Bran shook his head. "I don’t think it’s a good idea, Ava."

  "Please," she snapped. Deep breath, she told herself, trying to calm the panic rioting through her. Softening her tone, she amended, "Please, Bran."

  He looked away as he answered, and she knew she’d lost—again.

  "Sorry, A," he answered, using his childhood nickname for her. "It’s just not going to work. But I’d love to drop a side of beef off for you and your folks, give Cam some good red meat to keep him healthy this winter."

  Ava nodded and cleared her throat. "Sure. Thanks, Bran."

  "Take care," he murmured, leaning forward and giving her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead as if she were a four-year-old.

  As she watched him stride away, Ava Pearson swore silently to herself. She was down, but she was far from beaten. Branson Beckett was going to learn Ava wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a woman to be reckoned with, and she was going to take back her damn life if it was the last thing she did.

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