An hour? We won’t even get there until nearly suppertime leaving this late.
My mouth dries, ash coating my tongue as I nod briskly and walk away. Otis is lingering by the fence, doing a shit job of looking like he hasn’t been eavesdropping the entire fucking time. I ignore him when I pass, eyes already focused on where I left Diesel tied up.
“You want me to get a trailer hitched so you can take him with you?” Otis asks, following me now.
I slip Diesel’s lead from the tie up and get into the saddle, debating riding off to the other side of the ranch so I don’t have to go anywhere with Tilly.
“I don’t plan on being gone long enough to need him. Just make sure the kids don’t touch him.”
“Pick up some scotch on your way up. A gift goes a long way with shit like this.”
I stare down at the older man, annoyed and pissed off enough that I can’t hide it in my voice. “He doesn’t deserve a goddamn gift. There should be no grovelling expected for a man who doesn’t give a shit about the horse he’s putting up such a stink about. This is about money.”
“It always is, Rowe. That’s life.”
“Skip the philosophical bullshit with me. I’m running up to my cabin.”
He doesn’t argue further. His hand waves me away as he says on an exhale, “Alright.”
“What brand?” I grit out.
“Of what?”
“Scotch. What fucking brand?”
“The cheapest you can find. You’re right about him being undeserving. That doesn’t mean you can’t pretend. Save face.”
I bark a laugh, leaning back. “Got it.”
He doesn’t say anything else. I think he knows better than anyone when I’m done talking about something. Maybe he could teach my dad a thing or two about me.
I kick Diesel into a trot, and we head out.
Tilly’s leaningagainst the truck door when I exit the stable, leaving Diesel pouting in his stall.
Her legs are kicked out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She’s not wearing those short shorts today, having swapped them for tight blue jeans with rhinestones on the pockets. They’re loose at the bottom and slipped over the tops of her boots. I force my gaze from her legs and to the saying stamped in white across her tight red shirt.
Wrangle Me Cowboy.
“Do you get a kick out of wearing shit like that around here?” I grunt, opening the back truck door to toss my bag inside.
“Wearing what?”
The fake innocence has me slamming the door shut, heat ghosting over my skin. “Cut the shit. The shirts are pointless. The men here are looking at you regardless of whether you bait them or not.”
She stands in front of me, grinning smugly. “Is that so?”
“Are you that desperate for a compliment from me, hellcat?” I lower my voice, straightening my shoulders as I press into her space. Her eyes have to crawl up my body to reach mine. The blue colour of them is rough this close up, like it’s been sandeddown to a duller shade. “Or is the brat just feeling self-conscious today?”
Her palm smacks against my sternum. I don’t move when she shoves at me, so she takes a wide step back. “You’re an asshole.”
“That’s not going to get you any compliments.”
“You’re the last guy on this ranch I’d want one from. Been there, done that.”
Silence.
I bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste copper while I push past her and round the hood. It wasn’t necessarily a low blow, but it sure fucking hit deep. Her ability to throw our past at me like a weapon is starting to really wear on me.
