I’m twenty-two years old. There’s no way in hell I should beallowing my father to ground me. But on the list of shit I shouldn’t be allowing, this isn’t even in the top ten. I swallow down the vile taste of the way I’m about to debase myself, eyes flitting around the room again.
Chase Cartwright sits in a corner booth, eyes narrowed on the two of us like he’s trying to work out what’s going on. When he notices he has my attention, he doesn’t look away, he just raises a brow and starts to stand.
“Yes, sir,” I tell my father quickly, ignoring Chase. My priority is to get my father out of here without him causing a scene and without anyone finding out more than they need to.
Dad nods and then stumbles as he stands, tripping over the bottom rung of the barstool. It falls and I flinch, silence falling over the bar as everyone looks toward the noise. When they realize it’s just my father, who doesn’t even bother righting the stool before zig-zagging out of the door, they go right back to what they were doing beforehand.
Chase rights the stool and I busy myself with the rag again. “What was that?”
“Dad being Dad,” I tell him, rolling my eyes and smiling at him. “What’re you drinking tonight, Cartwright?”
“Water,” he tells me quietly, still suspicious.
When I reach forward to grab a plastic cup, he snatches my wrist, pulling it towards him. I’m getting really fucking tired of men doing that to me tonight. I try to jerk it away from him, but he thumbs over the red marks my father left behind.
“Maddox sees this and he’s going to shit a brick,” he warns, letting me go.
I can practically feel the fire licking my veins at that. “Maddox won’t be seeing it, because regardless of this town’s gossip mill, Maddox and I aren’t even together.”
Chase smirks and the toothpick between his lips bob. He’s insanely attractive, but I’ve never—and would never—fuck him. I’ve had enough of Whittakers lately, and he’s basicallyWhittaker-adjacent. “Can’t call it gossip if I’m hearing it straight from a close personal source.”
“Well you and your close personal source can mind your business,” I tell him, slamming the water cup on the bar. Over half of it sloshes out the top, but Chase isn’t phased by it, simply pulling his hand back to wipe it dry on his Wranglers.
“I’ll let her know you said that,” he says with a wink, grabbing the cup and walking away.
The real reason I’d never fuck Chase Cartwright? I’m pretty fucking scared of Bailey Whittaker, if I’m being honest. I’d bet every last dime I don’t even have that she’s his source.
FORTY-ONE
MADDOX
I’ll never fallin love again. It sounds dramatic as fuck, and I halfway want to turn the brand I’m using on the new horses on myself instead. It wouldn’t exactly raise eyebrows. A lot of cowboys had brands from their ranch—Colt, for example. Granted, those were done with hot irons and this one was being dipped in liquid nitrogen, but I’m sure it’d do what I needed it to do. Normally, I wouldn’t consider something so stupid, but I also normally wouldn’t let myself chase the skirt of a woman who clearly didn’t want me.
For thirty-two years, I’ve avoided shit like this. I’ve had occasional girlfriends and submissives, and I’ve cared about them, but I’ve never loved them. It was rare enough that I found someone I was interested in sharing a bed with, and Austin was the first person I’ve ever felt the need to ignore my responsibilities for and chase.
When Kenny pulled up after brunch without Austin’s pickup rolling in behind her, stomping up the stairs of the Big House and slamming the door behind her, I gathered that I wouldn’t be seeing my red-haired spitfire again today. When my texts and calls went unanswered, I figured she was just throwing a bit of a tantrum—run of the mill for us, even if it was exhausting.
But Kenny was crying when I went up to the house for lunch and she couldn’t even look me in the eye. It didn’t take a college degree to figure out something had gone wrong during their brunch, and Austin’s silence suddenly made a lot more sense to me. If I’d driven a wedge between them, she wasn’t throwing a tantrum. She was probably done with me.
My texts start going undelivered and my call goes straight to voicemail, telling me she’s turned her phone off, so I decide to work today after all. Hence the mare in front of me and the branding iron I’m considering using on myself just to have something on my mind other than Austin Taylor.
“Are you planning on branding the horse before she gets pissed off or is Tyler gonna get to try his hand at bronc riding today?”
“Tyler ain’t trying his hand at shit regardless of how long your brother stares at the damn brand,” he answers Tate before looking at me. “Even I can tell it’s ready, boss.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, jerking my chin at Tyler to let him know to brace himself and the mare.
In the few seconds it takes to set the brand, Tatum does her magic at the mare’s head, cooing praise and petting her while Tyler holds his boot against her hoof and keeps her steady against the stable wall.
Freeze-branding doesn’t hurt anywhere near as bad as a hot iron, but this is one of the newer horses that Jameson bought back at the end of March. We have limited information on what may cause her to panic, so it’s always best to be careful, though Tate assured me the mare didn’t need to be put in a chute for it. I trust my sister’s opinions on horses more than anyone else in the world, even cowboys three times her age who’ve been doing this their whole lives. She just has a way with them and always has.
She was right, as she almost always is, and the horse’s ears barely twitched back through the fifteen seconds the brand sat against her hindquarters. Tyler counts under his breath for me,helping ensure I don’t leave it too long and risk hurting the horse.
“Fifteen,” he says, louder than the numbers before it, and I pull the brand away.
“Good girl, Calamity,” Tatum coos and I huff, setting the brand back down in the liquid nitrogen tank.
“We’re not calling her that.”
