Heart of a Cowboy

by Kristin Vayden

  Especially if Jack’s only living relatives were anything like he’d described.

  Death really sucked.

  Chapter 2

  Cyler Myer tapped his pen on his pickup dashboard, watching as they lifted one of the frames into position. The house was coming along nicely, and even nicer would be the payout when this subdivision was fully established. It would sell quickly, just like his other three. It had taken years, sleepless nights, and scraping every last penny together, but he’d made it. His construction company. His design. His success.

  And he hadn’t needed one cent from Jack.

  And he sure as hell didn’t need his approval either.

  Speak of the devil, as Cyler’s phone buzzed, Jack’s name lit up the screen.

  It was a satisfying feeling, rejecting the call and tossing the phone aside to the passenger side. Let him leave a message.

  One he wouldn’t listen to.

  He was just about to drive on to the next project when his phone buzzed again.

  Jack.

  Ignoring it, he threw the truck into drive and started down the gravel road, kicking up dust behind him. As the next project came into view, his phone buzzed again. He glanced over, expecting to see Jack’s name. Odd that he’d call three times in a row when they hadn’t spoken in years, but it wasn’t his name that lit up the screen. It was a random number, and Cyler swiped to answer. “CC Homes.”

  He put the truck in park just before another house.

  “Hello…son.”

  The voice haunted him, filling him with both anger and bitterness. “What the hell do you want?” He bit out each word.

  “There’s something I have to tell you.” Jack sounded old, nothing like the pain in the ass that he’d always been. And as much as he wanted to throw the phone out the window, he paused, listening.

  “Well?”

  “Well…it’s like this. I’ve got three months, and I’d like to say I’m sorry before I don’t have that chance anymore.”

  His words echoed in Cyler’s head, and he replayed them before answering.

  “Three months, huh?” He glanced down at the brown leather seat.

  “Yup, cancer. And I’d like for you to come home. If you can.”

  Cyler pinched the edge of his nose. “No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that, Dad.” He spat the name. “And quite honestly, three months is still too long for me. You said you’re sorry. I listened. Let’s just be done.” At least this time it’s final.

  “I see.”

  “Unlikely, but okay. You have a good three months.” He ended the call and closed his eyes. He was justified in hating the old coot. But part of him whispered that even though Jack deserved it, he shouldn’t have treated the old man that way.

  Regardless, it was a moot point anyway. Three months wasn’t long, and soon enough, it wouldn’t matter.

  As he got out of the car and walked toward the construction zone, he mentally started a countdown.

  Ninety days left.

  And soon Jackson Myer would answer for everything.

  May he rot in hell.

  As the day progressed, Cyler kept pushing thoughts of Jack to the back of his mind. Evening came and went, and as he lay down to sleep, he stared at the ceiling, till finally he couldn’t take it any longer. Glancing to the clock, he groaned.

  4:00 a.m.

  Damn it.

  Cyler rolled over, the rustling noise waking him up even further, if possible. He’d never had an issue falling asleep, but tonight…tonight he had simply watched one minute pass after the other.

  He refused to believe it was because of Jack’s confession.

  Ha.

  That was comical. As if the man would ever admit to being wrong. Cyler breathed a humorless laugh. Even as he was facing death, Jack had used it as emotional collateral to get what he wanted.

  Well, it wouldn’t work. Cyler laid his head deep into the pillow, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, pushing—shoving—every thought of Jack from his mind.

  But just as he’d started to feel slightly peaceful, another question would tease his mind, and he’d be fully alert once more. Damn, this sucks.

  “Why the hell would he want me back there anyway?” he mumbled, rubbing his hand down his face, his shadow of a beard rasping against his palm.

  It was strange as hell, asking for him to come home. After all, Jack was the one who’d told him to never set foot on the property again, not that he’d ever intended to, not after—

  He stopped the thoughts in their tracks. He couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t go there. It was a dark place he was still recovering from.

