King's Country (Oil Kings Book 4)

by Marie Johnston

  Fuck, where would my headspace be if I lost Dad?

  I went back down the stairs, leaving the door open behind me. That place needed all the air it could get. “Bristol, you don’t have to do this by yourself.”

  A furrow formed between her brows. “Who else would do it?”

  She was so heartbreakingly alone. She’d been alone all her life. Except for when Mama had been alive and had taken her in like her own.

  “I’m here. I can help. Me and the guys can do it. Now or another time. There’s no timeline on grief.”

  She blinked. Goddammit, were those tears?

  This woman.

  I folded her into my embrace. She held her crutches under her armpits and leaned in to me. My sweater muffled a little sob. She sagged further. I held her tighter. And she just cried.

  I didn’t know how many minutes went by. I could’ve held her forever, but at the same time, I wanted to cheer her up. Bristol needed more cheer in her life.

  She stiffened and pulled away, but I didn’t let her go far. She didn’t look at me as she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and sniffled. “I should get inside and check it out.”

  “I’ll do it. All we really need to do is make sure no pipes froze and that there isn’t a fire hazard.”

  “The entire place is tinder.”

  “How long have you lived in the RV?”

  “The last five years or so.”

  I looked around the yard. Besides the trailer house and the three campers—two pull-behinds and the RV Bristol lived in—there was the decrepit barn. An equally broken-down tractor, a four-wheeler, and a side-by-side ATV were next to the barn. I could see Bristol’s work in the arrangement.

  The campers and the RV were evenly spaced. The rusted-out pickup that Danny had used most of the time was parked parallel with the trailer house. And the tractors and ATV were parked in a neat line next to the garage. Every item was an eyesore, but arranged the squarest way possible.

  If I went into the RV, it would be night and day different than the trailer.

  “How long have you been living in the cabin?”

  She shrugged, still not looking at me but squinting into the distance where the old hunting cabin was nestled between a couple of hills, not far from the quiet oil wells. “I started fixing it up about the same time, but I didn’t start living there until Pop brought home one of his less desirable workers.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think he finally got arrested for not registering as a sex offender.”

  “Jesus, Bristol. Did you have a gun?”

  “There’s a rifle at the cabin and a shotgun in the RV.” She said it so plainly it was disturbing. Having a rifle or a shotgun available was common sense to a rancher. Coyotes or wolves after our calves. Rabid skunks crop-dusting the house. Badgers that could get us thrown off a horse. But for Bristol, being armed was a part of her personal life. Protection from guys who’d take her land—and her too.

  Fucking Danny. But I couldn’t say that. Not after she’d cried her eyes out because she missed her dad. “Wasn’t your dad worried about you?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I was glued to his side. They would’ve had to go through him to get to me. Sometimes I think it was just luck I wasn’t . . .”

  Remnants of fear lingered in her expression. How many nights had she stayed awake, afraid for her safety? Worried that she’d end up like Mama, or worse?

  “I don’t understand how he could keep doing that to you.” I couldn’t forgive Danny’s responsibility in Mama’s death, and now I could add what he’d done to Bristol.

  “It wasn’t all bad. I know what he seemed like to everyone, and yeah, he was difficult for me too. But he used to read me books and he’d do all the voices. The Three Little Pigs was our favorite.” The memory prompted a smile. “And whenever I got off the bus and ran to my room crying, he’d declare it peanut butter and jelly night and we’d eat in front of the TV and watch the news together.”

  Her watery gaze traveling over the trailer was a testament to the complexity of her life. A toxic dad she’d loved and grieved for. Today had been hard enough. I’d take care of the rest.

  She wasn’t going to like standing out here while I checked over the trailer, so I pointed to her RV. “You wanna take RV duty and I’ll look over the trailer?”

  Her green eyes gleamed with understanding. She knew what I was doing and appreciated it. “ ’Kay.”

  I steeled my nerves and olfactory senses and went inside.

