Worth Dying For: Worth It: Book 8

by Styles, Peter

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, drawing my hand out of hers. Big breath, I told myself. Just say it. “Mama, I think we oughta sell the ranch—”

  “Out of the question.”

  “It’d pay for the bills,” I insisted. “We could get good money for it, and—”

  “We are not selling this ranch, Quinn Dyer, if it is the last thing I do, so help me—”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the last thing you did,” I told her with a little huff. I hated talking to her like this. “That’s kind of the point.”

  Her jaw was so tight, if you pried it open and put a nut inside, she looked like she’d be able to crack it with her yellowing teeth. Just like one of those Christmas decorations. What were they called again? Oh, right. Nutcrackers.

  Neither of us said a thing after that, and the silence might have gone on forever, if we hadn’t been interrupted by the sound of footsteps, heavy work boots clobbering down the wood hall.

  “Hey, Quinn?”

  “In here,” I answered, not looking away from my mother until that voice was coming right at the door.

  I turned; it was one of our farmhands, Jeremy. Sweet guy. Did what he was asked, when he was asked, and was quick about it, too. A little too twinky for my tastes, but….

  “What’s going on?”

  “The new guy’s here,” said Jeremy, before nodding to my mother. “Ms. Tilly, how you holding up?”

  She made a wry face. “Still alive, Jeremy.”

  He barked out a laugh. “That’s good.”

  I blew out a breath. New guy, I thought. A welcomed distraction.

  “I’ll come by later, mama,” I told her, standing and pushing the chair back to its corner. “Think about what I said?”

  “I ain’t gonna be thinking about nothing close to it,” she said, probably angry that I suggested it, but smiling all the same.

  It was contagious. I grinned on my way out, shouting again, “Think about it!”

  Outside, the sun was hot and bright, just the way I liked it. My hat had been backwards on my head while I was inside, so I turned it right again, the brim shading my eyes as they drank in the sight of a big, ugly pickup, screeching as it pulled to a stop in the driveway.

  Nico.

  He was the only guy I knew that would ever drive something so rickety. The brakes were probably older than he was.

  He popped out of the front with a grand old smile on his face. “Well, howdy,” I shouted as I crossed the space between us.

  “Que pasa,” he answered with a wiggle in his brow.

  “Been a little while,” I said. “Your old man keeping you busy?”

  Nico scoffed, punching at my shoulder playfully. “Oh, like you don’t like your men with just a touch of daddy?”

  I laughed.

  “Landon’s been good,” he told me, and I was glad to hear it.

  On the other side of the truck, I heard someone fiddling with the door. It shut loudly.

  Nico looked a little devious.

  “What’s that face for?” I asked, and when he answered, his voice was lower, like he didn’t want our guest to hear.

  “Ay,” he said, playing a little stern. “Please don’t eat my fucking tío alive, okay?” Nico held up his finger. “Play nice.”

  I bit back on a smile, my voice just as hushed. “I was only window shopping, Nico. How long exactly was he in prison for, though? Cause he’s gotta be real lonely…”

  Nico laughed, hard and loud, before realizing it would probably draw attention. He calmed himself down. “I’m serious, Quinn,” though he didn’t really sound it.

  I waved him off, the both of us sharing a private smile. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’m hands-off with your piping hot tío, I got it.”

  Piping hot had been an exaggeration. I was probably remembering him hotter than he was.

  But, as he rounded the back of the truck, pulling a small toolbox out of the bed, I realized that description was perfect. No, not even perfect. This guy blew piping hot out of the water. My memory didn’t do him justice.

  I remembered referring to him one time as hot in a convicted felon kind of way.

  Now, it was worse, like finding freedom from a bogus conviction had made him into a goddamn model in work jeans.

  He was built, muscles obvious under his simple jeans and t-shirt, his skin warm and the color of chestnut or something, like some Greek god. His hair was dark and practically begging to have a pair of fingers run through it. Like some gay cowboy’s wet dream.