  He rolled over once more, only this time, it was to reach for the remote. With a click, the screen lit the room with blue light before the news started. Frustrated, he rose from the bed and stalked to the bathroom. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start working.

  His job had been his salvation, his motivation; it had rescued him before, and he was betting it would save him again. As the business grew, he’d found himself doing more paperwork than manual labor. Some would appreciate the break, but he missed it.

  Especially after nights like this past one. As he started the shower, he waited for the room to start filling with steam. After tossing his boxers in the laundry basket, he stepped into the water, his tight muscles slowly relaxing under the hot temperature. He braced the wall with his hands, leaning into the pressure, letting the water travel down his head and back, pouring off him. Forcing himself to not think, he focused on the heat.

  Soap in hand, he made quick work of getting clean, never once trying to scrub the stained calluses on his palms. It was a losing battle, trying to make them look clean. Even with the increase in paperwork, his calluses were still deep, and he was proud of them.

  Never forget where you came from.

  Don’t think of yourself as better than others.

  He gave a humorless chuckle. He certainly didn’t learn any of those ideals from Jack.

  “Damn it.” He growled as he turned off the shower. Shaking the excess water from his head, he angrily dried himself off. Why in the hell couldn’t he just let this go?

  It’s not like the old man ever cared about me. I shouldn’t care about him either.

  Just as he finished the thought, he paused, and for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, something actually made sense.

  Jack hadn’t ever been successful in the one thing he wanted—for Cyler to be just like him.

  And this was proof.

  Suddenly, having half a heart didn’t look so bad.

  Rather, he was thankful for it, because it meant that in spite of Jack’s best efforts, he’d failed.

  Damn. He probably didn’t even want him showing up, just wanted to sound good saying it.

  That made a hell of a lot more sense than actually wanting him around. A smile tickled his lips as he wondered just what the old man would do if he actually did show up.

  Probably die from shock.

  Talk about temptation.

  As Cyler dressed, he glanced to his old duffle bag, hiding in the bottom of the closet. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering it.

  Going back.

  The memories would be like ghosts, and he wasn’t sure he could deal with that. But on the other hand, it would be a sweet revenge, doing the unexpected and being a thorn in the man’s side. He deserved far more, and showing up didn’t mean he forgave Jack.

  Hell no.

  The wounds were far too deep, the blood far too bad. What kind of a man would sleep with his son’s fiancée? What type of man would use it as leverage to hurt his wife enough that she’d finally sign the divorce papers?

  What kind of a man would then run off with his son’s now ex-fiancée to Mexico, only to arrive six months later and act as if noth
ing had happened?

  As if Cyler’s world hadn’t completely burned to ashes.

  As if Cyler’s mom, Leslie, hadn’t drunk herself to death shortly after the divorce finalized.

  No. There would be no forgiving Jack, and he deserved far worse than three months of cancer condemning him.

  Cyler ran his fingers through his damp hair, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking. Was it worth it? Seeing the devil himself again, just to get some sort of revenge?

  Taking a deep breath, he filled the duffle bag, telling himself he would only be gone for only a day. Surely, he could do some damage in just twenty-four hours.

  One night, maybe.

  If Jack didn’t die from shock first.

  His chest constricted with both anticipation and cold fear at what the next day could hold. But one thing was utterly true.

  Revenge could be sweet, especially when it was completely unexpected.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, Laken blinked awake, the movement reminding her of when sand had once blown in her eyes. She glanced at an old Seahawks poster, focusing on the yellowed edges. It was a decidedly masculine room with football trophies, blue tones, and even old clothes in the closet, but no pictures. If she were betting, it was probably exactly as Cyler had left it, whenever that had been.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d moved into someone’s old room, but this time felt different. Usually when a parent kept a room exactly as a child had left it, it was because they’d never really let go, or they’d had to let go too soon because the child had passed. As she replayed yesterday’s phone conversation between Jack and Cyler, she was even more confused.