  God, the smell. The aged odor of urine was the most potent. Had Danny been pissing himself when he was asleep—or awake and drunk? The carpet was matted and grungy. No shampooer could save it. The walls had a yellow tinge and fly crap all over it. Same with the windows.

  Five years of not having Bristol clean up after him. This was what had happened to Danny.

  Sympathy wormed its way into my chest as I tiptoed around piles of clothing that were too far gone for any washing machine. The worst of the garbage was cleaned up and Bristol must’ve been the one to do the dishes, but she’d had a hard time keeping up with her dad’s filth. My guess was that he wouldn’t let her. Pride was all the Cartwrights had.

  But damn. To live like this? It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t how someone in their right mind would live. To ignore the smell and the mess and the grit and—I waved off several fruit flies that stirred up from the drain of the sink. Danny Cartwright had been sick. He’d been an alcoholic, but that’d been both a disease and a symptom itself.

  I checked under the sink, surprised that it was fairly tidy. But then it wasn’t like the trailer had a lot of cleaning products crowding its cupboards.

  I passed the laundry nook on the way to the bathroom. There was enough space cleared on top of the dryer for the soap and fabric softener. Bristol’s doing. The bathroom was where I could take my first full breath. The smell lingered in the stained flooring and the whitewashed walls, but everything was scrubbed as well as it could be. The porcelain in the sink was chipped, same with the tub. There were stains in the toilet made by humans and the hard well water, but it was clean enough to use without wanting a biohazard shower immediately after.

  Bristol braved the rest of the trailer to come here? She used her energy to keep this space habitable, but the rest had been too much for her to face so soon after her dad had died.

  Me and the whole town were a bunch of fucking assholes.

  I get Danny Cartwright might not have accepted a lick of help from anyone. He might’ve turned kind offers into major insults. But Bristol had been written off with him when she’d been nothing but a child. As an adult, no one gave her a chance. No one understood the stress she was under every day just to live her life.

  I’d seen enough. The trailer had stood this long, it’d wait a few more days. I’d deal with it later.

  Outside, I sucked in a few lungfuls of clean air. The smell of cows and manure was a welcome relief after what I’d left behind. Bristol was still in the RV.

  I hurried across the yard. Part of me was curious to see how she lived and the rest wanted to hold her again.

  The squeak of the RV door broke the silence of the yard and the distant mooing of cattle. Bristol sat on the couch of her RV and stared out the window that faced her dad’s place. Inside the RV was as I’d expected. Neat. A soft floral smell from candles that lined the counters. None of them had been burned, but their scents were enough to brighten the place. And I’m sure she’d gotten them cheap.

  The RV was a couple decades old. The wood accents of the interior were darker browns, but Bristol had brightened the space with a few throw pillows and a couple of plaid blankets like the ones I’d seen in the discount bins for five bucks. They were both a decoration and useful.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Could’ve been worse.” I shuddered to think about how it would’ve been without Bristol’s efforts.

  Several moments of silence went by with her arms crossed and her gaze stuck on t
he trailer across the yard. “I think he thought giving a second chance to an addict was never a wrong decision. It bit him in the ass over and over again, but I can’t help but wonder how much he saw himself in them. The biggest issue was that those men he hired were never in recovery or trying to get into recovery.”

  Just like her dad.

  “There’s this whole population . . .” She sucked in a breath and gestured behind her where the other two campers sat. “The people Pop brought home lived in a similar way. Some days, I felt like I shoveled more shit from them than I did in the barn. But, still. People live like this. They fly under the radar of ‘normal society.’ ” She used air quotes. “They don’t qualify for assisted living, and even if they did, they wouldn’t accept the help anyway. They’re their own legal guardians and there’s not much the rest of us can do.”

  Other than become their guardian, but that was a legal—and emotional—battle few could afford. “Your dad was sick.”

  She snorted. “It wasn’t like he could go to a few sessions with a therapist and be cured. He barely hung on by a thread when I was younger. Add twenty years and he’d probably need therapy for a hundred.” She shook her head. “It was lonely. Nothing I could do, but I was the only one there for him, and the rest of the world hated me for it.”

