A lot of it.
And while some might’ve rolled their eyes at my dad’s taste for the extravagant, the man had earned every penny. He’d grown up with nothing and clawed his way into a better life for himself—and for us. And he made sure my brothers and I knew what it took to keep it.
When our parents died, those lessons stuck.
Which is why I’d worked side-by-side with the contractors who built that house from the ground up—while my brothers played war games in the woods.
Blood, sweat, and tears made up every inch of the Steele property and I was proud to call it my home.
No matter where I slept.
I guided Spirit into the stable then pulled the doors closed behind us, wind and rain swirling around my legs until the door latched. It was going to be a cold night. Although the stable had a HVAC system, I didn’t use it. The horses were fine as long they weren’t out in the elements, and I didn’t want to be the cause of a massive spike in our electricity bill. Lord knew I’d already inconvenienced the family enough.
A chorus of snorts rang out, dark brown snouts appearing from each stall. We had four horses total, including Spirit. Two quarter horses named Butch and Cassidy, and a thoroughbred as black as ink named Midnight.
Spirit was mine.
One of our old military buddies had rescued her from a frozen pond in Utah, and when he realized she was feral—craziest horse he’d ever met, were his exact words—he’d given her to a group of cowboys who’d thought they could take her on. They couldn’t. She was on her way to the glue factory, so to speak, when my buddy called me up, knowing we owned acres of land. I drove through thenight to pick up her crazy ass and had her tamed within a week.
I admired her, her spirit.
It’s funny, although my brothers would each take a bullet for me, it was Spirit that felt like my rock since “the incident.”
I’d just finished laying hay in the last stall when I heard the familiar growl of an ATV outside.
Seconds later, the front door slammed open—louder than necessary.
Had to be Gage.
“Holy cow, it’s colder than a penguin’s tit out there. Where the heck is spring?”
I dropped the hay and straightened. “Itisspring. And penguins don’t have nipples.”
Gage cocked his head, striding down the center aisle like he owned the place. “First of all—where’s your shirt? I know it’s been a while since you saw a real woman, but”—he gestured toward Spirit—“I’m pretty sure that kind of romance is illegal in several states.”
“One, I lost the shirt. Two, don’t ever talk about Spirit like that again. And three, penguins actually don’t have nipples. There are two females for every male, most of whom engage in prostitution, polygamy, and in some cases... necrophilia.”
He blinked. “Sounds like a party. How do you evenknowthat?”
“National Geographic ran on a loop at the hospital.”
“And no one thought twice about airing footage of giant bird boobs in a wing full of post-op men? That seems like poor planning.”
“Only you would focus on that, Gage. Only you.” My eyes dropped to the cooler he carried.
He held it up with a grin. “Gunner made a fresh batch of chili. Said we ought to celebrate the last cold snap—or whatever dramatic reason he cooked up tonight.”
I lifted a brow. “You bring the sides?”
“Chili isn’t chili without saltines, cheddar, and pickles. And beer.”
Sold.
He helped me lay down more hay, and after grabbing my jacket and tool bag, he followed me up the stairs to the loft—otherwise known as my bedroom. I motioned to the small wooden table I’d spent half the day building with discarded lumber. Hay bales sat on either side. My cot was set up next to the trap door that I kept open most nights, watching the stars twinkle hoping to fall asleep.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
I ignored the quip and tossed my coat on my dresser—a wooden bench—and hung the toolbox. Priorities.
