They Said She Was Wild And Unfit, Until The Cowboy Said, “Good, You’ll Match Me Just Fine”

Chapter 6

The next days moved like a river in flood. Santiago and Miguel committed without a moment’s hesitation — no lectures, no fear in their eyes, just the quiet loyalty of men who had chosen her a long time ago. Maps spread across the kitchen table each night. Quentyn, who knew the north country the way other men knew their own barns, traced water sources and dangers onto the paper with a pencil stub.

“If we follow the South Platte here, we avoid the worst of the mountain terrain and keep the cattle watered. Adds some distance, but it’s safer.”

“How long?”

“Twelve, fourteen days with good weather.” He drew a circle at the end of the line. “We should build in time for delays.”

The arithmetic was brutal and beautiful. Two weeks to travel, a few days’ margin, and then — payment placed on Holloway’s desk like a gauntlet.

On the last evening, Kinley stood in the barn double-checking Calico’s tack. The familiar work steadied her racing thoughts.

“There you are.” Quentyn’s voice came from the doorway. “Santiago’s wife sent enough food to feed an army. Says we’ll need our strength.”

“Elina’s convinced we’re all going to starve without her cooking.”

“Smart woman.” He leaned against the stall door beside her, and the barn settled into a comfortable hush — the shift of hooves in straw, the scent of hay and leather, the slow breath of horses.

“I want to thank you,” she said finally, her voice softer than she’d intended. “For everything. Most men would have walked away when things got complicated.”

“I’m not most men.”

“No.” She met his gaze. “You’re definitely not.”

Something shifted in the air between them — a tension that had been building since the general store, now too large to ignore. “Kinley,” he began, his voice lower than usual—

Hoofbeats sounded outside. Santiago, calling their names.

The moment shattered. She stepped back, suddenly aware of how close they had been standing. “We should see what he needs.”

The news was a late-summer storm building to the north, potentially in their path. They spent the next hour adjusting the route and the timeline, the unfinished moment in the barn left unacknowledged but not forgotten.

Dawn broke clear and cold on the day of departure. The yard swarmed with last-minute industry — supplies lashed to the chuck wagon, saddles cinched, Calico stamping and eager. Kinley stood on the porch a moment, looking at the house where she had been born, knowing its entire fate rode on the success of their journey.

“Ready?” Quentyn asked, leading his horse to where she stood.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The cattle moved well that first day, rested and healthy, streaming north like a brown river across the prairie. Kinley rode point beside Quentyn; Santiago worked the left flank; Miguel handled the chuck wagon and brought up the rear. The work found a rhythm almost meditative — each day bounded by sunrise and sunset, each decision narrowed to water, grazing, safe passage.

They made fifteen miles a day. Perfect weather. No challenges beyond the ordinary labor of keeping a hundred and twenty animals pointed north.

The rock slide came on the fifth afternoon. A narrow pass they had planned to use was half-buried under a wall of broken stone, the gap too tight for the wagon.

“We’ll have to go around,” Santiago said, surveying the obstacle.

Kinley consulted the map. “There’s another pass five miles east, but it adds nearly a day.”

“Not if we split up,” Quentyn said. “Miguel can take the wagon around while we move the herd through here. It’s narrow, but passable for the cattle. We can meet up at the campsite tonight.”

Kinley considered it, hating the taste of it. “I don’t like separating. But it makes sense.” She turned to Miguel. “You comfortable traveling alone?”

The young man nodded eagerly. “I know the route. I can meet you by sundown.”

They helped him prepare the wagon for the detour, then threaded the herd through the narrow pass — painstaking work, constant vigilance, Kinley at the lead while Quentyn and Santiago kept the animals from straying off the path. By late afternoon they had cleared the obstacle and were making good time toward the rendezvous.

The sun was sliding low when they reached the campsite.

No Miguel. No wagon.

The first knot of concern tightened in Kinley’s chest. They watered the herd, made camp, and watched the horizon as darkness fell. Still no sign of the young man.

“I’ll ride out to look for him,” Quentyn offered, already moving toward his horse.

“Not alone.” Kinley swung into Calico’s saddle. “Santiago can watch the herd. We’ll go together.”

Santiago nodded, his weathered face grave. “Be careful. Easy to get lost once full dark sets in.”

They rode east along the route Miguel should have taken, the moon throwing just enough silver to follow the trail. Tension coiled in the silence between them — the awareness of a hundred things that could delay, or harm, a lone traveler in the night.

Nearly an hour in, a flicker of light appeared ahead. A campfire.

Relief washed over Kinley like a wave. The wagon stood at the edge of the firelight, and Miguel — whole, alive, embarrassed — rose to greet them.

“Broke a wheel crossing the stream,” he explained, gesturing to the repaired rim. “Fixed it, but then it got too dark to travel safely. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“You did the right thing,” Quentyn assured him, dismounting to inspect the repair. “Better safe than sorry.”

They camped there for the night rather than risk the dark. While Miguel prepared a simple meal from the wagon stores, Quentyn and Kinley set up the bedrolls.

“He did a good job with that wheel,” Quentyn observed quietly. “Quick thinking. Santiago’s taught him well.”

Kinley agreed, spreading her bedroll near the fire. “Though I’m glad we came looking. I’d have worried all night.”

“Of course you would have.” He said it simply, like a fact about the weather. “You care about your people. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

The statement caught her off guard. She paused in her work, looking up to find him watching her with an expression that made her heart beat faster.

“They’re like family,” she said softly. “Santiago’s been with us since I was a child.”

“Family you choose can be as important as the one you’re born to.” He sat down by the fire. “Sometimes more so.”

There was something in his tone that spoke of personal experience. “Is that why you’ve wandered so long? Looking for that kind of connection?”

He was quiet a long moment, staring into the flames. “Maybe. Never thought about it that way.” His eyes lifted to hers. “Until recently.”

The implication hung in the air between them, impossible to misread. Kinley felt a flutter of something that might have been panic, or might have been hope — perhaps both.

Miguel returned with their food, and the moment passed like so many before it.

Acknowledged. But not forgotten.