Slamming the door, he got back into the truck, drove through the gate, got out, and repeated the process. Remembering the tender scene he’d walked in on between Tyler and Emily just that morning had been like taking a ball-peen hammer to his breastbone. He had frozen, unable to look away while Tyler slid his fingertips around the back of Emily’s throat, brushing his thumbs along the line of her jaw. The beauty of Emily’s surrender, as she leaned toward Tyler and lifted her lips, had had Dylan’s heart pounding.
He’d been in a trance until Tyler slid the palm of his hand down the length of Emily’s spine to cup her curvy backside.
Jealousy had hit him hard and deep, raking its claws along his nerve endings, breaking the spell. Without a sound, he backed up and walked out the front door rather than intrude on the lovers.
Raw and aching from the two-day hard-on Ronnie had caused, he slammed and damned his way into the house. Not caring if he woke anybody… not caring if they needed their sleep. What about him? He needed sleep, and damn it all, he needed someone to care about him too.
Jealous much? “Yeah. Damn woman’s got me tangled up and tied in knots.” You just need to take a ride into Mesquite—relieve some of that tension so you can focus on your job at the ranch—and the one rebuilding Ronnie’s store.
He took off his Stetson and tossed it on the kitchen table, and the image of rose-dusted skin glistening in the moonlight sliced through him. The witchy woman with the raven hair lying on the rough wood farm table smugly smiled up at him, licked her lips, and opened her arms.
“Fuck me.” Dylan scrubbed his hands over his face, afraid to look back at the table for fear that the glorious vision would either be gone or beckoning him to shuck his jeans and take what she offered.
“Coward.” The table was empty but for the hat he’d tossed on it. “Crazy,” he grumbled. “Plumb loco.”
Shaking his head at his wild imagination, ignoring the bulge behind his button-fly jeans, he stalked through the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs, chastising himself the whole way for giving into his twisted need to watch his older brother and his girlfriend. Hell, he hadn’t done that since Tyler was fourteen and Dylan thirteen—and horny as a three-peckered goat.
He paused reaching for the doorknob. Now wasn’t that an image, a goat with three— “Jesus… I’m certifiable.” Dylan opened the door and flicked on the light. It bathed his room in a soft glow for a moment before he heard an odd pop and the room went dark. “Figures.” He didn’t keep a stock of light bulbs in his bedroom and he sure as hell wasn’t going back downstairs to rummage around in the kitchen drawers to find one.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, pulled off his boots and socks, and then stood to shuck off his jeans and strip off his shirt. He didn’t need to worry about boxers; he’d forgotten to do the laundry, so he didn’t have any clean pairs left.
He grinned as he hit the sack. It sure as hell saved time getting dressed in the morning.
Lying on his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Sleep eluded him, but the image of Ronnie tilting her head back and licking her lips haunted him.
“Damn… maybe she really is a witch.”
Chapter 5
Dylan woke with a start. Whatever or whoever had interrupted his sleep was going to die a slow and pain-filled death. He rolled over and groaned. “Jesse, what the hell is your problem?”
His brother shrugged. “I’m hungry. When are we gonna get some of that home-cooking Emily promised?”
Dylan’s brain was still foggy from lack of sleep. “Emily’s cooking for us?”
Jesse glared at his brother. “No, she promised that her friend would be cooking for us in exchange for you repairing her store, or did I dream all of that?”
The youngest Garahan looked like he’d been in a wreck out on I-635—again. Dylan rubbed his hands over his face, hoping it’d help clear his mind. It didn’t, but a gallon of coffee might. “You want to talk about it?”
When his brother shrugged again, Dylan realized it would be a long time before Jesse would be able to get past the reality of Lori getting remarried to her loser ex-husband. With a heartfelt sigh, he admitted that women were more trouble than they were worth.
On the heels of that thought was an image of Ronnie… naked in the moonlight spread out like a feast on the farm table in their kitchen. Holy hell, he had it bad. Women—definitely trouble.