  Ideally she’d have taken the guest room, but it was located at the back of the house. She’d never hear Jack if he needed her. But Cyler’s room was directly across the living room from the master suite, so if Jack kept his door open, she could hear if he started a coughing fit or worse.

  It was part of the job, being available when the patient needed help most. Night was usually that time, meaning Laken had become very fond of taking naps. At night, the body would wind down, and if the day had been particularly taxing, this could lead to complications. Cancer patients had a hard time falling asleep. Their bodies being so fatigued from the internal fight and the various drugs they were taking all took their toll. Add in an emotional event, and sleep usually didn’t happen.

  Which is exactly what had happened last night. Jack had been up coughing, requiring more breathing treatments to simply relax his lungs. Once he finally agreed to sleep meds, it was four in the morning. She rolled to her side and picked up her phone from the dark wood nightstand. Six-thirty.

  Two-and-a-half hours of sleep. Today would be a nap day for sure. But first, coffee—copious amounts of coffee—preferably not made by Jack. The guy loved his coffee black and stronger than anything she’d ever tasted. She gave a quiet huff. It was probably exactly what she needed, but it didn’t sound appetizing at all. She thought of how Starbucks was just a ten-minute drive. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation of the thought, and she sat up in bed, slid her feet out quietly and arched her back in a stretch. After yawning, she padded over to the suitcase she had packed and pulled out some fresh clothes. As she stepped into the hall, she heard Jack’s snoring, and with a smile she went into the guest bathroom and clicked the door shut.

  Dear Lord.

  Laken looked rough. Her blond hair was in a tangled mess from when she’d put it up in a messy bun the night before. Tugging the band free, she tossed a few hairs into the trash and mercilessly brushed it out. After quickly braiding it, she put on a swipe of mascara, calling it good. She brushed her teeth and dressed, then tiptoed out of the bathroom, the sound of Jack’s snoring still coming from his room. He’d easily sleep for at least another hour.

  As she exited through the kitchen door, she jumped slightly when the coffee maker beeped and started to brew its scheduled morning pot. With a quick glare at the thick black sludge pouring into the clear carafe, she closed the door and walked to her car. She sent a quick text to Kessed, saying she was coming in for her fix.

  The air was already warm, but the dry heat gave it a crisp feel that only the desert mornings could bring. Laken cast a glance to the faded red barn. Jack had a mare boarded there, and she almost made a detour to say good morning to the chestnut horse. Jack had mentioned the mare’s soft spot for sugar cubes, and Laken had readily snuck her favorite treat outside more than once. But the siren call of coffee overpowered the impulse to pet the horse’s velvet nose. Crickets chirped as she slid into the driver’s seat and started up the Honda. Her phone beeped with Kessed’s reply, saying she would have it ready.

  Soon she was driving into the barely waking town of Ellensburg. She parked beside an oversized Chevy pickup and slid out of her door, using caution not to dent the overly close truck. The parking lot was notoriously small, and large rigs took up more than their share. Only slightly irritated, she walked into the coffee shop, the warm aroma of the brew wrapping around her like a quilt on a cold day. Immediately energized by the scent alone, she grinned as she saw her friend.

  “Hey beautiful!”

  Giving a small wave, Laken almost cried tears of joy when Kessed held out a coffee cup toward her, a knowing grin on her face.

  “You’re just saying that since I’m your dealer for your drug of choice.” Kessed grinned, swiping her espresso colored hair over her shoulder. Green eyes curved up into half-moons from her wide smile.

  “Bless you,” Laken whispered, taking the offered cup and inhaling deeply. “You’re so handsome.” She whimpered at the beautiful black contents.

  “Yeah, you’re going too far with the coffee-lover thing. It’s getting weird.” Kessed rolled her eyes as she rang up Laken’s order. With a furtive glance to the side, she leaned forward slightly. “And believe me, your coffee has nothing on that over there.” She flicked her glance to the right then back, arching a dark eyebrow.

