"Had to finish up in the north pasture." Not a lie. We brought cattle down from summer grazing yesterday, and I spent the morning checking fence lines, making sure everything was secure before the storms roll in next week. "Needed to talk to you about?—"
"Not tonight." His voice is firm but not unkind. He never looks away from the brisket he's turning, that natural grace of a man who's been doing this for decades. "Sunday dinners are family time. Club business waits until tomorrow."
I bite back the frustration rising in my throat.
The issue with our supplier in Dallas can't wait much longer, and as the Enforcer, it’s my job to anticipate threats.
We've got a shipment coming through next week, and if the routes aren't confirmed, we're looking at delays that'll cost us money and reputation.
Not to mention, if we’re late, it’ll piss people off.
And pissed people make stupid decisions.
But Phantom's rule is absolute.
No club business at Sunday dinner.
Even when the business is urgent.
"Tomorrow, then," I say.
He grunts agreement, and I take that as my dismissal.
The porch is already crowded with members and their families.
Rogue's sitting in one of the weathered rocking chairs, laptop balanced on his knee, probably still working on the club's books despite Phantom's no-business rule.
The treasurer never stops.
Spur's leaning against the railing, hat pushed back, talking to a couple of prospects about breaking a new horse that came in last week.
His drawl is pure Texas, the kind that gets thicker when he's explaining ranch work.
"Gotta respect the animal," he's saying. "You go in thinking you're gonna dominate a twelve-hundred-pound horse, you're gonna end up in the dirt with broken ribs. It's about partnership, not force."
The prospects are hanging on every word.
Spur's the best horseman in the club, better even than Phantom, and everyone knows it.
Near the stairs, Banshee's got a clubwhore pressed up against the porch post, his hand on her hip, that lazy smile on his face that means he's already three beers in and feeling good.
The girl—Misty? Candy?
I can never keep track of the club whores. She’s giggling at something he's saying, twirling her hair around her finger.
"Come on, baby," Banshee purrs, loud enough for me to hear. "After dinner, you and me can take a ride. I'll show you what this bike can really do."
"You always say that," she teases.
"And I always deliver, don't I?"
More giggling.
Banshee catches my eye and winks.
The road captain’s got no shame and even less impulse control when it comes to women.
But he's loyal as hell and meaner than a rattlesnake when he needs to be, so Phantom tolerates his extracurricular activities.