Jesse turned to walk away, but Dylan was already out of bed following him. “Jess, you gotta get it out of your system.”
The pain in his younger brother’s eyes cut him deep. He knew exactly how Jesse felt. He’d been there until Tyler had had a Garahan heart-to-heart with him—which translated to fist-to-jaw, but it worked. After they beat the tar out of each other, Dylan had started talking, purging the hurt from his soul.
Knowing Jesse, he would keep it inside until they were ready to kill him. Even though he liked beating on his brothers, they’d never broken any serious bones—just a nose or two… or three.
Jesse turned his back on Dylan and walked out the door. Dylan tripped on his boots and slammed his shoulder into the doorjamb. “Damn it.” His brother didn’t turn around, just kept walking. If Jesse made it outside, he’d have to chase him down in order to beat on him. Dylan was tired, grouchy, and needed a damn cup of coffee.
“Hey, wait up!”
His brother kept walking, never looking back. It was like he was in a trance, following a voice only his brother could hear, and it scared the crap out of Dylan. “Jesse, don’t make me chase after you.”
“Got work to do.”
“I thought you were hungry?”
“Changed my mind.” From the way his brother picked up the pace, he didn’t want anybody stopping him. Well, that was too damned bad. If Dylan had to be brotherly and pick a fight with Jesse to get him to talk, then that’s what he’d have to do. “Damn,” he said staring at the coffeepot.
Watching out the window, he saw which direction Jesse rode off in, filing it away for later. If he was going pick a fight with his brother, he needed to be awake enough to do it. Pouring a cup, he started thinking about why men were attracted to females who didn’t want them back.
Perverse. “Yeah, Grandpa, I know.” Reaching for the sugar, he bumped his cup, spilling hot coffee on his thigh. “Damn that’s hot!” His leg was beet red and throbbing. “I know, I know,” he said looking up at the ceiling. “I should have put my damned pants on.”
Oddly, his grandfather’s voice was silent. No sarcastic comments rang in his head. Just as well; he needed to focus on catching up to his brother, but if he didn’t step it up, he’d be even further behind.
Dylan didn’t start his morning without eating unless it was an emergency. Looking down at his leg, he figured he’d live. He should probably put cold water on it, but he kept remembering the pain in his brother’s dark eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. Dylan remembered the pain, remembered the hurt.
He grabbed two apples from the bowl on the counter and a banana from the hanging basket by the window and set them on the table. Running for the stairs, he took them two at a time. He was dressed and back downstairs inside of six minutes. Grabbing the fruit, he shoved his Stetson on his head and shoved the back door open so hard it slammed twice before closing.
He inhaled the banana and was halfway through the apple when he got to the barn. A soft whicker let him know that his horse caught the scent of apple. He smiled. Wildfire was one of his favorite cutting horses, a sorrel American Quarter Horse. He snickered thinking about the cowboys that trained to ride in rodeos; they might think they knew what riding a good cutting horse was all about, but he rode one every day. He and Wildfire worked the ranch and cut steer out of the herd when they needed to, whether it was to vaccinate them, castrate them, or sort them getting ready to go to market.
Walking toward the stall where his horse waited, he grinned. “You think I’m gonna give you this other apple?” Smart horse that he was, Wildfire nudged Dylan’s h
and while he pulled out his pocketknife and cut it into quarters. The horse whickered again, impatiently waiting until Dylan offered him his treat.
Wildfire munched while Dylan got the tack he needed and then went through his normal routine, checking the animal’s legs and hooves before tossing the saddle blanket on Wildfire’s back and smoothing it out. When he was twelve, he hadn’t been as careful and had ended up causing one of his grandfather’s horses to have a raw spot where the blanket had been folded beneath the saddle. He’d actually felt the horse’s pain when he saw the damage he’d caused. He never made that mistake again.
He led his horse out of the barn, put his foot in the stirrup, and settled into the saddle, the motion smooth and fluid, and second nature to him. He’d been riding since before he could walk. With the gentle pressure of his thighs, he guided his mount in the direction he’d seen Jesse ride.
