Erica Sinclair - The Range War (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

The days of wars over land should be long past. But when Erica Sinclair visits her horse at Ironwood Pastures, she finds herself caught in a brutal battle between landowners - where sabotage, blackmail, and even kidnapping are weapons of choice. No holds are barred, and the stakes are higher than property lines.
Because this time, lives are on the line.

[Jenny_S]

Sitting behind her polished mahogany desk, Erica Sinclair thumbs through a case file, calculating the billable hours she has poured into it. The late afternoon sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the sleek, elegant lines of her office. From the 25th floor of the Park Avenue high-rise, the city stretches out before her - structured, relentless, always demanding more.
A familiar knock at the door interrupts her thoughts. Even without looking up, she knows who it is.

“Come in, Claire.”
Her assistant enters, a neat stack of envelopes in hand, the contents already opened and sorted.
“The mail, Erica,” Claire says setting the letters on the desk. Despite having invited her to drop the formality when they are alone, Claire still hesitates, as if "Mrs. Sinclair" were an unshakable habit.

Erica allows a small smirk to flicker across her lips. “Anything pressing?”
Claire nods toward the envelope on top. “I don’t think so.” Then, with her usual efficiency, she turns and leaves, closing the door behind her with the soft finality Erica has come to expect.

Glancing at her Rolex dive watch, Erica checks the stack of mail. She is looking forward to making the drive up North to Bedford in the afternoon, where Lea, her Cleveland Bay mare, is stabled at Ironwood Pastures.
Sometimes, being the managing partner of her law firm, a well-oiled machine, has its advantages, such as being able to walk out early on Wednesdays to visit and ride her horse.


~~~


Around lunchtime, Erica shuts down her laptop and stacks the last file neatly on her desk. Grabbing her blazer from the back of her chair, she steps out into the main office, where Claire is ready to go on her break.

“Heading out early today?” Claire asks, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

Erica nods. “It’s Wednesday. I’m going to see Lea.”

Claire smiles. “Lucky horse. Drive safely, please.”

“I always do.” Erica smirks, shouldering her handbag. “See you tomorrow.”


~~~


The elevator hums softly as she descends to the parking garage. Moments later, she steers her black Volvo onto Park Avenue, merging into the traffic. The towering steel and glass fade behind her as she leaves Manhattan, trading congestion for open roads. By the time she reaches Bedford, the State feels like another world - its sharp angles and relentless energy replaced by rolling pastures and crisp country air.

She pulls into Ironwood Pastures, easing the car into her usual parking spot. As she steps out, she inhales deeply - hay, damp earth, the unmistakable scent of horses, but something else - the scent of smoke and burnt wood.
Grabbing her sports bag from the backseat, she strides toward the locker room to change into tan jodhpurs, a fitted long-sleeved polo, a softshell jacket, and her broken-in riding boots.
The ritual is second nature now.

Zipping up her jacket, she steps out into the stable yard - just in time to see a dapple-gray mare being loaded onto a sleek horse trailer. The gold logo on the side reads Stone Ridge Equestrian.
A man bearing the same logo on the back of his black windbreaker secures the ramp, and with a metallic clank, the trailer door swings shut. He barely spares a glance before climbing into the cab of his pickup truck, pulling away, rumbling down the drive in a cloud of dust.

Margaret Henshaw stands nearby, watching the vehicle disappear. A folded letter is clutched in her hand.

As Erica approaches, Margaret straightens, masking whatever emotion lingers behind her eyes with a practiced smile.

“Hello Erica,” she greets, her tone warm but edged with something Erica can’t quite place. “Lea’s doing great. You’ll find her in her stall, fresh from turnout.”

Erica studies her, noting the tightness around her mouth, the way she pockets the letter just a little too quickly with a hand that seems to tremble.
Margaret Henshaw is tough - one of the most capable horsewomen Erica has ever known. But something is off.

Erica shifts her gaze toward the stable. Too many stalls stand empty.
She turns back to Margaret, leveling her with a steady look. “What’s going on? Is there anything I should know about?”

At the sound of Erica’s voice, Lea lifts her head over the stall door, ears pricked forward. A deep, eager chortle rumbles from her throat as she stretches toward her owner, nostrils flaring.
Erica smiles, stepping forward to stroke the mare’s muscular neck, feeling the warmth beneath her sleek coat. Lea nudges her shoulder insistently, searching for treats.