  Laken resisted the urge to glance over; rather, she pulled out her phone and scanned the app. “I need a mobile Starbucks,” Laken murmured, her gaze returning to Kessed.

  “What? Am I not good enough for you? Seriously. You don’t even have to order. Some people are so lazy.” Kessed’s eyes flicked back to the right for a moment before fixing on Laken.

  “I guess that will have to do.” Laken sighed, earning an eye roll from her friend. “Ok, I gotta go. But I’ll text you later.”

  Kessed saluted, her grin anything but innocent. Laken ignored her and turned to leave. Taking a step toward the door, she scanned the room, curious as to what Kessed had referred to earlier. Coffee sloshed as she almost tripped. The guy looked like Scott Eastwood, only broader in the shoulders and with bluer eyes. Lips twisting into a smile, she couldn’t help staring, but she tried to pass her gawking as a friendly hello, so she waved. Ugh, lame.

  He nodded once, holding her stare for a moment then turned to his coffee, playing with the sleeve and rotating it around the cup as if anxious. He turned his attention to the window, and she noticed how his shoulders held their shape, as if overly tense. Not wanting to pry, she glanced away and walked toward the door. But before it swung closed, she cast one more glance behind her, meeting his blue gaze. She sucked in a startled breath, and walked to her car, pulling out her phone.

  Laken: Uh, whoa. You were right. He gives my coffee some serious competition.

  The little bubble popped up as she slipped into her car.

  Kessed: Dibs.

  Laughter shook her shoulders slightly as she rolled her eyes.

  Laken: Fine. But if he has a brother…

  Kessed: You got it.

  Laken: Enjoy the view.

  Kessed: Believe me, I am.

  Laken started the car and slowly backed from the parking lot then drove back to Jack’s ranch, grinning the whole way.

  Jac
k wasn’t in the same kind of cheerful mood when she arrived. He was sitting on the front porch with his coffee mug as she drove up. Feeling guilty about her Starbucks run and the fact that she hadn’t brought him anything, she debated between leaving the cup in the car and taking it.

  Screw guilt. She needed coffee.

  “Good morning!” she called out cheerfully.

  Jack glared.

  “Aren’t you sweetness and light today?” Laken teased as she took the seat beside him, taking a sip of her black Pike Place brew.

  “Traitor.” He nodded to her cup and arched a brow, a grin teasing his whiskery cheek.

  “Just feeding my addiction. The heart wants what it wants.”

  “My coffee ain’t good enough for you?” he asked, taking a long sip from his cup.

  “Jack, I’m not woman enough for your coffee.” She shook her head teasingly.

  He gave a chuckle. “You tried. That’s more than most men will do.”

  “What can I say? My heart belongs to Starbucks.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Never could stand the stuff.”

  “Take it back!” Laken gasped, jokingly.

  “Nope. The heart wants what it wants.” He tossed the words back at her. “Mine likes my own coffee, thank you kindly.”

  Laken rolled her eyes. “To each his own.”

  After a few moments of silence, she asked, “How did you do after the different sleep medication?” It was important to know for future reference.

  “It was fine. I still don’t like it, but it did help me sleep a spell, so that’s good, I guess. I kinda feel like a Mac truck hit me this mornin’ though.” He gave his head a quick shake.

  “Gotta love sleep deprivation.” Laken raised her white and green cup in a toast.

  “We’re not all young like you, honey.” Jack chuckled, but also raised his mug.

  “I’m young, and I hate missing sleep, so I can’t even imagine how you feel. Did the coughing subside after that last treatment?” She knew it had but needed to know how it felt to Jack. Just because a treatment or medicine was good didn’t mean it was necessarily effective for that patient. Odd side effects happened sometimes; it was never wise to just assume the drug did exactly what it was supposed to do.