Page 5 of July’s Cowboy Dallas

My gut clenched. He was pissing me off. “I don't care what the Kincaids think.”

“You should. Because if you keep digging, you're going to hand them ammunition.”

“If I keep digging, I'm going to make sure no one gets hurt on my watch because someone decided paperwork was optional.” I stepped closer, and Holt's expression darkened. “I'm a vet before I'm a Hollister, and if you've got a problem with that, you can take it up with the state licensing board.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think your license protects you from family consequences?”

“I think it protects me from covering up fraud.” I knew men like Holt. They'd exploit family loyalty if it benefitted them and they thought they could get away with it.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then Holt's gaze cut to Dallas, standing quiet a few feet behind me, and he lifted his chin. “You got an opinion on this, Miller?”

Dallas didn't flinch. It would take a lot more than my uncle's threats to get to him. “It's not my place.”

“That's right.” Holt looked back at me. “But you might want to think about whose place it is before you make this worse than it needs to be.”

He glared at me for another second or two before turning on his heel and heading toward the grandstand.

I stood there, my hands shaking just enough that I shoved them in my pockets so Dallas wouldn't see. The heat pressed down, and the smell of dust and manure and sun-baked metal filled my lungs. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to scream. What was I supposed to do instead… call every Hollister in the valley and ask what the hell they thought they were doing?

Dallas moved up beside me. Not in front. Not behind. Just next to me, close enough I could feel him there, steady as ever.

Close enough that I caught the clean sweat-and-leather smell of him under all that arena dust and hated that I noticed.

“What do you need?” he asked.

That stopped me. Not because it was a complicated question, but because it wasn't the question I was used to hearing.

Holt told me what I needed to do. My father told me what I should. Every Hollister I'd ever worked with had an opinion on how I ought to be handling things before I had the chance to figure it out myself.

Dallas just asked.

I looked at him, and he looked back, patient and calm and not trying to fix me or manage me or tell me I was making this harder than it had to be. He was just there. He was always just there, and I appreciated it more than he would ever know.

More than I could afford to let him know. Because if I ever started saying out loud what Dallas Miller's steadiness did to me, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.

“I need to compare these certifications,” I said. “All of them. The ones with inconsistencies.”

“All right.”

We walked back to the stock office, and I spread six folders across the desk, pulling the certification pages free and laying them out in two rows. His shoulder brushed mine when he leaned in, and something warm sparked low in my chest. It would be so easy to lean into that, to cling to his broad shoulders and let him be the steady rock in my life. But I had six forged certifications on the desk and a family name about to come apart, and I didn't have room for anything else.

That was what I told myself. It didn't explain why I didn't move my shoulder away.

The first three certifications had been signed by Dr. Hendricks, a vet out of Billings I'd met twice at conferences. The second three were signed by Dr. Kelso, who worked for a large animal practice in Bozeman and had a reputation for being thorough to the point of annoying.

I pulled two of Hendricks' certifications side by side and stared at the signatures.

Then I pulled the third and set it next to them.

“Sadie.” Dallas went still.

“I see it.”

The signatures were identical. Not just close or similar. They were exactly the same. Same loop on the H. Same angle on the final flourish. There was no variation in pressure or spacing. No one signed their name three separate times exactly the same way.

I pulled the Kelso certifications and compared them too. They were identical as well.

“They're stamped,” Dallas said.