“Hey, girl,” Erica murmurs, running her fingers through the dark strands of Lea’s mane. As always, it's neatly trimmed and well cared for. The faint scent of hay and leather fills the air, and the stall is clean, fresh straw and wood shavings cushioning the floor. Lea is as well looked after as ever.

But the stable around them feels… different.
Quieter.
Empty.

Erica’s gaze flicks to the vacant stalls lining the aisle. Too many.

Behind her, Margaret Henshaw stands motionless, staring absently down the stable row. The usually sharp-eyed horsewoman looks drained, the set of her shoulders heavy beneath her weathered jacket.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, Erica.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “But it’s nothing I should burden a client with.”

A brave front, but Erica sees right through it. Years in a courtroom have trained her to read people - Margaret’s forced smile, the tension in her jaw, the way she grips her arms too tightly.

“If you think I could help, I’d be happy to.” Erica keeps her tone measured, knowing Margaret is a proud woman, one who doesn’t ask for help easily. But sometimes, a well-placed offer is all it takes.


~~~

[LunaDog]

um, doesn't look good. Will Erica need a new home for her horse soon, beginning to look that way judging by the empty stalls and the worried look of Margaret's.

[GreyLord]

No, no. There seems to be a problem. Erica needs to solve it so she doesn't have to move Lea.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @GreyLord, wow, the new story has just kicked off and two of my favorite TUG celebrities are already engaging with Erica's most recent adventure.
Thank you so much for being faithful readers - and commenters - of what happens in the Ericaverse.
I love you, guys!

[RopeBunny]

Great first chapter, setting the scene, setting us up for many possible things to come.

Hinting at some of them in the introduction

Will be interested to see where things lead.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @RopeBunny, something's rotten in the State of Denmark or, in this case, at Ironwood Pastures.
What exactly, you will find out as the story unfolds further.

[Jenny_S]

Margaret exhales slowly. Her shoulders sag as she pulls a crumpled letter from her thigh pocket and hands it over.
Erica smooths out the paper, scanning the official letterhead. An insurance notice.

"Due to the increased risk of fire, your policy premium has been adjusted accordingly. Effective immediately, your rate has been increased by a factor of three."

Erica’s jaw tightens. “Fire hazard?”

Margaret nods grimly. “The barn fire is just the latest catastrophe that hit us. It all started after I turned down my neighbor’s offer to buy the property.” She swipes a hand over her face. “At first, I thought the broken paddock fences were just vandalism - kids messing around.”

Erica gently scratches Lea’s forehead, mulling it over. If the fences were down, horses could have escaped, wandered onto the road. That alone could have ended in disaster.

“But then,” Margaret continues, voice thick with frustration, “someone started tampering with tack. A few saddle girths were cut - not enough to snap immediately, just enough to fail under stress. Then the feed. Some of the horses got colic from spoiled grain.”

She shakes her head, the shame evident in her eyes. “I’ve done everything I can to keep the animals safe, but my clients…” Her voice catches. “They lost faith. One by one, they pulled their horses and took them across the fence to Stone Ridge.”

Erica’s grip tightens on the letter. The exodus of boarders explains the empty stalls. It’s not just sabotage - it’s calculated. Someone wants Ironwood Pastures gone.

Lea nudges her again, oblivious to the tension thrumming through her owner. Erica strokes her mare’s nose, but her mind is already racing.
This isn’t bad luck.
It’s a campaign.
And someone is making sure Margaret loses everything.

“Listen,” Erica says, tightening her grip on the crumpled insurance notice. “I’ll take Lea out for a while, and when I get back, you can give me the full rundown.”

Margaret nods, her expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. She watches as Erica moves with practiced ease, reaching for a saddle pad and throwing the well-worn leather saddle over Lea’s strong back.

Erica tightens the girth, but then pauses. Remembering Margaret’s mention of tampered tack, she runs her hands along the straps and buckles, checking for frays, weak stitching, anything that might be off. Satisfied, she gives Lea’s side a reassuring pat, then slides the bridle over the mare’s head, slipping the bit into place.

Swinging up into the saddle, Erica settles herself, feeling the familiar power beneath her. She clicks her tongue, and Lea steps forward, ears flicking as they move out of the barn into the golden afternoon light.


~~~


The moment they emerge onto the open trail, Erica breathes deeply, letting the crisp country air chase away the tension coiled in her chest. The world smells of damp earth and pine, of sun-warmed grass and distant woodsmoke. It’s a stark contrast to the structured, relentless pulse of the city.