  Holy shit, I, a very gay cowboy, thought.

  The fantasy was instantaneous: I could already imagine getting on my knees or bending over—whatever order this guy preferred, I’d be fine with.

  “Uh,” I said, before he was smiling at me, and that was even worse.

  Holy shit.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said, his voice warm.

  “Oliver, hey,” I said back, shaking my head a little. I gave him my best smile, giving it just a touch of bedroom eyes. Nico said I couldn’t touch, but there was no way in hell I wasn’t going to flirt a little. “Glad to have you here.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  Shit, his voice is deep.

  “My pleasure,” I said, which Nico seemed to get a kick out of. Oliver didn’t seem to notice; if he did, he didn’t say anything.

  “You didn’t have to do this for me, so… I’m glad for the opportunity.”

  Damn. Hot and humble?

  Our handshake ended, the contact lasting a touch longer than most. Not enough to be strange, but maybe long enough for me to get a read on how rough the calluses on his hands were (the answer: deliciously rough).

  “Well, it’s a lot of work,” I told him, trying my very best to squash down whatever thoughts I was having about how mouth-watering Nico’s uncle was, remembering my very recent promise: keeping my hands to myself and all that.

  He grinned and nodded. “I can work.”

  I tilted my chin at him. “Hard work.” Innuendo maybe intended.

  It seemed to go over his head. “Well, hard work or not, I’m grateful.”

  “I’ll give you the tour then.” I pulled my gloves from my back pocket, and when I looked at Nico again, he shot me a look; it said, You’re being very obvious and my poor uncle is very dense. Or something.

  I ignored it.

  “Thanks for dropping me off,” Oliver said to his nephew.

  Nico was already crawling back into his truck. “I’ll swing by later when he’s done with you,” He said, and then just loud enough for me to hear, “if you survive.”

  “C’mon,” I interjected, because daylight was burning. “We’ve got lots of ground to cover.”

  Oliver waved goodbye and I turned on my heel, gesturing for him to follow. Without missing a beat, I cast a somewhat flirtatious look over my shoulder as he followed.

  “Welcome to the Dyer Ranch, Uncle Ollie.”

  3

  Oliver

  Quinn Dyer was a friend of Nico’s, and had been for a while.

  He wasn’t a total stranger to me because of that simple fact; I’d probably seen him a handful of times when he and my nephew were younger, horsing around or getting into trouble around town or on this very ranch, and before I was locked up. Then he’d come with Nico to see me in prison once in a while.

  Meeting up with Quinn now, though, in this context was different. Quinn was different.

  Daddies.

  The word spun around in my head like some off-kilter rinse cycle. It had been a joke, mostly, probably, but beneath it was the other simple fact that Quinn was into older men.

  Nico’s truck rattled away, back onto the main road and far away from the ranch, and when it was the two of them, Quinn cast a criminal kind of look over his shoulder at me.

  It wasn’t exactly subtle, his eyes dragging over my body, head to toe and back again.

  “Welcome to the Dyer Ranch, Uncle Ollie,” he said, before leading me towards the ra
nch.

  Being looked at that was admittedly sort of… nice. Flattering. I didn’t let it show, didn’t let him know it, reminding myself that a firm and plain assertion that I wasn’t interested would be enough to deter any unwanted advances.

  But, you know, I appreciated it.

  I had packed on some decent muscle in prison, because there wasn’t really much else to do on the inside. The place had a pretty shitty library, and I usually avoided it, instead opting to keep my head down and lift some weights. Years of that really made a difference, I guess.

  Daddies, I reminded myself.

  I grinned a little behind Quinn’s back, the idea definitely amusing.

  “This is the main house,” Quinn said, hiking up the front porch of an old wooden homestead.

  When he swung the screen door back, it screeched on its hinges. Needs some oil.

