“What does he bet on?” Grace asked, knowing that it wasn’t exactly the point of the story, but she was curious.
“Horses.”
Crap.
That wasn’t good.
It probably didn’t help that right now the ranch was all excited about the upcoming race between Mercy and Jerry. The wranglers were even placing bets.
“If it weren't for the fact that the trailer they live in is paid for, I’d bet my father would be looking for a place to live on top of it all. I’m sure the water and electricity will probably be cut off soon.”
“What about your mom?” Lane asked when Grant was quiet for a second. “What does she have to say about it?”
“No idea. She wasn’t there. My dad said she left.”
“Like, for good?” Grace asked, her concern steadily growing as the story went on.
“Don’t know. Dad didn’t seem all that concerned. He was more interested in asking me for money. I’ve tried to call her several times, but she’s not answering.”
“I take it he wasn’t asking for money so he could pay the utility bills,” Lane added.
“Not a chance. I’m sure he’s got some grand scheme to make millions on the horse races.”
“Is there anything we can do? I mean, you know, to help him?” Grace asked.
“I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. Not until he wants to get help,” Grant said, sounding defeated.
At that point, no one spoke for several minutes.
“I really need to go,” Grace finally said as her eyes grew heavy, not wanting to move from the comfort of these men’s arms but knowing that the last thing she needed was to be seen sneaking out of Grant’s cabin in the wee hours of the morning. As it was, she was going to risk being seen in the middle of the night, but chances were no one else was out and about at this point.
“God, I wish you didn’t have to,” Grant said, tightening his hold on her again and pressing his face against her neck. “I wish neither of you had to go.”
Yeah, well … Grace was content about so much, but solving that little dilemma — the dating two cowboys her father had sworn away from her part — didn’t look like it was going to be all that easy.
■□■□■□■□
Grant kissed Lane and Gracie good-bye a short while later and watched them as they slipped out through his front door and into the night. They’d actually had a conversation about who would go first, but the final decision was that they would both leave together. Gracie insisted that no one would think that the three of them had something going on if she and Lane went together, versus if they left one at a time. According to her, that would probably look a little more suspicious.
As Lane had passed him toward the door, he had whispered, “I’m not gonna do the walk of shame forever.” That made Grant laugh, although he knew Lane was partially serious about it. He didn’t bother to tell Lane that he didn’t want him to go. That he never wanted either of them to leave. Right now, Grant had too much on his mind to get into a deep conversation such as that one, so he’d merely smiled at Lane’s statement and kissed him briefly before watching them both go.
Making his way back to his bedroom, Grant caught sight of his cell phone sitting on the kitchen table just inside the front door. The tiny blue light was flashing, a glaring announcement that there were more messages awaiting him. Rather than push them off until morning, Grant snatched the phone up and carried it to his bedroom, debating as to whether he wanted to end up having a bad night or push it off for a few more hours, guaranteeing he’d have four shitty days in a row.
Yeah, fuck tomorrow. He wasn’t going to keep dealing with this shit every damn day, so he might as well get it out of the way tonight.
Bringing the screen to life, Grant saw that he had seven new text messages. All from his father.
Message 1, 8:27 p.m.: Son, I’m sorry for all the things I said. Give me a call. Please.
Message 2, 9:16 p.m.: Damn it, Grant, don’t you fucking ignore me.
Message 3, 9:28 p.m.: Son of a bitch, boy. I don’t ask you for much, now do I? I don’t like the fact that you can’t even give me a fucking call.
Message 4, 10:19 p.m.: Keep it up and I’ll just come out to the ranch to talk to you.
Oh, fuck. That one got Grant’s attention. His father had been out to the ranch before, and Grant remembered how fucking awful that had been.
Message 5, 10:37 p.m.: I’m not kidding. I’ll come out there and have a chat with your boss. I’ll let him know what a worthless son of a bitch you really are.