She guides Lea onto a winding bridle path lined with towering maples, their bare branches just beginning to bud with the promise of spring. Birds flit between them, their songs carried on the breeze. A deer startles at their approach, bounding deeper into the woods.
Lea moves fluidly beneath her, a living extension of Erica herself. They warm up at a steady trot before shifting into a canter, the mare’s hooves striking a steady rhythm against the dirt path. As they reach a familiar stretch of open meadow, Erica gives her the signal.

Lea surges forward.

The world blurs. Wind tears through Erica’s hair, the rush of speed exhilarating as the powerful mare eats up the ground beneath them. The bond between them is unshakable - trust, instinct, the unspoken understanding that usually only comes from years together, but with them was there from the beginning.
She feels the pulse of Lea’s energy, the pure joy of movement, and lets herself sink into it.

They take a jump over a fallen log, then another, each leap effortless. Erica laughs, the sound lost to the wind. Out here, with her mare beneath her and nothing but open space ahead, she is free.

For an hour and a half, they roam the pastures, through winding forest trails, along the banks of a small creek that glitters in the sunlight. The beauty of Ironwood Pastures is undeniable. This land, this place, is something special. And someone is trying to take it away.
That thought steels her resolve.

By the time they return to the stable yard, Lea’s chest is damp with sweat, her breath coming in slow, even puffs. Erica swings down, loosening the girth and slipping the saddle from the mare’s back before leading her to the paddock for a cooldown.

She strokes Lea’s neck, murmuring to her in the same soft voice she uses for her kittens back home. The mare nudges her in response, pressing her nose to Erica’s shoulder, then rubbing her soft muzzle against her cheek. A silent, familiar exchange of affection.

A voice interrupts them.
“Shall I take her from here?”
Steve, one of the part-timing stable hands, steps forward, reaching for Lea’s reins. Erica hands them over, giving the mare one last pat.
“Thanks,” she says, slipping a ten-dollar bill into Steve’s palm. “Make sure she gets a good rubdown.”

“You got it, Mrs. Sinclair.”

She turns back to Lea, meeting the mare’s deep, knowing eyes. “I’ll see you before I head back to the city, my lovely.”

