Booted

by Pam Godwin

  When I finish, Jarret and Jake stare at me like there’s no grain in the silo.

  They can fuck off if they don’t like what I’m saying.

  “Spit it out.” I straighten, ready to ram heads. Or fists, if we’re doing this the usual way.

  “You’re back.” Jake’s frown crooks into a shit-eating grin.

  “Thank fuck.” Jarret leans against the fence, wearing the same smile. “The foreman position is still open, waiting for you. If you want—”

  “I want it.” I rest my hands on my hips and let the responsibility settle through me. It feels good. “But I’m making changes, starting with how we castrate. We’re switching to elastic bands. It’s more efficient. More humane.”

  As I detail a few other revisions I’ll make after branding week, my pulse increases, and my chest expands. I read a lot of books in prison, studying as much as I could about anything and everything, including how to run a successful ranch.

  Jarret regards me with a look he doesn’t wear often. Eyes bright and glossy, face slack, open body posture—he gives himself away before he moves in and suffocates me in a constrictive, hard-bodied hug.

  My hands lift, giving him an amicable pat that does nothing to express the soul-deep affection I feel for him.

  Then I do what’s expected and shove his chest. “Get your ugly ass off me.”

  He shoves back, grinning. “How ugly?”

  Jesus, how old are we? I haven’t played this game with them since we were stupid little shits. But as he waits expectantly, I shake my head and give in.

  “So ugly we had to hang a pork chop around your neck to get the dog to play with you.”

  Jake laughs. “He’s ugly enough to scare a buzzard off a gut pile.

  “Uglier than a pocketful of assholes.”

  We go back and forth a few times before falling into quiet grins, heads down, appreciating happy memories.

  “We missed you.” Jake’s gaze shifts to the bullpen, tracking the smiling redhead. “Conor’s been… Worried. Impatient. She doesn’t know what to do, except to give you more time.”

  A pang of guilt hits my stomach. “The adjustment took me by surprise. I was so fucking ready to get out and return home. Then I got here, and nothing felt the same. I’m not the same, but I’m starting to accept that, day by day.”

  “If you need anything…” Jarret says.

  “I need to end this thing with John and put it behind us.”

  We spend the next hour, leaning against the fence and watching our girls while kicking around plots of murder.

  Jake and Jarret single-handedly took out John’s creditors and hitmen over the years, but they had intel from Sheriff Fletcher and John’s computer—addresses, dates and times of meetings—and the element of surprise.

  John knows we’re coming for him, and he’s a crafty motherfucker.

  The weaponry and self-defense training will continue with Raina, because I want her to have those skills. But there’s no way in hell I’m putting her in John’s sights.

  I will end this, one way or another.

  That night, Raina and I join the others on the back porch, and the first thing I notice is there isn’t enough seating.

  The arrangement of two chairs and a loveseat is all we ever needed.

  For the four of us.

  Now our family of four is six.

  We all feel the significance of that as we gather around, piling in laps and squeezing in. Raina sits beside me on the couch, and the others pair off in the chairs.

  Extra seats could be brought out, but no one bothers. It’s as if there’s an unspoken consensus to fill in all the pockets of space with the voices, bodies, and smiles of the Holsten-Cassidy tribe.

  Conor’s smile is the biggest. Perched on Jake’s lap, she leans toward the coffee table at the center and holds out a hand, palm up.

  The sight of her scar stills the breath in my chest.

  Jake extends his arm in the same manner, placing his welted palm beneath her hand. Jarret follows suit, cradling theirs.

  I’m the last to move, sliding in at the bottom with my scar holding up the others.

  Blood, revenge, unity, victory—it’s all there in four hands, twenty fingers, and eight years.

  Maybe clasps Jarret’s leg, and Raina’s slender arm slides around my back.

  Her dark eyes find mine, her expression soft with understanding. We talked about the scars during our nights on the sleeping bag. In the short time I’ve known her, we’ve shared every secret, every failure and triumph.

  “We did it.” Conor’s smile teeters. “It’s been a brutal ride, but you know what? Fuck them. Fuck everyone who tried to break us apart. We’re stronger for it. We’re still together and still kicking ass.”

  “Can I get an amen?” Jarret shouts dramatically, teasing her.

  She jerks her hand from the pile and tries to knock off his hat, laughing as she tackles him.

  As I lower my arm and sit back, I realize how proud I am of how far we’ve come.

  We could’ve turned our moment of reflection into a harrowing mood leaden with tragedy and bitterness. But we’re beyond that. We don’t need to relive the memories or rehash our feelings about it. God knows, we’ve done enough of that for a lifetime.

  Instead, the atmosphere vibrates with love and celebration. Because Conor’s right. We did it. We survived.

  “You know what this calls for?” I reach behind the couch and grab my guitar.

  “Some bluesy redneck shit?” Jarret pulls out his harmonica.

  “Yup. I’m thinking… Wheeler Walker Jr.”

  “I know exactly what song is in your filthy head.” Conor points at me as she stretches for the acoustic Jake recently bought her.

  When she settles on his knee with the guitar on her lap, I give her a chin lift, signaling her to start.

  She bends over the frets, plucks a few notes, then strums the snappy chords of Eatin’ Pussy/Kickin’ Ass. Jarret jumps in on harmonica, followed by me on backup guitar.

  When Jake starts singing, Maybe and Raina sit up, captivated, smiling widely, and a few verses later, laughing their asses off.

  Raina curls a hand around my neck and puts her mouth at my ear. “If this were our song, it would be Kicking Pussy and Eating Ass.”

  Laughter bursts from deep in my chest. Her gaze zooms in on my dimple, and my grin widens.