  I sank onto the thin cushions next to her. “It’s too easy for people to take the righteous road. I’m guilty. I’m sorry.”

  “I wish I could’ve done more. Found a way to help.” She tilted her head to look up at me. The light caught the spun-copper strands of her hair, lightening them to the color of a spring sunrise. “You’re the only one who’s taken the time to learn a little more about him than what was obvious.”

  Guilt sawed into me. It hadn’t been soon enough to help her through Danny’s last years.

  “You’ve had a day,” I said quietly.

  She chuffed. “You mean Marshall breaking up with me when we weren’t even going out because he’d already broken up with me?”

  “As long as he stays away for good.” I leaned back, going for casual. Nerves lit my gut like a rowdy frat party. What the hell? I didn’t get nervous around women. But Bristol wasn’t like other women. “Let me take you out. Get a nice meal, let someone else do the cooking and cleaning.”

  She went still. “You want to go out to eat with me? In town?” Her gaze dropped to her cast.

  She didn’t want anyone to see her using crutches? Or out with me? “I’m not going to lie—I can make a better steak than Hogan’s, but since they get their beef from us, I find it acceptable.”

  “Hogan’s?” she echoed. Her brows pinched. “All I have is my work clothes.”

  The work clothes that clung to her body and left me wanting to wrap my hands around her thighs as tightly as the denim? “There’s nothing wrong with those.”

  “They’re not nice enough for Hogan’s.”

  “I think the saying is ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service.’ As long as you’re dressed, they’re not kicking you out.” Her words to Marshall rang through my head. Fucking asshole. “I don’t care what Marshall thought. Whatever you wear is just fine. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve worn my work clothes there.”

  “You can get away with wearing just your work clothes,” she mumbled.

  I wanted to argue but I took a moment to really listen. She was pointing out the double standard. The special treatment I’d get compared to her.

  She was right. No one would blink if I walked into the steakhouse with dirt on my boots and dusty jeans. I’d get slapped on the back and asked if I’d had a tough day at work. Bristol would get sneered at and people would talk about how her daddy hadn’t taught her any respect. I could afford all the nice clothes I wanted. Bristol had to prioritize work clothing.

  “I’ll wear my work clothes too. It’ll confuse the hell out of everyone.”

  “Us walking in together will confuse the hell out of everyone.”

  I grinned. There was my in. “Sounds like you want to see their reactions. Whaddya say? Want to go out with me?”

  Chapter 5

  Bristol

  Marshall’s words echoed in my head as I walked into Hogan’s. What are you thinking? You look like you dressed in a barn. What will my parents say?

  I wanted to bolt. I was strong, I could take a lot. But I also avoided inflammatory situations if at all possible. Dawson swaggered next to me. The young hostess looked like a teenager, and to her credit, she didn’t bat an eye at me—or at Dawson. He’d only changed into clothing that didn’t have the stench of the trailer lingering on them and showered. I’d grabbed a couple grocery bags of clothing to bring to his place.

  I would be out of Dawson’s hair in a little over a week and back at my place, but I’d avoided my RV for so long, I couldn’t have passed up the opportunity to get my own things.

  The hostess seated us in a booth along the wall. The maple wood of the seats matched the trim on the window next to us, which matched the tables scattered throughout the open floor of the dining room. The darker wood accents on the hanging light fixtures matched the hardwood floors. The place was small-town Western chic. The fanciest in King’s Creek. I hardly ever came here.

  I tried to be as discreet as possible on my crutches, keeping them from banging into the table as I wedged them into the booth. I ran my fingers along the cloth napkins. Not as hefty as the ones I used in the RV. Cheaper than buying paper towels all the time.

  The hostess folded her hands and recited, “The special tonight is the roasted garlic butter filet with butterhorn buns and lemon pepper green beans with roasted slivered almonds.”