In the locker room, Erica peels off her riding gear and steps into the shower, letting the hot water rinse away the sweat and dust from the ride. By the time she emerges, she’s refreshed, dressed in fitted blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and her brown leather jacket. Sneakers replace her riding boots, but the sense of grounded determination remains.
She stows her bag in the trunk of her black Volvo, then makes her way toward the office. Margaret Henshaw has a problem.
And Erica intends to solve it.


~~~


Erica knocks once before stepping into the office. Margaret Henshaw sits at her desk, surrounded by neatly stacked bank statements and invoices, but her furrowed brow and the absent way she flips through the papers betray her growing worry. The afternoon light filters through the window, stretching shadows across the wooden floor, casting the small office in an amber glow.

Margaret looks up, pushing her reading glasses onto her forehead. “Have a seat,” she says, motioning toward the worn leather chair across from her. “Did you enjoy the ride?”

“Absolutely.” Erica lowers herself into the chair, her posture poised but relaxed. “Lea is the happiest horse here at Ironwood.”

Margaret exhales, the corners of her mouth twitching into a weak smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”

She reaches for the coffee pot, pouring two mugs of steaming black liquid. As she slides a small tetra pack of cream across the desk, Erica shakes her head.

“Black is fine.” She wraps her hands around the warmth of the mug. “Tell me.”

Margaret takes a long sip before setting her cup down with a quiet clink. At first she hesitates, but then gives Erica the rundown.

“It started about a year ago,” she begins, her voice steady now but laced with the weight of what has happened. “That’s when I first heard that my neighbor, Patrick Gibbon, was expanding. He bought up the old Stone Ridge farm and turned it into a playground for the rich and the beautiful. Bulldozed the whole place and built something straight out of a high-end travel magazine. It’s not a stable - it’s a spa for horses, a five-star resort. Full-time trainers, stable hands, chefs – the whole nine yards.”
She shakes her head. “At first, I figured he was catering to the privileged city girls who wanted to play equestrian on the weekends. But then he started buying up the neighboring properties. One after another.”

Erica listens intently, already mapping out the connections in her mind.

“You know how it is, Erica. Bedford is horse country - lots of independent stables, family-run places like mine. It didn’t take long before the inevitable happened.”

“He made you an offer.”

Margaret lets out a dry laugh. “That’s right. And a pitiful one at that. Not even close to what Ironwood’s worth. I turned him down flat, figured that would be the end of it.” She exhales slowly, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. “Then the ‘mishaps’ started.”

Erica’s gaze sharpens. “What kind of mishaps?”

Margaret straightens, as if bracing herself. “It started with the paddock fences. Someone cut them along the road. One of my stable hands was on his way home late and found three of our horses grazing by the highway. You know how that could’ve ended.”

Erica does. A terrible accident waiting to happen. She pictures the sleek outlines of horses, dark against the headlights of an oncoming car. The mere thought of a crash like that on the highway makes her stomach clench.

“We fixed the fences, figured maybe some local kids had been messing around. But then, a week later, one of my clients was thrown off his horse - saddle and all. The girth strap had been cut. And it wasn’t just his. When we checked, we found others had been sliced, too. He was the first to pull his horse from Ironwood and move it across the fence to Stone Ridge.”

Erica pulls out her phone, taking quick notes as she listens.

“We reported it all to the Sheriff’s Office, but they didn’t have much to go on. Then came the colics.”

Erica looks up. “Colics?”

Margaret nods grimly. “Five horses. All at once. We brought in the vet, ran tests. Turned out the grain had been tainted. We burned every last bag, bought new feed, but the damage was done. More owners panicked, moved their horses. A couple of them even sued me.”
She exhales, shaking her head. “I can’t blame them. If it were me, I’d want to protect my horse too.”

Erica understands. People don’t just board their animals at a stable - they trust someone with a part of their heart.
As a lawyer, she understands why the owners had sued. Negligence, breach of duty - Margaret didn’t deserve it, but in their shoes, Erica might have done the same. This wasn’t just sabotage. It was a calculated attack.

She imagines how she would have felt if Lea had been affected as well and for a fraction of a moment, she considers calling another stable and taking Lea away. The mere thought of her mare suffering, of finding her in pain one morning, makes her stomach knot and feels unbearable.
But then she looks at Margaret - and she knows she can’t just walk away like the others had.

Margaret presses her fingertips against her temples. “Then there was the fire.”

Erica’s grip tightens around her phone. She remembers Margaret’s words earlier, the insurance rates tripling.
“The barn went up in flames last week,” Margaret murmurs, her voice quieter now. “It was really bad, Erica: the smoke, the black clouds, the smell…” Her voice nearly breaks. “the horses screaming in terror… we were lucky – the Fire Department got it under control before it spread, but it could have been so much worse. They said it was caused by leaking fuel cans.”

Erica frowns, imagining for a brief second what could have happened to Lea, her own horse. Something about the story of the fire doesn’t sit right. “And the Sheriff?”

Margaret lets out a short, humorless laugh. “They showed up, took some pictures, asked a few questions, then filed it away. But here’s the thing…”
She meets Erica’s gaze head-on, her voice turning raw. “We never kept fuel in the barn.”

Silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken implications.

Margaret lets out a slow, shaking breath. “I don’t know what to do anymore. All this didn’t only cost us clients… most of my hands are now working for Gibbon at Stone Ridge. It ate up our savings and our reputation is damaged beyond repair.”

Erica looks at her, at the woman who has dedicated her life to this land, to the animals that trust her. And in that moment, a decision solidifies in her mind.

She sets down her coffee.
“We’ll figure it out, Margaret.” Erica’s voice is calm, but beneath it, something cold and unyielding has settled in her chest. “And whoever did this? They’re going to wish they hadn’t.”

She’s not just protecting Margaret. She’s protecting Lea, the horse she loves. And that changes everything.


~~~

[GreyLord]

The main rule is very simple. Don't mess with Lea.

[LunaDog]

Seems deliberate to me. Somebody wants Margaret out of business. And, doesn't appear to care how low to stoop in order to achieve that aim.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @GreyLord, you're right. Erica loves her Bay and endangering Lea doesn't sound like a great idea.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, proving who's behind the "mishaps" might be the problem, though.

[Jenny_S]

Before heading to her car, Erica makes one last stop at the stable. The scent of hay and leather lingers in the cool evening air, mixing with the earthy warmth of the few remaining horses. She finds Lea with her nose buried deep in the feed trough, crunching on oats with contented enthusiasm. The rhythmic sound is oddly soothing.