He would do it, too. Grant knew that for a fact.
Message 6, 10:43 p.m.: Last chance. Call me back or I’ll be on your doorstep first thing in the morning.
Grant noticed the time of the final message, less than three minutes from the one before. He didn’t even need to read it to know what it said.
Message 7, 10:45 p.m.: Done. I’ll be there with fucking bells on in the morning. If you don’t think I will, try me. I need some goddamned money, Grant. Just a fucking loan. I know you’ve got enough to lend me a couple thousand. Do that and I’ll never bother you again.
A couple thousand? Holy shit. Was his father serious?
Grant might have some money saved, but he damn sure didn’t have a couple thousand dollars to loan his father. Not that he would even if he did. It would be one thing for Grant to pay the bills, make sure his parents had electricity and water, which he was considering doing anyway, but to give his father money to throw away on his gambling habit, no fucking thank you.
Tilting his head to the side, Grant observed the bright red numbers on his alarm clock. Shit. It was already after midnight. His father was probably passed out drunk at this point, so Grant knew better than to try to call him. He also didn’t see the point because he wasn’t going to give in, which meant Darrell would be standing on his front porch, or that of the main house, first thing in the morning.
The only good thing about it, if anything at all could be considered good in this whole fucked up mess, was that Grant’s day started long before Darrell’s. And that meant he might be able to cut the old man off at the pass.
And it was for that reason alone that Grant managed to go to sleep at all.
Chapter Twelve
Early Thursday morning
“Who the hell is that?” Mercy asked, marching along next to Grace as they made their way across the open space between the main barn and the house.
“Who’s who?” Grace asked sleepily, doing her best to keep her eyes open as she followed her sister over to Hope’s so they could attend the mandatory meeting that had been scheduled at the butt crack of dawn. Thank you very much, Hope, for moving the time back two hours and letting me know via a text message reminder in the middle of the damn night.
As much as Grace wanted to skip the meeting, piss off her older sister, and get her day started the right way by sneaking in a few minutes to see Lane and Grant, she knew today was probably not the day to do that. Hope was in danger of having a nervous breakdown as it was, if her stress level was any indication, and Grace knew better than to nudge her.
“That guy,” Mercy pointed, her hand coming across the front of Grace’s face, forcing her to turn her head or get Mercy’s finger up her nose.
“No idea,” Grace said as she watched the tall guy with the protruding belly stumble up the steps that led to the section of the main house that her father had commandeered as his office. The guy’s rusty red Ford was parked haphazardly — as in, he’d missed the parking space altogether — just a few feet away from the office door.
Pure instinct had Grace adjusting her course, veering toward her father’s office, and Mercy moved right alongside her.
A loud noise had Grace’s legs kicking into a jog, then a full-out run when she heard someone yelling, likely that guy, if Grace had to guess, because her father wasn’t the type to yell.
“Who the hell are you?” Jerry’s deep voice thundered out into the ot
herwise silent morning air. Crap. Crap. Crap.
Slamming her way into the office, Grace found the two men basically standing toe to toe. Nose to nose would’ve been more accurate, except the other man’s nose wasn’t quite level with her father’s, thanks to Jerry’s slightly taller frame. As she slowed down just inside the door, Mercy practically barreled over her before Grace could come to a complete stop.
Okay, so now Grace had to rescind her last statement. Clearly, her father was all for yelling at a stranger. She assumed there was a good reason.
Well, she hoped, anyway.
“You goddamn know who the hell I am,” the man hollered, his face red and splotchy, drops of spittle launching in her father’s direction. Luckily, her dad was good at bobbing and weaving because he sidestepped the man just in time to avoid being showered with it.
“Watch. Your. Mouth,” Jerry warned, his eyes flashing with fury.
No, Jerry Lambert was not fond of cursing, but using the Lord’s name in vein was the fastest way to find yourself out on your ass.