  My mouth watered with each word. My taste buds were getting spoiled. I’m sure the beef was divine, but I was also certain Dawson could grill one that was better. Just like I could see him roasting the garlic and whipping the butter for the top. But he never quit working and he hadn’t gone out to eat in the five weeks I’d been at his place. Half the reason I’d agreed to come was because he wouldn’t have gone out if I hadn’t come along.

  My skin prickled with all the eyes on us. Saturday nights were the busiest for Hogan’s. Popular for dates.

  Was that what this was, two friends hanging out? Or did Dawson want this to be a date?

  What did I want it to be?

  “Hey, Dawson.” The server appeared in crisp black slacks and a pristine white dress shirt. Skylar Dodd. She was older than me, but as the quintessential cheerleader who’d married the football captain, I knew of her. Her hair was tied up in a way that let all her dark curls escape. Her eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled at Dawson, but they flared when she turned to me. Her gaze dipped to my button-up shirt and a brow quirked. It was a man’s style, but in decent shape and a little dressier than the T-shirts and sweaters I often wore.

  Since she owned the popular restaurant with her husband, who worked in the kitchen, I doubt she ever wore anything like it.

  “Hey, Sky. How’s Shepp?” Dawson asked.

  Her smile was warm. “Ornery as always, but he’ll cook the best damn filet you’ve ever tasted.”

  “That’s good, because that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for. Bristol?”

  Skylar’s attention swung back to me. I hadn’t looked at the menu and hated the idea of a date ordering for me, but when it came to food, my trust in Dawson knew no limits. “I’ll have the same.”

  She turned back to Dawson. “You need to save room for dessert. Shepp’s mastered his tiramisu.” Skylar rolled her eyes and grinned, but I could’ve been a ghost for all the attention that was paid to me. “The kids were his happy taste testers.”

  Dawson’s good-natured laugh spurred a smile from me but Skylar didn’t spare me a glance. “If the kids say it’s good, then we’d better try it.”

  Skylar scurried away. Dawson took a drink of his ice water and glanced around. Silverware tinkled on plates and murmurs of conversation carried through the restaurant. “Do you know Sky and Shepp?” he asked.<
br />
  “Not personally, no.” He could ask that of anyone in this place and that’d be my answer.

  “They always feed me when we talk business.” His grin was sly. “They think it’ll help with negotiations. That I’ll sell the meat cheaper because I’m a bachelor and can’t cook.”

  My lips twitched. “And you don’t bother to tell them otherwise?”

  “Dad taught me better than that.”

  My smile dissolved at the mention of his dad. Gentry King didn’t glare at me. He didn’t say mean things. He just didn’t talk to me, and he’d rarely talked to Pop, since any discussion would have dissolved beyond “hi.” No, when Gentry looked at me, there was nothing but disappointment. Like any hopes he’d had for me had been dashed the day of his wife’s funeral.

  Grief tugged at my heart. Old and familiar, I stuffed it away and took a drink of ice water to calm my nerves.

  Dawson tracked the move. “I didn’t ask if you wanted wine.”

  He’d offered at his place, but I always said no, thanks. He hadn’t inquired beyond that. “I don’t drink.” When his eyes turned knowing, I amended my answer. “I mean, it’s not like a personal crusade against all things alcoholic, or that I’m afraid one drink and I’ll end up like Pop. I never liked what it did to Pop, so I was never interested. I’d rather drink a root beer than a Bud Light, and I don’t know wine from bad fruit juice.”

  “Dawson,” a male voice boomed and I cringed. At least the jovial quality to it kept the sound from being nails on a chalkboard. The local bank president, Richard Lang, swaggered to the table, his grin wide and his suit coat hanging open. “I’d ask what you’re doing on a Saturday night, but I can see you’re—” He looked at me and stopped like someone had stuffed a sock in his mouth. I could do it. His mouth hung open wide enough.

  Big Dick Lang. I happened to agree with Pop on that opinion. Richard Lang had taken a lot of pleasure in humiliating Pop when we’d gone in to inquire about loans, credit, and even savings. Big Dick wouldn’t let us open a checking account with money we held in our hands.