“Hey, girl,” Erica murmurs, stepping up to her. She runs a hand through the grain, scooping a small handful and letting it sift through her fingers. Under the glow of the overhead lamps, the oats glint like flecks of gold. She lifts them to her nose, inhaling deeply. Clean. Fresh. Safe. Saying goodbye to Lea always leaves her with a knot in her stomach, but after what she’s learned today, paranoia lingers at the edges of her mind.

Lea lifts her head, ears flicking forward, sensing Erica’s unease. The mare nudges her shoulder, exhaling warm breath against her cheek.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, okay,” Erica promises, stroking the sleek curve of Lea’s neck. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other now…”

She lingers for a moment, fingers tracing soothing circles on Lea’s coat before finally, reluctantly, pulling away.

Outside, the cool air feels good against her flushed skin as she strides toward her black Volvo.
The crunch of gravel beneath her sneakers feels heavier than usual, the weight of the day settling in her chest like stone.
She came here to enjoy an afternoon with Lea, not to leave with a pit in her stomach.


~~~


As she pulls her car onto the access road, she steals a glance in the rearview mirror. The stable stands bathed in the fading light, its silhouette familiar - comforting, even - but now it feels... off."
She had trusted Margaret Henshaw to keep Lea safe, but after everything she had just heard?
Is Ironwood still the sanctuary it used to be?

Her grip tightens around the steering wheel.
Without thinking, she reaches for her phone, swiping through contacts until she finds Claire Messner’s number.
The call connects on the second ring.

“Erica!” Claire’s voice is warm, but laced with curiosity. “Is everything alright?”

Erica hesitates for the briefest moment before exhaling through her nose. She hates asking for help, but there’s something else she needs to deal with now.

“I wish it was, Claire,” she admits, forcing the tension from her voice. “Listen, something’s come up here in Bedford. Would you mind looking after the tabbies for me? Starting tomorrow evening?”

Claire doesn’t even pause. “Of course,” she says, already reaching for the spare key to Erica’s apartment in her handbag. It has taken her employer years to open up enough to let someone into her personal refuge.

“Food’s in the kitchen pantry,” Erica says, rubbing her temple. “I’ll leave some money on the counter, just in case. I have no idea how long this is going to take.”

A beat of silence. Then Claire speaks, softer this time. “Erica… what’s going on?” She knows how much her boss loves her kittens.

Erica presses her lips together, watching the road unfurl before her, illuminated now only by the soft glow of her headlights.

“I’ll tell you when I know more, but it looks like a real mess.”
She ends the call before Claire can push for answers.

Because the truth is, she doesn’t have them yet.

But she’ll be back to find those answers.


~~~


While driving back to the city, Erica’s mind churns over the unsettling situation at Ironwood Pastures. She pieces together fragments of a plan: if Stone Ridge Equestrian is the source of the trouble, that’s where she’ll start digging.
She dials Margaret Henshaw’s number. The older woman picks up almost immediately, as if waiting for her call.

“I’m going to take a few days off,” Erica tells her, her voice measured. “I need to look into this.” A pause. “But this has to stay strictly between us.”