Half an hour later, he caught up to his brother. Working silently, they got down to the business of checking the herd and making sure the water supply in the south pasture was available. When the herd was grazing on the east side of their ranch, they didn’t have to worry about water; there was a river that ran through their land.
Garahans had fought and died over that water. But in the end, they’d kept their water rights, and no one had tried to wrest control of it from them again. He shook his head. The things you remember when your body’s beyond tired and your mind’s working on autopilot.
When Jesse pulled up alongside of him, Dylan let his gaze slide to the left. He didn’t want his brother to think he was plotting on how best to knock him out of the saddle… his little brother had a hair-trigger temper and might just get the jump on him.
Riding along in silence, he figured they were far enough away not to spook any of the cattle and took his chance. “So, you ready?”
Interest lit the darkness in his brother’s eyes a moment before Jesse launched himself out of the saddle and into his brother. They fell off their horses and hit the ground hard. Dylan’s shoulder ached like a sonofabitch, but he ignored it, getting in a few well-placed punches to his brother’s ribs.
“Shit, that hurt!”
“’Supposed to, you moron.”
Jesse retaliated with an uppercut, snapping Dylan’s head back. Now his jaw throbbed in time with his shoulder, but he didn’t let that stop him from sucker-punching Jesse. Bending over his brother, he put his hands on his knees and grinned down at him. “You ’bout ready to talk?”
“Fuck yourself, Bro.”
Dylan chuckled. “Can’t. I’m not that flexible.”
Jesse struggled not to smile. That just made Dylan more determined to get through his brother’s thick skull. “Besides, I’m kind of partial to doing it with a partner… the feminine kind.”
Instead of smiling, Jesse was now frowning. “They’re nothing but trouble.”
“Amen to that.” Dylan offered his hand and helped his brother to his feet. “But sometimes it’s worth it.”
“I thought she was.”
They saddled up and rode back to the barn. “You ever think you found the right woman?”
Dylan’s gut clenched at the thought and wondered if Jesse had meant to stab him through the heart. One look at his younger brother, and he knew it had been unintentional. “Yeah, but I was wrong.”
“I’ve been wrong twice now… with the same woman.” Jesse sighed. “Now I sound like I’m whipped.”
“Naw,” Dylan said, rubbing his hand along his sore jaw. “Just mistaken. Women’ll blind you with their soft, curvaceous forms and sweet-smelling hair.”
Jesse stared at him and finally asked, “You been blinded lately, Bro?”
Dylan’s first instinct was not to answer, but knowing how badly Jesse was hurting, he nodded. “I’ve been broadsided by the sweetest little filly with ruby-red lips and siren-green eyes.”
Jesse slowly grinned at him. “That a fact?”
“Yep.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“My last night at the Lucky Star.”
“Well, shit, Dylan. I told Jolene I wanted to work for her. Why hasn’t she called me yet?”
“Because she just hired a new guy and she’s busy teaching him the ropes.”
Jesse’s eyes gleamed. “That how you met your green-eyed filly?”
“You know it.” Dylan remembered the shocked expression on Ronnie’s face when he tossed the lasso and started to reel her in.
“She fight it?”
“Hell yeah, but in the end, she couldn’t resist my charms.”
“Right,” Jesse grumbled, stretching his arm over his head and groaning. “You probably didn’t give her a chance to say anything once you got your rope around her.”
Dylan’s smile started on the inside, warming him up. They’d beat on each other until they’d just started to feel the pain; it made everything tangled up inside of them hurt less. “How would you know?”
“Emily told me.”
A couple hundred feet from the barn, Jesse finally opened up. “I was gonna marry her.”
“I know.”
“It hurts like hell.” Jesse turned toward him and slid from the saddle. “When’s it stop?”
Dylan shrugged. “If you keep busy enough, one day, you just forget.”
Working silently, they cared for their horses. Saddles and tack stored, they rubbed down their mounts. The quiet eased the tension between the brothers. “Grandpa always said a body’d think straighter if his hands were busy.”
