I drained the glass, set it down too hard. “You planning on telling me what my mistakes are or just letting me find out for myself?”
He took a sip, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You were always stubborn. Even as a baby. Your mother used to say you’d die of hunger before you’d let anyone feed you.” He looked away, then back at me. “The Bridger boy’s a mess.”
“He’s tough,” I said, surprised by the edge in my own voice.
Pa swirled his drink, not looking at me. “Boy’s too skittish. Like a spooked colt. You got a plan for that?”
I did, but I doubted he’d want to hear it.
The silence stretched, thick with history.
“He’ll come around,” I said. My voice dropped, the words heavy. “I’ll show him how.”
Pa turned, leaned on the counter so the joints in his elbows locked straight. “You planning to gentle him or just break him in?”
He meant it as a joke, but I felt the heat in my cheeks, the sharp twist low in my belly.
“Not planning to break him,” I said, and it was mostly true.
Pa grunted, but he didn’t look away. The man could see through bone. “Just remember,” he said, “some things you break, you don’t get to fix.”
I thought of Newt, upstairs and probably curled on top of my blankets, wearing nothing but my old hoodie and a pair of borrowed sweats. I thought about the hollow behind his knees,the dip at the base of his spine, the delicate point where his jaw met his throat.
I wanted to touch every inch, claim every scar. I wanted to make him so he couldn’t remember what it was like to be alone, so that the only place he fit was in my bed or under my hands.
My cock was half-hard against my thigh, and the whiskey did nothing to take the edge off. I shrugged, voice flat. “He’s not porcelain, Pa. He’s tougher than he looks.”
Pa sipped, then gave me a long, level stare. “You’re tougher than you look, too,” he said. “Don’t mean you got nothing that can’t break.”
I let the words sink in. Then I looked him dead in the eye. “I know what I’m doing.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile buried in the beard. “You always did,” he said. He finished his drink and set the cup down, then straightened his back and limped to the hall, boots barely making a sound.
At the doorway, he paused. “One more thing,” he said. “The Bridger boy? He’s not just your mess to clean up. You bring him into this house, he’s a McKenzie now. Means you take the good with the bad. Means you fight for him.” He didn’t say what else it meant, but I knew.
“I will,” I said.
Pa considered that, then nodded, just once. “You think the Bridgers will let this go?”
“They don’t get a say.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
I pictured Luther’s face, the sneer, the way his jaw flexed when he talked about the family name like it was a badge. I pictured the father, the suits, the way he called Newt “son” like it was an insult.
“They beat him,” I said, the words sudden and ugly in my mouth. “Been happening for years.” I looked up, met Pa’s eyes. “I aim to stop it.”
Pa’s gaze sharpened. “With what? You going to shoot the whole town?”
“If I have to,” I said. And I meant it. I’d seen enough violence to know what I was capable of, what lines I could cross and never look back.
He stared at me, weighing the threat and the promise inside it. “That’s not the McKenzie way.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands steepled so they wouldn’t shake. “Things change. People don’t.” I swallowed hard, let the next part hurt coming out. “He’s mine now. I’m not letting anyone take him back.”
Pa took a long, slow drink. “He know that?”
I remembered the way Newt looked at me, the way he let me touch him, the way he tried to hide how much he liked it. I thought about his skin under my hands, the pulse in his throat, the smell of him in my clothes. My cock stirred against my jeans, and I let the feeling linger, sharp and hungry.
