I have a brand scar on my shoulder that says what surrender cost me once.
I swore on it that no man would ever own an acre of me.

Archer Trevelyan runs the spread next to mine, with hands gone hard from forty years of rope.
He is also the only route to the grazing lease before the rival bidder takes it.
At the last meeting he set his palm flat at the base of my spine while we leaned over the maps.
He left it there. I have not stopped feeling it, and he knew that before I did.

That is the shame of it. Not the lease. That I rode home thinking about his rope shed instead of the fence wire.
He watches me across the corrals and my whole vow goes thin.

He has already told me where to be after the next meeting.
The rope shed. My wrists in his lasso. Slow, the way he does everything. Bound past the point where I could call it business.
Both ranches die without that lease, I swore never to be roped by any man, and I will be in that shed at the hour he named.
What is left of my word if I let him tie it? What is left of me if I stay away?

A full-length western lasso bondage and possessive domination erotic novel featuring a woman rancher and the neighbor who set the appointment.