipment; we’ll be able to see their security setup before we’re spotted.” He looks up at me. “This isn’t our first rodeo, son. We’ve done this before.”

“When?”

“Just after you left for California. We had a situation with the Harrison ranch over water rights. They tried to divert a stream that fed our south pastures. Your grandfather tried legal channels for six months, got nowhere.” Dad’s smile is cold. “So we rode onto their property one night, destroyed their diversion equipment, and made it clear the next time they touched our water, we’d burn their entire operation to the ground.”

“Jesus, Dad.” I pull the hat off my head and run my hand through my hair.

“It worked. They backed off, sold the property two years later, and we bought it at auction.” He rolls up the map. “Sometimes you have to remind people that there are still consequences for stealing from a Drake. Legal or otherwise.”

Out here, power isn’t about contracts and quarterly earnings. It’s about land and cattle and the willingness to defend both with your life.

I haven’t forgotten that, I just used a little more tact in California. I’m ruthless and always get what I want, but sometimes a good whiskey and blackmail does the trick better than horses and guns.

“What about Lennox?” Nathaniel asks, appearing in the doorway. “You’re serious about bringing her?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Dad frowns. “This isn’t women’s work, Sebastian. It’s potentially dangerous.”

“She’s my wife. She should see what it means to be a Drake. All of it, not just the sanitized version Mom presents over tea in the conservatory.”

“And if bullets start flying?”

“They won’t,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “The Marshalls aren’t stupid. They know starting a shooting war with us will end badly for everyone. This is about intimidation, about showing force. We find our cattle, we take them back, we leave.”

“You hope,” Nathaniel mutters.

“I know.” But I don’t. Not really. Thomas Marshall has already proven he doesn’t respect normal boundaries by stealing from us in the first place. Who knows what he’ll do when we show up armed and demanding our property back?

Boots on gravel announce new arrivals. I look out to see ranch hands mounting up, checking weapons, ready to leave. The nervous energy in the air is palpable, anticipation mixed with fear, and the dark excitement of riding into potential conflict.

And there, walking toward the barn in dark jeans and a black shirt, blonde hair braided tight against her head and wearing a black cowboy hat, is Lennox.

She’s followed instructions. Dressed for riding, for darkness, for potential violence. The look on her face is pure determination. When she sees me, something flickers in her eyes—anger, hatred even—but a spark I haven’t noticed before. She’s ready for this.

“That’s your wife?” one of the younger ranch hands, Adam, says with appreciation. “Damn, boss. She looks like she could handle this entire thing herself.”

“She probably could.” I move to meet her. “You ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then I’m ready.” Her eyes cut to the armed men mounting horses, the weapons being loaded, the grim determination on every face. “This is insane, Sebastian. You know that, right?”

“Welcome to Texas.” I guide her toward where Duchess waits, already saddled. “Stick close to me. Do exactly what I say if the shooting starts.”

“If shooting starts, we’re all fucked.” She grabs Duchess’s reins. “But sure, I’ll stick close to you and follow orders like a good little wife.”

The bitterness in her voice cuts deeper than it should. Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve found almost a peace between us, an unspoken agreement that we will make the best of this. Now I’m dragging her into potential violence because I have to prove something, to my family, and maybe to myself.

She swings into the saddle with practiced grace, settling into position. Despite everything, I feel a surge of pride. My wife can ride. Can handle herself in situations that would send most women running.

“Mount up!” Dad’s voice carries across the barn. “We ride in five minutes. Check your weapons, check your tack, and remember, we’re taking back what’s ours. The Marshalls made their choice when they stole our animals. Now they deal with the consequences.”

A chorus of affirmations rises from the assembled men. Twenty-three riders in total, all armed, all ready to follow us into potential violence because that’s what you do when you work for this family.

I swing onto Cisco, feeling the familiar weight of the rifle in its scabbard, the pistol at my hip. Weapons I learned to use as a boy that I’ve barely touched in the decade since leaving for California. It’s much easier to wield paper, photographs and uttered threats.