Branding season turned the Rollins ranch into controlled chaos.
Nearly thirty men worked from sunrise until the evening sky burned orange.
Cattle bawled.
Horses moved constantly through dust.
Meals required enormous pots.
Coffee disappeared faster than water.
Annabeth had never seen so many people working in one place without a supervisor wearing a clean suit and giving orders from behind a desk.
Bo moved among them like part of the machinery.
He rode hard, worked harder, and somehow noticed everything.
A weak fence.
A tired horse.
A ranch hand favoring one shoulder.
A storm forming over the western ridge.
Annabeth found herself watching him.
Respect had come first.
Affection followed quietly.
Love had not yet been spoken.
Perhaps because neither trusted it.
Annabeth had grown up surrounded by people who used that word whenever useful.
Bo seemed unwilling to say anything he could not guarantee.
Instead he showed things.
He repaired a loose step before she mentioned it.
He left warm water beside the stove on mornings he knew her hands hurt.
When she fell asleep at the kitchen table, he carried her to bed without waking her.
Annabeth answered in her own ways.
She learned exactly how he liked coffee.
She mended his shirts.
She kept accounts when he was too tired to do arithmetic after midnight.
One afternoon, Bo returned from checking cattle and found several ledger books open.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving you money.”
He frowned.
“That sounds suspicious.”
Annabeth pointed.
“You're paying Harlan Feed twelve percent more than Milton's store charges.”
“Harlan delivers.”
“So does Milton if the order is large enough.”
Bo looked at the figures.
“You sure?”
“My father owns banks.”
“You said that like a disease.”
“In certain circumstances, it is.”
Bo laughed.
Annabeth continued.
“Also, you're carrying too much debt on the northern parcel.”
His expression changed.
“How'd you know about that?”
“It is written here.”
“Didn't expect you to understand it.”
She looked up slowly.
Bo recognized danger.
“That sounded worse out loud.”
“Yes.”
“I meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
She closed the ledger.
“You assumed a woman who burns biscuits cannot calculate interest.”
“Can you?”
“My father taught me bookkeeping when I was twelve because he wanted a son.”
Bo became still.
There it was.
Another tiny piece of Philadelphia.
He sat across from her.
“You don't speak about him.”
“No.”
“Bad man?”
Annabeth considered.
“Powerful man.”
“Same thing?”
“Not always.”
She looked at the account again.
“But sometimes.”
Bo did not press.
Instead he listened as she explained how refinancing one note could save hundreds of dollars.
The following week, he followed her advice.
Their partnership deepened.
Then came Augustus.
The bull had been purchased from a breeder farther south.
Enormous, black, muscular, and ill-tempered, Augustus seemed personally offended by fences.
“He hates everyone,” Tommy Greene explained.
Tommy was nineteen, thin as a fence post, and eager to prove himself.
Annabeth carried lemonade toward the men.
“Perhaps he senses your personality.”
Tommy grinned.
“Mrs. Rollins, I'm delightful.”
“That's not what Martha says.”
“Martha thinks everyone under thirty is stupid.”
“Martha believes most people over thirty are stupid too.”
Tommy considered.
“Fair.”
Bo approached.
“Stay clear of Augustus.”
Annabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Was I planning to introduce myself?”
“I'm serious.”
“I can tell.”
“That bull put a man in the hospital last year.”
“I'll admire him from a distance.”
Bo nodded.
Then added, “A very long distance.”
Annabeth smiled.
“Yes, husband.”
His hand touched the small of her back briefly.
Such gestures had become natural.
The next morning began normally.
By noon, heat pressed over the corral.
Dust coated everything.
Annabeth helped Martha carry food outside.
Ranch hands rotated through lunch.
Somebody shouted near the eastern pen.
Then came a sound Annabeth never forgot.
Metal snapping.
A heavy chain broke from the gate securing Augustus.
For half a second, everything stopped.
Then the bull exploded through.
Men scattered.
A horse reared.
Someone dropped a bucket.
Augustus charged across the yard, swinging his enormous head.
“Gate!” Bo shouted.
Three ranch hands ran toward the outer fencing.
Annabeth froze beside the branding fire.
Her heart slammed.
Then Tommy fell.
A section of broken rail collapsed beneath him.
He tried to rise.
Could not.
“Help!”
Augustus stopped.
Turned.
Saw movement.
Tommy's face became white.
“Bo!”
Annabeth looked across the corral.
Her husband was too far away.
Thirty yards.
Perhaps forty.
He was already running.
Not enough.
Augustus lowered his head.
Time changed.
Annabeth would later remember tiny details.
Dust floating through sunlight.
Tommy's boot trapped beneath a rail.
A branding iron glowing orange in the fire.
Bo's mouth forming her name before she heard it.