Grace waited to see what the man was going to say or do next, studying his appearance as she did. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in, oh, maybe a week. His shirt, which she assumed might’ve once been white, was yellowed and out of shape, hanging awkwardly on his slight frame. His thinning, salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back from his forehead, but she didn’t think the grease was intentionally placed there to keep it from falling forward. He was sporting a beard that was worthy of those guys on Duck Dynasty.
The way his face heated, turning an interesting shade of crimson, she feared he was going to explode anytime now. That’s when she heard the sound of boots clomping on the wood outside. Grace had barely enough time to move out of the way, and she only managed that when Mercy yanked her arm, sending her falling toward her sister as the screen door flew open and in walked Grant.
Oh. Shit.
Grace watched as Grant stomped up to the strange man, Grant’s eyes fierce, his lips a hard, thin line. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, which meant he’d gotten little to no sleep the night before, and she didn’t think she and Lane were completely to blame for that.
“Why are you here?” Grant asked, his voice set on shout, like the rest of the men in the room.
“There you are,” the man said, turning to face Grant, and that’s when Grace realized who he was.
Well, she didn’t know for sure, but he looked enough like Grant for her to figure out that this man was likely his father. They had the same eyes — although the man’s were like a green-brown color, not blue like Grant’s, but the shape was the same — same high cheekbones, same narrow, straight nose… Only this man appeared at least fifty years older, which Grace knew couldn’t be right. He looked as though he’d lived a hard life. Or maybe just done some hard living. Either way…
“I asked why you’re here,” Grant stated again, a few decibels lower than before but his tone significantly firmer.
“You know goddamn well why I’m here.”
“I’ve already told you once not to speak like that in my house,” Jerry rasped, his eyes cold as they pinned the unidentified man in place.
The guy didn’t seem at all worried about Grace’s father, but she could’ve jumped in just then to warn him except that wasn’t necessary because…
“We don’t use the Lord’s name in vein. And keep in mind that there are ladies in this room, Dad. Watch your mouth.”
Yep, just like she thought… That was Grant’s father, all right.
“The ladies can step out, for all I care. They weren’t invited,” Grant’s dad said with a hint of hatred in his tone. He spared Grace a look, his evil, bloodshot glare making her want to take a step or two back. She didn’t budge, though, refusing to let this man treat her like she didn’t belong in her own house.
Grace darted a look toward her father, trying to gauge how he was going to handle this situation. Did he want them to stay? Did he want them to leave? If he shooed them out the door, she would gladly cut and run. But if he wanted her and Mercy to stay…
“Grace, would you mind?” Grant said softly, definitely more of a request than a demand as he turned his pleading gaze her way.
Nearly melting into the floor because her heart reached out to him, Grace nodded. “If you don’t need us…” Grace let the sentence hang in the air.
“You’re not needed,” Grant’s father said, and Grace was tempted to reach out and slap him across the face.
“Enough!” Grant yelled. “You will not talk to her like that. Understand?”
Grace was holding back solely because this man was Grant’s father. Otherwise, she would’ve put him in his place long before Grant had. While she tried to control her irritation, Mercy eased her way forward, effectively forcing Grace to move over to the side.
Oh, hell. Apparently, Grace had a little more self-control than her sister did because Mercy was moving, and it wasn’t toward the exit.
Which meant only one thing.
All hell was about to break loose.
■□■□■□■□
Mercy could tolerate a lot of shit: being thrown from a horse, the chickens pecking her legs when she walked through the coop, having her scalp sunburned because she forgot to wear her hat, cowboys pretending to know more than she did about ranching, hell, even a cowboy not holding the door open when he knew she was coming.
All of that was just a miniature hiccup on any given day.
What she couldn’t tolerate was a man talking to a woman, her included, as this scrawny bastard had. It didn’t help that her father’s face had turned beet-red, his blood pressure likely reaching dangerous levels.
