Thank God for the towel.
6
Warner
My truck slows to stop in front of the homestead. I’m just about to hop out when something small and round rolls across the passenger floorboard and gets stuck under a book. I reach for it, tossing the paperback on the passenger seat and examining the small metal tube in my hand.
Mango flavored lip balm?
Must be Peyton’s, though I don’t recall buying it for her. It probably fell from her backpack when she’d grabbed it out of the front seat just now. She’d been in a rush, the first bell ringing just as we pulled up in front of school.
Or maybe it’s Morgan’s. It could’ve fallen from her purse when I gave her a ride yesterday.
I’d put the woman out of my mind the second I climbed back into my truck and got on the highway to Sierra Grande. Or, I attempted to, anyway. It wasn’t easy, not with my fingers still tasting of that spicy sweet candy and my truck smelling like her. It was a mix, something flowery and vanilla, and it was enough to overpower the new car smell for a little while. It wasn’t bad though. Not at all.
Twisting off the small tin lid, I bring the lip balm to my nose and sniff. Oh, yes. And this. This was definitely a part of Morgan’s scent. I don’t want to leave it in here, so I pocket it with plans to toss it in the trash at my cabin. My brothers have a habit of driving my truck around the ranch. I complained once, and my older brother Wes asked me if I wanted a tissue to wipe my crocodile tears.
He’s usually an asshole, but he’s calmed down since he married Dakota. Can’t blame the guy for his behavior before Dakota. Twelve years in the Army fucked him up. A few months ago, he told me he’s been going to PTSD group therapy, though according to him it’s really just a bunch of old broke dicks sitting around shooting the shit. His words, not mine. I don’t know what a broke dick is, but I don’t think I want to be one. Whatever he wants to call it, therapy has been about as helpful as Dakota in taming him.
Sometimes I wonder if my younger brother, Wyatt, needs something like that, minus the PTSD diagnosis. I don’t know what he’d have to be traumatized by. He lived nearly the same childhood as me, and when Wes left for the military, we grew closer. Then one day, he stopped coming home every night. Fewer family dinners at the homestead. It was like one piece of our family unit broke off and traveled parallel to us instead of with us. Anna and I were knee deep in raising two little kids by then and I didn’t have time to figure out Wyatt’s problem. I feel more guilt over that now that my kids are a little older and I have more time. Whatever bothered Wyatt seems to have had a lasting effect, because he still comes and goes at random, doing whatever the fuck it is he does. The real mystery is why the hell my parents haven’t kicked his ass into gear yet. I’d blame it on him being the baby of the family, except he’s only the youngest of us three boys.
Jessie completes the Hayden siblings, our only sister who’s far younger than us all. She’s nearing the end of her freshman year at Arizona State University. When it comes to her, I like to stick my head in the sand and pretend she’s an angel, though that couldn’t be further from the truth. She’s always had a wildness about her, and I thank God every day that Peyton seems to be her aunt Jessie’s polar opposite. I’d be dead of a heart attack before forty if my little girl were like my wild sister. There’s a reason we call her Calamity Jessie, and it’s not because she’s meek or mild. I think having three big brothers made her tough and bold.
My palm brushes the tin of mango lip balm tucked into my pocket as I walk into my parent’s house, and I picture the woman on the roadside in the middle of nowhere. That fully restored ’76 Bronco, painted deep green with a black Bimini top, is a vintage car enthusiast’s wet dream. And driven by a beautiful woman? Probably just about every red-blooded straight man’s fantasy.
I’ll admit to having thought of Morgan a handful of times since waking up this morning. Not only was she beyond attractive, but she looked familiar.
Now it’s time to put the mysterious, gorgeous stranger out of my mind. Wes hates when I show up distracted, and since he’s pretty much running the ranch now, he’s technically my boss and won’t hesitate to kick my ass. Figuratively. In the literal sense, we’re a good match for each other.
Entering the ring with him might be something that happens sooner than later. Once he finds out what I’ve been up to, he’s going to lose his shit. He depends on me. I’m the steady, the constant, the brother who has been here at the Hayden Cattle Company his whole life. I didn’t serve in the military like Wes, or fuck off like Wyatt. I was the de facto head of the next generation until Wes returned. I was happy to relinquish my role to the firstborn, and it still surprises me that nobody asked one simple question: why?
Nobody in their right mind would think a man could step away from the role I’d occupied for years, unless of course he didn’t want it in the first place.
I love the ranch, don’t get me wrong. I love her beauty, her curves, the way it takes a whole crew of men to handle her. She is brutal and unforgiving, but generous.
I love her, but there is more out there for me. And when Wes finds out, we may come to blows. It wouldn’t be the first time. It probably won’t be the last.
But that is for another day. Right now, all I need is a fresh cup of coffee and then I’ll get on with the morning’s chores.
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise when I find Wes in the kitchen. “Late start this morning?” I ask him, but I don’t for one second think that’s the case. The man couldn’t sleep in if he tried.
He shakes his head. “Refueling,” he says, lifting his mug into the air.
I flash him a wicked grin. “Up late last night?”
He gives me a hard look, not one muscle in his face twitching. He doesn’t tolerate any mention of Dakota in a sexual capacity, be it joke or innuendo. I had a lot of fun with that before he admitted he liked her. Wes makes it too easy for me to push his buttons.
“I remember those early days of marriage.” I sidestep him and reach for the carafe of hot coffee. “It’s like being drugged. You can’t keep your hands off each other. Even better than when you started dating, because somehow her being your wife makes her even sexier.”
Wes grunts in either agreement or acknowledgment, which is as good as I’m going to get, and I’m fine with that. He sips his coffee and stares at me. “You seem chipper for someone who’s been a dickhead since I got married.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it, asshole,” I mutter, a twinge of resentment curling in my stomach. Anna served me divorce papers right before Wes and Dakota’s wedding. I was less-than-pleasant to be around that weekend, and not-so-great since.
I lean back against the kitchen counter and glance out the kitchen window. The morning sun bathes everything in a soft, creamy gold. As it climbs higher, it will grow in intensity. I used to arrive on the ranch earlier than this, but that was back before Anna left. We had a house in town, and I drove out here for work every day. Now the kids are with me most of the time and we live in the big cabin a half mile from here. My workday begins after I take them to school and drive back out here.