  “Bedrooms are down that hall there,” he directed, gesturing to a hallway on his right. “This here’s the living room. Sitting room. Whatever room.” He grinned over his shoulder at me. “The decor’s a little older, if you couldn’t tell.”

  The decor was downright ancient. Rustic as hell, too, but there wasn’t really much to expect otherwise from a ranch. The wallpaper was yellow, with some gentle white pattern on it, daisies or sunflowers or something. The couch fabric was worn soft, with a round and tightly woven rug at its feet. A fireplace boasted a lot of family photographs, and there was even a rocking chair fit for a grandma next to it.

  I returned the smile, albeit a little sarcastically. “No, I missed that.”

  “Right, right.” Quinn clicked his tongue and motioned for me to follow deeper into the house.

  After that, it was the bathroom, which was pretty small and not much to write home about, and then the kitchen, which was easily the largest part of the house. The cabinets looked like they hadn’t been updated in decades, and the same with the appliances, the gas stove small and like something from the fifties. The biggest piece, however, was the dinner table, long and made of solid wood and well-kept, with a dozen chairs lined up around it.

  “Got a lot of family?” I asked, knocking once on it to test how solid it was.

  Quinn looked at it a little proudly. “Hell, yeah. This thing’s been in the family for generations. It’s not just for blood family, though; farmers and hired hands and all that are considered family, too. We make lunch for y’all here during workdays, and dinner sometimes, too, for those who stick around for it.”

  I hummed. “Sounds like a tight community.”

  And that was definitely pride on Quinn’s face. “We are, yeah.”

  He looked like he had more to say about it, but before I could ask, he was ushering me out towards the first of several barns. A smell I couldn’t place wafted from it, and once Quinn drew back the doors, it became evident why.

  Something whinnied inside at the intrusion. Quinn smirked at me over his shoulder. “Know how to ride a horse?”

  He sauntered in, brushing his hand over the mane of a beautiful black horse as he moved over to the next one.

  A horse. Okay… “I can learn.”

  Quinn laughed. “Sure thing, cowboy. Here.” And he lugged a saddle off the hook on the wall, nodding towards a calm-looking brown horse. “Open the gate for me, will ya?”

  With the door out of the way, the horse stepped slowly out, and Quinn made a noise that made it stop walking altogether.

  “She’s well-behaved,” I said.

  “Shit, I hope so,” Quinn said. “She’s mine, I trained her myself.”

  I held up a hand, but thought against it. “What’s her name?”

  “Sundance,” he said, laughing a little to himself. “Y’know. Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? You can go ahead and touch her, by the way.”

  I patted her lightly on the jaw and let her sniff my hand. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Loved it as a kid.” Quinn whistled. “C’mon over here. I’m gonna show you how to saddle a horse.”

  I stood behind him and watched. It didn’t seem too difficult a process, and Quinn was a decent teacher, explaining what one piece did here and another did there. It was evident that, despite his age, still in his twenties, he knew what he was doing out here.

  “You can take Sundance,” he told me, before saddling up another horse and adding playfully, “She’ll be gentle for your first time.”

  It was obvious flirting. Harmless. Still, I ignored it, nodding and watching him do what he had just shown me, but in half the time. After that, we rode out.

  There were a few barns along the way, not too shabby, but they had obvious signs of wear and tear. Decades of storms and no repairs would do that, I figured. Places for storing machinery and hay and feed. From there, we took the horses out to the far end of the property, Quinn directing with a steady hand the lines of what they owned, and who owned the land past that, his spine straight and sure and easy as he rode his horse.

  Riding was a little difficult, not that I was about to go complaining about it. I was sure I’d pick it up, with practice.

  Slowing the horses, we sat for a moment in the sun in the high fields, and when the wind blew across the land, Quinn took off his hat and the blond hair around his face moved gently. I only watched for a moment before I looked away over the field.