“Look here, old man.” Mercy got up as close as she dared to the man she had recently realized was Grant’s father. “I might not have somethin’ swingin’ between my legs, but you might wanna rethink how you talk to a lady,” she grit out through clenched teeth. “I’m all for lettin’ the boys have their special time together, but you won’t dismiss me, understand?” Mercy slid her gaze over to her father and continued, “Pops, we’ve got a meetin’ to go to, so we’ll be on our way.” Mercy grabbed Gracie’s wrist, gave Grant a nod, and led her sister out of the office before Mr. I’m-Too-Stupid-For-My-Pants decided he had something else to say.
Mercy had been itching for a fight ever since her run-in with Cody the night before, right after she had managed to get out of the hour-long conversation with her father. Cody’s timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Hey, babe,” Cody said quietly, brushing against Mercy’s arms in the softest of touches.
Mercy hated that her body craved his touch.
One. Time.
One fucking time, and now she ached for something she didn’t even want.
Mercy shrugged him off, focusing her attention on petting Dixie. She was watching the pups as they trampled around the small yard they’d fenced in near the stables so the little things couldn’t get in too much trouble but could still spend some time outside. They weren’t very big just yet, but they certainly were mischievous.
“You know, I was thinkin’…” Cody began.
“Watch it, you might hurt yourself,” Mercy spouted off.
“Maybe,” Cody replied with a chuckle, the sound reminding her of thunder on the horizon during one of those early-summer storms she enjoyed so much. “Anyway. I was wonderin’—”
“The answer is no,” Mercy said firmly, dusting her hands off on her jeans and standing to her full height. She still had to look up at the tall cowboy, but at least she felt a little better. “So don’t go thinkin’ or wonderin’. Save yourself the headache. The answer will always be no.”
“Damn it, Mercy,” Cody said on a frustrated breath. “Why the hell do you have to be like that?”
“Be like what?” she countered. “I’m not bein’ like anything. I don’t want to date you, I don’t want to fuck you, and at this point, I don’t even want to see you.”
Okay, so she knew she
was excessively harsh, not to mention she feared she might be struck by lightning with all the lies she’d just told, but still…
Cody’s emerald-green eyes locked on her, and she wanted to turn away, but for whatever reason, she found herself frozen in place, mesmerized by the sheer intensity in his gaze.
“I don’t know what your problem is, Merce, but damn it. I don’t want to play this game with you anymore. You know damn well that what we had that night–”
“See, right there,” Mercy interrupted. “You’re on to something. ‘What we had,’ that’s the key right there. We don’t have anything anymore, Cody. And what we had ‘that night’ was just that. One freakin’ night. Why can’t you just get that through your thick skull?”
Cody didn’t respond, which surprised Mercy. They did this often. And usually, Cody’s cockiness and self-assurance had him winning the round, but if she wasn’t mistaken, that definitely wasn’t confidence she saw in his eyes. No, that looked more like … hurt.
Sonuvabitch.
Mercy shook off the memory. She did not want to think about Cody Mercer or the fact that she had hurt him for no reason whatsoever other than she wasn’t comfortable with the way she was starting to feel about him. It didn’t help that he plagued her mind even at the most inconvenient times — like now. But ever since that argument, ever since she’d seen the pain in his eyes, she’d been itching for a fight, which she knew wasn’t a good thing. Getting into a fight wasn’t going to get her anywhere. At least not this time of the morning anyway.
“Let me go,” Gracie exclaimed, wrenching her arm free of Mercy’s grasp as they stepped out onto the huge wooden porch that wrapped clear around the entire house.
Mercy freed Gracie as she stopped just outside the door, listening to make sure the men had it under control. A second later, when she heard the rumble of Grant’s voice, she decided it was time to bolt.
“If we don’t get over to Hope’s, she’s gonna send the dogs.”
Gracie twisted to look behind her at the screen door that separated her from the man she clearly had a thing for. “Fine, let’s go.”
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