Annabeth grabbed the iron.
“ANNABETH!”
She ran.
Every sensible thought told her to stop.
She ignored them.
Tommy stared at her.
“Mrs. Rollins, no!”
“Be quiet.”
Augustus charged.
The ground vibrated beneath Annabeth's boots.
She had never felt fear like that.
It was physical.
Cold despite the heat.
Her body begged her to run.
She remembered Bo's wedding words.
Someone who stands her ground when sensible people run.
What a ridiculous moment to remember them.
Annabeth planted her feet.
The bull came closer.
Fifteen yards.
Ten.
She moved the branding iron in front of her.
Heat shimmered.
Smoke curled.
“Come on,” she whispered.
Five yards.
At the last instant, Annabeth swung.
The glowing iron passed across the bull's vision.
Augustus jerked his head.
Annabeth threw herself sideways and slammed the iron into the dirt.
Sparks erupted.
The bull veered.
His shoulder struck Annabeth hard enough to spin her.
Fabric tore.
She hit the ground.
Pain exploded through her arm.
Then men were shouting everywhere.
Bo reached the secondary gate and slammed it shut as Augustus charged through.
The bull hit the rails behind him.
Wood shook.
Annabeth tried to stand.
Her legs refused.
Bo crossed the distance in seconds.
He dropped beside her.
“Annabeth.”
His hands searched her shoulders, face, arms.
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“Are you hurt?”
“My arm.”
“Broken?”
“I don't think—”
His expression frightened her.
Bo was always controlled.
Now terror had stripped that control away.
“What were you thinking?”
Annabeth stared at him.
“That Tommy would die.”
“You could have died.”
“So could he.”
Bo looked toward Tommy, now surrounded by ranch hands.
Then back at her.
His jaw tightened.
For one terrible second, Annabeth thought he might shout.
Instead Bo pulled her against his chest.
Hard.
His face pressed against her hair.
“I asked for a fighter,” he whispered.
Annabeth felt his breath shake.
“I didn't mean for you to fight alone.”
Everything inside her became still.
She wrapped her uninjured arm around him.
“I knew you'd come.”
Bo drew back.
“You can't do something like that because you think I'll save you.”
“I didn't.”
“Then why?”
“Because no one else could reach him.”
Bo stared at her.
The answer was apparently worse.
“You're impossible.”
“You married me.”
“I know.”
Tommy limped toward them.
Tears streaked through dust on his face.
“Mrs. Rollins.”
Annabeth looked over.
“You alive?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good.”
His mouth trembled.
“You saved me.”
Annabeth glanced at Bo.
“My husband may kill me for it.”
“No,” Bo said.
His voice was quiet.
“No, I won't.”
He lifted Annabeth into his arms.
“I can walk.”
“Not today.”
“Bo—”
“Annabeth.”
She recognized that tone.
She surrendered.
The doctor found no broken bones.
Her shoulder was badly bruised.
A long scrape crossed her upper arm where Augustus had torn through the sleeve.
For three days Bo barely left her.
His hovering eventually became unbearable.
“I am going downstairs.”
“No.”
“Bo.”
“Doctor said rest.”
“The doctor said avoid heavy work.”
“Stairs are heavy.”
“Stairs are not work.”
“They can be.”
Annabeth stared at him.
“You know I survived a charging bull.”
“Exactly. Don't tempt fate.”
She threw a pillow.
Bo caught it.
His grin appeared.
Annabeth started laughing.
He did too.
Then laughter faded.
He sat at the edge of the bed.
“You scared me.”
She became serious.
“I know.”
“No.”
He looked at his hands.
“I don't think you do.”
Annabeth waited.
Bo inhaled.
“My father died under a horse when I was seventeen. Mother died four years later from fever. I've spent most of my life learning not to depend on people staying.”
Her heart tightened.
He had never told her this.
“Then you came.”
Bo looked at her.
“And somewhere along the way, I started expecting you to be here tomorrow.”
Annabeth's eyes burned.
“Bo.”
He touched her cheek.
“I don't know when that happened.”
“I do.”
“When?”
“The first time you ate my biscuits and didn't die.”
He laughed softly.
Then kissed her.
Not the careful kisses they had exchanged before.
This one contained relief, fear, gratitude, and everything neither had found language for.
After the accident, Copper Creek stopped calling Annabeth the Philadelphia lady.
People began telling the story instead.
How Annabeth Rollins had stood before Augustus with a branding iron.
The details grew with every retelling.
Within two weeks, Augustus had apparently become twice his actual size.
Within a month, Annabeth had supposedly ridden him afterward.
She denied that vigorously.
But one thing was true.
Bo no longer looked at her as though she were proving whether she belonged.
She belonged.
And she had begun to believe their marriage might become something neither had expected.
Then the telegram came.