“Of course,” Margaret replies, her gratitude unmistakable. “Thank you, Erica. I don’t even know…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Erica cuts in gently. “Let’s just say I’m doing it for both of us. For Ironwood. And for Lea.”
She ends the call and refocuses on the road, her grip on the steering wheel tightening.


~~~

Reaching her apartment building at 135 West 72nd Street, Erica pulls into the underground garage and eases the Volvo into her designated spot. The moment she steps into her apartment, she braces herself for impact - and it comes in the form of two streaks of fur barreling toward her.

Spot and Tiger weave intricate figure eights around her feet, their eager meows an ecstatic welcome. Laughing, Erica drops her riding bag and scoops them into her arms. Spot immediately scrambles up to perch on her shoulder, purring into her ear. Tiger, however, sniffs suspiciously at her sleeve - detecting another animal’s scent.

“What?” Erica smirks. “You still think I’m cheating on you?”

The familiar fragrance of her apartment - leather, wood, lavender - wraps around her like a comfort blanket she didn’t realize she needed. The weight of the day starts to lift as she moves through the space, the kittens shadowing her every step. She rinses their bowls in the sink, refills them with fresh water, and pops open a can of mushed salmon.

“You can’t always have chicken, my lovelies,” she muses as she sets the bowls down. They don’t seem to care. Within seconds, they’re devouring their meal with the single-minded focus only cats can muster.

From under her bed, Erica pulls out her large travel bag and lays it open. She steps into her walk-in closet, selecting what she’ll need for the next few days: running gear, casual clothes, and - most importantly - business attire. She has no intention of showing up at Stone Ridge looking like a soccer mom. She’ll arrive looking every bit the formidable attorney she is. Business and battle gear.

She folds another silk blouse, a fitted pencil skirt, blazer, and tailored slacks into the bag, shoes, then adds her laptop and notepad. This isn’t just a personal visit. It’s reconnaissance. A battle in the making.

When she turns back, she finds Spot and Tiger sitting in the hallway, watching her pack with unnerving intensity.

“It’s no use keeping secrets from you two,” she murmurs, sinking onto the bed. “I’ll be gone for a few days. But Auntie Claire will take care of you. Still love me?”

They don’t answer, of course. But after an hour of playtime - chasing toy mice, scaling her like their personal jungle gym, batting at the strings of her cat mom sweatshirt, and rolling across the living room floor - she has a feeling she’s been forgiven.

As the city settles into night, Erica retires to bed, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Shadows flicker against the ceiling, cast by headlights passing on the street below. In them, she sees the burning barn. The broken fence. The poisoned feed. Margaret’s voice echoes in her mind.
She doesn’t believe for a second that this is the work of one person. And she will get to the bottom of it.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Within seconds, they’re devouring their meal with the single-minded focus only cats can muster.

You've obviously never seen a DOG eat!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, touche. You clearly notice that I'm a cat mom. It's been a while since I've been around dogs.

[LunaDog]

Fair enough. To each, their own.

[RopeBunny]

Two chapters to catch up on, both the expected good read.

Your stories unfold so well, I'm finding, details coming together and some nice asides, like the cats. Possibly unnecessary in a TUGs tale, but welcome.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @RopeBunny, there will be some TUG in this story, I promise. My stories, however, are not "slam, bam, tied you, ma'am" type of stories. I do include some bondage in all of my stories, though, so they qualify for this board.

[Caesar73]

I see, I have some serious catching up to do! Love the Picture of Erica on her Mount!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, absolutely.
And when you're done catching up, you can continue below. Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

Morning arrives before the sun does, her phone’s soft alarm buzzing her awake.
First, the kittens. Then, her five-mile run.
Some people call her crazy for running at this hour, but for Erica, it’s not just about fitness. It’s discipline. Clarity. Purpose. The air is cold against her skin as she pounds the pavement through Central Park, but she welcomes the sting. She’s not trying to beat her best time, but the urgency to return to Bedford drives her forward today.

Back home, Spot and Tiger are still curled up in their bed. She shrugs out of her running gear, showers, and dresses.
Then comes the moment she never skips.
Standing before the mirror, she clasps her Rolex dive watch around her wrist. Her father’s gift. Her father’s legacy. The engraving on the back reminding her to “Stand for something or fall for anything”.
Her pulse steadies. The words have anchored her for years, guiding her choices. Reminding her of who she is. Of the promise she made - not just to her father, but to herself.

When someone poisoned the feed, it could have been Lea. When someone set fire to the barn, it endangered Lea.

This isn’t just business.

This is personal.

Erica grabs her travel bag, slings her handbag over her shoulder, and takes a final look at her kittens. Claire will take good care of them. She knows that much.

Locking the door behind her, she steps into the elevator, rides down to the underground parking, and loads her bags into the Volvo.
The road to Bedford feels different this time. It’s not the morning traffic. Not the weather.
It’s the feeling that she’s about to step into enemy territory.


~~~


Instead of taking the familiar bumpy country road to Ironwood Pastures, Erica turns right, following the towering signs advertising Stone Ridge Equestrian. The sleek branding promises luxury accommodations for both horses and owners - boasting pristine facilities, five-star services, and world-class care.

Half a mile down, she turns onto a private access road - paved, perfectly graded, and lined with strategically placed drainage. Unlike the rustic charm of Ironwood, Stone Ridge is a showpiece of meticulous planning and wealth. Expansive pastures stretch on either side, their manicured grass a perfect shade of green. White fences gleam in the morning sun, as though freshly painted overnight. The horses within them are sleek, well-fed, their coats shining with meticulous care.
And why wouldn’t they be? Erica knows the type of clientele this place caters to - owners of high-value horses who demand nothing but the best. Money flows freely here, and results are expected.

