“‘Fraid not, but”—Nash leaned against Patrick’s fist, who could feel Nash’s heart thump through his chest—“I know you like it.”
Patrick wet his lips, stomach twistin’ into knots from how close they were. What was he so scared for? Wasn’t like anybody could see them. Ain’t nobody for miles and miles. Closest neighbor was a fifteen minute drive. And with it being the dead of night, no visitors were bound to roll up unexpectedly.
“You’re a real sonofabitch, you know?” Patrick breathed. “I can’t fuckin’ stand you, Nash Colby.”
“Maybe you should get on your knees then,” Nash taunted.
Patrick’s body burned in all sorts of ways. His thoughts were a mess, and his stomach wouldn’t stop knottin’ tighter. He shoved Nash backwards, hopin’ the distance would make it easier to think. To breathe. Nash got his balance before he landed on his ass, never droppin’ his cigarette. Patrick watched Nash bring the butt of it to his lips and take a long, slow drag. The cherry glowed red against the dark night. Nash dropped it to the ground while blowin’ out enough smoke to rival a chimney then crushed the cigarette beneath the heel of his ratty cowboy boots.
Patrick wished he could do the same to his thoughts. Thinkin’ ‘bout another man the way he thought ‘bout Nash wasn’t right.But, damn it, if Nash Colby wasn’t the prettiest li’l thing Patrick had ever laid eyes on.
Nash walked up to Patrick. The mischievous sparkle was gone from those deep brown eyes, replaced by a coldness that froze Patrick in place. Nash grabbed Patrick by the front of his coat, yankin’ him forward so they were no more than a few centimeters apart. “Look here,cowboy, you can smart off and talk big all you like. But you ain’t about to push me ‘round, you got that?”
Every memory of being grabbed up like that rushed to the forefront of Patrick’s mind. Old ranch hands tellin’ him to grow a pair, men down at Broken Spoke hollerin’ in his face to stay away from their girl. “You best let go of me.”
“Or what? You’re nothin’ but talk. Ain’t a lick of fight in that big ole body of yours. All that muscle is good for is haulin’ feed and lookin’ pretty.”
Patrick went to grab Nash again, but he was smaller and quicker on his feet. Patrick hit his knees before he could even comprehend what happened. Pain radiated up through his thighs from the sudden, harsh impact. Nash stood behind Patrick with a foot on either side of Patrick’s legs and a hand fistin’ his hair. Nash pulled Patrick’s hair, forcin’ him to tilt his head back 'til he was lookin’ straight up at Nash. The position, as humiliatin’ as it was, stirred somethin’ inside Patrick that made his jeans tight.
“Like I said, you ain’t pushin’ me around, cowboy. I’ll take the occasional slap on the head or quick lipped comment, but you ain’t gonna start nothin’ with me that you can’t finish. You understand?”
A near instinctual desire to sayyes sirbubbled up inside Patrick almost as if his entire being knew it was in his favor to roll over and show his belly. The same feelin’ he used to get whenhe was scolded by the older ranch hands for doin’ something wrong or for tearin’ up on the job.
Nash yanked on Patrick’s hair when he didn’t answer, causin’ him to suck in a sharp breath and clench his teeth. “Cat got your tongue, cowboy?” Nash leaned down, a wicked grin curlin’ the corners of his fine pink lips. “Or are you not used to bein’ put in your place?”
Patrick bit his tongue. A side of him wanted to finish the fight he half-assed started. To prove he wasn’t all hot air. But another part of him—one he pretended didn’t exist and did his best to forget—ached to submit. Submission had been beaten into him as a child then criticized as softness as he got older. Women didn’t like soft men. Softness was weakness, and Patrick worked too damn hard to not be seen as such, just to play coward the minute someone bested him.
The tension on Patrick’s scalp disappeared, and the warmth from Nash’s close body vanished. Patrick’s stomach dropped, panic quickly floodin’ his mind and silencin’ any other thought. His chest felt tight like it was lassoed by someone who was pullin’ the rope tighter. Nash stepped in front of Patrick then crouched so they were eye to eye, his eyebrows drawn together. His face softened, and he reached towards Patrick, causin’ him to flinch. “Hey,” Nash murmured, gently cuppin’ Patrick’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Patrick blinked hard and fast only to realize the reason for Nash’s concern was because he was cryin’ like a baby. Patrick cleared his throat and swiped at his face, pushin’ Nash’s hand away in the process. “‘M fine.”
“Are you—”
“I said I’m fine,” Patrick snapped.
Nothin’ felt right inside. Everythin’ was a twisted up tangled mess and too damn much to try to figure out with Nash right there, looking the way he did with his pretty brown eyes alltender-like and his golden hair fallin’ just right. God damn it all, why didn’t Patrick’s father listen when he said not to hire nobody? Patrick could’ve handled the ranch by himself. Then he would’ve never met Nash or thought ‘bout him in ways a man shouldn’t think ‘bout other men. He wouldn’t have to confront the fact that despite how hard he’d tried to get away from the wretchedcrybabynickname it was stuck to him like cowshit on the bottom of his boot.
Patrick got to his feet, keepin’ his eyes down to avoid lookin’ at Nash because he knew the minute he did, he’d start squallin’ again. The last thing he wanted was to give Nash the reason why Patrick was called Baby. All he wanted was to be left alone to sort himself out. Nash didn’t say a word when Patrick started towards the house, but deep down, somewhere in the middle of all the confusion inside, Patrick wished Nash had.
4
Patrick didn’t love horses if he was bein’ honest, found them temperamental and stubborn as all hell, but after the disaster that was last night, he couldn’t say no when Nash asked to go ridin’. They layered up then headed out to the barn to prep the horses. There were only four on the ranch. They belonged to Patrick’s mama when she did barrel racin’ before she broke her hip and threw in the towel. They were paints with gorgeous coats, but none of ‘em liked Patrick all that much. They allowed him to clean their stalls and brush ‘em without much fuss, but they preferred Patrick’s mama. Probably always would.
He missed her visits to the ranch. As she got older and the cold bothered her hip more and more, her visits decreased 'til she stopped comin’ all together durin’ the winter. Patrick didn’t blame her though. He knew how much it gutted her not to visit him in the long bitter months. She did her best to make up for it when it warmed up: stayed on the ranch, cooked, took care of whatever household chores didn’t put any strain on herhip. Patrick and his father were both thankful when she stayed, Patrick especially. He was a mama’s boy at heart.
Nash placed his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, sendin’ a spark through his body that made him jump. “Ready, cowboy?”
“As ready as I can be. I told you I don’t go ridin’ often.”
“It’s all muscle memory. Get that stick out of your ass and let’s go.”
Nash patted Patrick on the shoulder then went over to a black and white paint named Minx. Patrick ducked his head as he frowned. He didn’t understand how Nash could act so casual after last night, like nothin’ happened. Maybe it was better to pretend it hadn’t. Patrick was good at that, had been since he was a young’un.
He hauled himself on to the back of Colt, a brown and white paint, and settled into the saddle. Hopin’ the ride would help clear his mind, Patrick led them out of the stables and towards the mornin’ horizon. He took in a deep, lung-stingin’ breath, holding the cold air in his chest long enough to hurt, then exhaled slowly.
Nash trotted up next to Patrick then had Minx match Colt’s pace. “See, just like ridin’ a bike.”
“I reckon. Just don’t ride much anymore cuz of my mama.” The words tumbled from Patrick’s mouth before he could stop them. He looked off to the side and cleared his throat. “She, uh, broke her hip. Can’t ride anymore.”