Jesse nodded.
Dylan tried again, “Said it was better to get it out than holding it inside to fester.”
Jesse laid his forehead against his horse’s strong neck and hooked an arm around him. His brother’s pain was alive and breathing… tangible. A stronger man would just walk away and let him sort it out, but Dylan had a soft spot for his brothers. They’d grown up leaning on one another. The death of their father hit them hard at a young age, then not even five years later, they’d lost their mother too. If not for their grandfather stepping in and riding herd on the wild-eyed preteens spoiling for a fight to happen, they’d all be in jail right now.
Well, at least Dylan would. Jesse lifted his head and continued to curry his horse, combing in long strong strokes that Dylan knew both man and horse needed. Turning back to Wildfire, he mirrored his brother’s movements, letting his mind wander. Dylan’d been twelve years old and nursing a hurt so big, only tearing down a self-destructive path buried the pain.
He snuck onto neighboring ranches and hot-wired tractors, hiding them on the rancher’s property, smiling innocently the next day when his grandfather shared the tale of yet another rancher’s tractor being stolen.
Heck, he knew that wasn’t the truth—he’d been the one doing the stealing… well, not stealing exactly… just moving the tractors from one side of the ranch to another spot, a spot guaranteed to take the rancher a day or so to find.
He grinned remembering how his grandfather had cuffed him on the back of the head and then dragged him down to have a chat with the sheriff. He’d been scared shitless and nearly passed out, but Garahans went down fighting. Prepared to do just that, he’d been surprised when his grandfather had turned up his charm and convinced the sheriff to let them visit each of the ranchers who’d had tractors stolen and offer Dylan’s services, first in locating the missing tractors and then in doing any repairs on their ranches in exchange for not pressing charges against him.
It was tough at first, but by the time they’d visited all six ranches, he’d gotten better at apologizing without sneering. Might’ve been the headache he’d developed from being smacked repeatedly in the back of his head every time his lips started to curl up. He wasn’t stupid, just stubborn… but not half as stubborn as old Patrick Henry Garahan, Hank to his close friends.
Six months later, Dylan had developed some serious carpentry skills that he’d learned to be thankful for and depend on over the years.
“…I said are you
coming?”
Dylan blinked, looked down at his hands and then over his shoulder. “Yeah. Gimme a minute.”
His brother grumbled but waited while Dylan put away his grooming tools, then fed and watered his horse. They were both moving slower than they would have if they hadn’t indulged in beating on each other, but stiff ribs, aching jaw, and sore knuckles aside, they’d both purged some of the ache twisting them into knots.
Walking from the barn to the house, they stopped at the well pump and took turns sticking their heads beneath the cold, clear, life-giving water.
“Man, Dylan,” Jesse said coming up for air, shaking his head like their old dog used to after swimming in the pond. “Remember when we were kids and Mom used to holler at us for wasting perfectly good drinking water on our hard heads?”
Dylan grinned as the memory of their mom standing on the back porch, hands on her hips, glaring at them filled him. “She sure did have a hair-trigger temper.” He turned toward his younger brother and nodded. “A lot like yours.”
Their gazes met and held. Dylan wished he could turn back time and be that little kid again. Life was simpler; times were easier. But, then, as his grandpa always told them, life wasn’t for the weakhearted. “So, you ready to spill your guts yet?”
Jesse’s eyes darkened with anger, but he finally drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m not a wimp, Dylan.”
“Is whoever said you were still standing?”
His brother snorted, trying not to laugh, but when their eyes met again, Jesse asked, “You think it’s true?”
“Garahans are not wimps.” Dylan paused. “We feel more deeply than most men—it’s our Irish hearts.”
When his brother looked out toward the clothesline, Dylan knew what he was thinking. “Some mornings, I wake up expecting to see Mom hanging out freshly washed sheets. Sometimes when I’m making up my bed with clean sheets, I hold ’em to my nose and breathe in—” Dylan paused and cleared his throat. “And I’d swear I hear her singing in my head.”
Dylan Page 8