She pulls into the parking lot, her black Volvo rolling onto spotless asphalt. Not a single patch of gravel in sight. The lineup of vehicles - Range Rovers, Mercedes G-Wagons, sleek European sports cars - speaks volumes. Here, wealth isn’t implied – it’s paraded. By comparison, her Volvo might as well be an economy rental.

But Erica doesn’t rattle easily. She’s seen too many leased luxury cars parked outside bankruptcy court. The flash doesn’t impress her - substance does.

Still seated behind the wheel, she takes in the lay of the land. Directly ahead, an imposing building stands - modern yet classic in its design, clearly the heart of the operation. Large glass windows reflect the morning light, showcasing a reception area and what appears to be a high-end lounge, possibly even a restaurant. This is where she needs to start.

She steps out of her car, locks it, and adjusts the strap of her handbag, smoothing her silk blouse with one practiced motion. Confidence is her armor. If Stone Ridge is the source of Ironwood’s troubles, she needs to blend in, to play the part of an elite equestrian searching for the best.

Pushing through the main entrance, Erica strides across a gleaming marble floor, the subtle scent of leather and citrus polish lingering in the air. The reception desk is manned - or rather, womanned - by three young women in crisp black polo shirts, each embroidered with the Stone Ridge logo and their names in elegant script. Their smiles are practiced, their customer-service voices perfectly tuned.

One of them, a blonde with sharp features and eyes that take in every detail, offers a polite nod. "Good morning, ma’am. How can I assist you?"

Erica removes her aviator sunglasses, hooking them onto the neckline of her blouse. She meets the receptionist’s gaze with a cool, assessing look, raising one brow ever so slightly.

"Maybe," she replies, allowing the faintest note of arrogance to creep into her tone. Not her usual demeanor, but necessary for the role she’s playing. "I’m Erica Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates." She delivers the name smoothly, as if expecting it to hold weight. "I’m looking for a new stable for my bay."

The receptionist - Louisa, according to the neat embroidery on her polo - doesn’t falter, her smile remaining intact. "Certainly, Mrs. Sinclair. We’d be happy to provide information on our boarding packages."

Before Louisa can continue, a voice interjects from Erica’s right. Male, smooth, confident.
"I’ll take care of Mrs. Sinclair, Louisa."


~~~

[RopeBunny]

some nice asides, like the cats. Possibly unnecessary in a TUGs tale, but welcome.

Dear @RopeBunny, there will be some TUG in this story, I promise. My stories, however, are not "slam, bam, tied you, ma'am" type of stories. I do include some bondage in all of my stories, though, so they qualify for this board.

Don't misunderstand, please. Wasn't commenting in a negative sense. I tend to go very TUGs heavy when I write, in large part because I enjoy writing the bondage, plus it helps me in some ways.

Writing what I'm mostly unable to do for real.

My point regarding the cats was that these things are asides to the main plot, kind of, something you didn't need to include but something that's good to read all the same. When the bondage comes no doubt it'll be awesome but in the meantime, carry on.

Love your stories, very interesting.

[LunaDog]

I make no secret of the fact that i simply adore your stories and thoroughly enjoy reading them. So, maybe conventional bondage isn't prevalent to the degree that some would insist on, but there's enough to qualify for your works to be relevant here. Oh, as a confirmed dog lover, i find the cats magnificent too. They add a welcome dimension to establish Erica's character.

In short, as far as i'm concerned, please just carry on as you have up to now.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @RopeBunny, it's all good. I thoroughly enjoy all comments my readers leave and I am happy how kind the feedback I receive from you guys really is.
Some of what I write is not to drive the story, but to develop the characters. Early on, Erica tried to cope with stress through selfbondage, this changed when she realized how calming the unconditional love of the kittens is.

Thank you for being one of my faithful readers, I am glad that you love my stories. Without people like you, there would be no point in showing what's going on in the Ericaverse.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you just made my day. Thank you so much for your kind comment.
By speaking of pets: I really considered giving Erica a pup, but then decided not to, because Erica simply isn't home enough to give a dog the attention and care he needs and I couldn't let her come across as cruel to an animal.
That's how she ended up with the kittens.