  “The position would be a kind of catch-all assistant,” Quinn explained while his horse bent its neck to pick at some long grass. “Nico said you didn’t know much about working on a farm or ranch, but you were handy.”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling weirdly inexperienced. You’d figure with the age difference, it would be the other way around, but Quinn had years on me in this department. “I was a contractor handyman around town. Mostly worked for myself before—”

  Before I was in prison.

  I ended the sentence there.

  “That’s fine,” Quinn said. “That’s what we need. A sort of everything-man. You’re gonna be assisting with the more experienced ranch hands, and there’s a lot of equipment that’s breaking down.” There was a weight to his words. “We can’t really afford to replace it right now, so fixing it will have to do. Sorry, I, uh… I can’t really offer much more than that right now.”

  I gave a half-shrug. “That’s fine. It’s better than nothing.” Still, I thought. “I didn’t think this place was struggling that bad. The Dyer Ranch is part of Worthington—has been forever.”

  “Yeah, our small-town fame precedes us,” Quinn said with a dry sort of humor. “I won’t go into detail, but it’s been a tough few years.”

  A tough few years. I could definitely understand.

  “But,” Quinn went on quickly, “we’ve got some new breeding stock in, in the barn behind the hay bales, and some new calves on the way, too, so… there’s something to look forward to.”

  “Hm.” I offered a small smile. “Something to be optimistic about.”

  Quinn looked out at the ranch, smaller after a long ride away from it. “Not like I really have much of a choice.”

  “Yeah. I can sympathize.”

  Maybe more than you know.

  Not long after, we rode back, stopping at the house for a tall glass of water; Quinn asked if I drank a lot of water, and when I told him I drank a pretty average amount, he got a twisted look on his face.

  “It gets hot working out there,” he told me, pushing through the back door. “So whatever you’re drinking, you better double it. Don’t want one of our hands passing out from heatstroke or dehydration again and it can sneak up on you—oh, hey, James.”

  I didn’t have time to ask about when something like that had happened in the first place, because I was being introduced again; I figured that might be happening a lot more lately.

  “This is Oliver,” Quinn said.

  I reached out to shake the man’s hand. James looked about my age, plus or minus a few years, the lines on his face deep and crisp. Weathered, I thought, and solid; like someone who’d been at this a long time.
>
  “Oliver Suarez,” I finished.

  “Welcome to Dyers’,” the man said, and when he shook my hand, it was enthusiastic and friendly. “James.”

  Quinn was busying himself at the sink with two glasses. “James is our unofficial assistant manager.”

  James smiled brightly, leaning against the counter. He plucked a cowboy hat up off the top. “Second only to this one,” he hummed, thumbing at Quinn.

  “Yup,” Quinn sighed, affectionately exasperated. “I’m his boss.”

  He passed me a glass. The water here was crisp and cold and sweet. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until it was sliding down my throat. Draining half the glass in one go, I huffed after, and Quinn was staring at me when I finally set it aside.

  “Good water?” James asked, laughing to himself a little.

  “I….” Feeling a little bashful about it, I nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t been out in the sun like that in a while.”

  “Well, you’d best get used to it,” James hummed. He put the hat back on his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll find enough shit to keep you plenty busy—so much, you won’t even notice.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn joked. “James is gonna work you to your grave.”

  I laughed along, hoping they were joking at least a little bit.

  “Speaking of,” James began, “what’s he up to for the rest of the day?”

  Quinn, hand on his hip, took a long sip of water. “Don’t know. I just wrapped up the tour. Why?”

  “I’ve got some parts to take out to the baler,” he said, before correcting for my sake, “the hay baler, that is. I could always use a second pair of hands….?”

  I looked to Quinn; he was the boss, after all.

  He shrugged. “You think you’re ready to jump in?”

  I craved distraction and to do something normal for a change. It was easy for the past to creep up on me when I wasn’t occupying myself. Idle hands and all that, I guess.

  “Absolutely.” I set the glass down on the table. “I’m pretty good with machines. I haven’t worked on a hay baler, but what I don’t know yet, I’ll pick up quick.”