  I introduced the twins to this song when we were kids, before any of us were eating or pounding pussy, and look at us now. We’re belting the lewd lyrics, tapping our boots, and turning up the heat with our girls.

  I forgot how well these jam sessions nourish the bond between us. The chorus of closeness waves away stress, triggers the release of happiness, and takes the mind off our problems.

  When we play together, we communicate on a whole other level—with notes, our eyes, and our laughter.

  Raina curls up beside me, her cheeks stretched in a permanent smile. She may not be able to relate to the connection I share with them, but she will. A year from now, ten years from now, she’ll have her own bond with this rowdy group.

  We jam for the rest of the night, drunk on the music and the comfort of camaraderie. As it grows late, the song selections tumble into mellow, slow-dance territory.

  Jarret rises, leaving his harmonica and his girl in the chair, and steps toward Raina.

  “I want a dance,” he says, “before the Neanderthal hauls you into his cave.”

  She stares up at his ridiculously charming grin, and her pink lips part on a breath. “Okay.”

  As he leads her to an open area on the porch, I set my guitar aside and approach his blonde fireball with a hand extended.

  “Are you shitting me?” A smile explodes in Maybe’s blue eyes, and she leaps up, grabbing my fingers. “I knew I’d grow on you.”

  “Like a rash.” I hold back a smirk and pull her across the porch, positioning us near Raina and Jarret.

  “You know what you need?” Her hand folds around
mine, the other resting on my shoulder. “A baby calf. That would soften you right up.”

  “I’m down with that.” I slide her into a two-step. “I can already taste the tender veal melting in my mouth.”

  “Ugh. Have you met Chicken?”

  “You mean the spoiled, cow-shaped dog living in the stable?”

  “You think she’s adorable. Admit it.”

  “The rash is starting to itch.” I swing her into a fast turn, which shuts her up.

  For two seconds.

  “Do you want to talk about Rogan?” She peers up at me.

  I never met my half-brother. Never knew I had one until Maybe came along. I don’t care. Blood-related or not, it’s hard to feel any sense of loss for a con-artist who plotted against the people I love.

  But that’s not what she’s asking. She wants to know that she and I are okay, that there are no ill feelings. It matters to her, because she has a big heart, and she’s invested every inch of it in this family.

  “We’re good, Maybe.” I guide her around Jarret as he speaks quietly at Raina’s ear.

  When my attention returns to the blonde in my arms, I find her studying me, as if probing my expression for the truth.

  She came to the ranch as a reporter, but in reality, she was a fashion journalist. Though she doesn’t wear a speck of makeup, she seems to prefer dresses, like the frilly one on her now.

  I squint at her. “Do we need to bond over hair braiding and toe painting?”

  “Is that on the table?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll be content with more dances.”

  Across the porch, Conor transitions into Ride by Chase Rice, and Jake leans into her, breathing the lyrics in a rumbling voice that causes her fingers to miss a chord.

  Maybe makes a noise in her throat and lowers her arms. “This is baby-making music.”

  Behind her, Conor winks at me and turns back to Jake and her guitar.

  With a hand on Maybe’s back, I escort her to Jarret and reach for Raina’s arm.

  “I need my girl.” I pull the black-haired beauty against me and spin us toward the stairs.

  “Under the stars?” she asks.

  “Under me.”

  Her lips curl into a sexy smile.

  I lead her off the porch, where the overhang doesn’t obstruct our view of the sky.

  With my fingertips grazing the silky skin above her waistband, I bring her in tight and sway against her hips, flowing with the rhythm of the acoustic.

  I know her hands, and I know where they go. On me. Anywhere. I just want to feel her touch, her pulse, her love.

  She gives it to me. A palm resting on the back of my neck. Fingers sifting through my hair. Breaths heating my throat. Heartbeat knocking against mine.

  “I hear you,” she whispers.

  “I love you, too.”

  Her eyes widen slightly as she inhales my declaration and sighs it back against my lips.

  On the porch, Jarret and Maybe move in their own whispering dance as Jake and Conor serenade us through one of the most sensual country songs I’ve ever heard.

  “You love me.” Raina slides against my body.

  “Deeply.” I lick the words from her mouth and trace them to her neck before taking them on a journey across the plump rise of her breasts.

  Her eyes stay on me, and her hands join the connection, caressing, gripping, and igniting my blood.

  She’s impossible to resist. Her gaze, her skin, her mouth… I devour it all, rolling our hips together, laving my tongue, dragging my fingers, and turning the stars into flames.

  Jake continues to sing, his voice growing deep and husky as he drawls out words like hotter, loving, and fucking.

  Raina chuckles against my throat. “When did country music start dropping F bombs?”

  “This is the dirty version.”

  “I bet you think this song’s gonna get you laid.”

  “I think…” I kiss her mouth, her jaw, and swirl my tongue around her earlobe. “I’m going to spend so much time inside you in the infinite future that your panties will get wet at the sound of my zipper.”

  Her breath catches. “I should probably steal some more panties.”

  “A lot of desperate days coming your way.”

  “It’ll be hard.” Her hand lowers to my belt, and her fingers splay over my swelling cock. “Feels like it already is, but we’ll work through it.”

  We’ll work through it right now. And not while I’m watching my sister get worked up with Jake.

  I grab her hand, yank her into the house, and toward our room. It’s a zigzagging trip as I back her against every wall to indulge our hungry lips.

  By the time we reach the suite, we’re stumbling in a tangle of arms and tongues and frenzied breaths.

  When I close the door, she pushes away from me and walks backward with a wicked twinkle in her eyes.

  Her shirt hits the floor. Then her boots. As she reaches back to unclasp the bra, I hiss between my teeth.

  I want to slow it down, just for a minute.

  “Stop.” I wait for her to obey and remove the phone from my pocket.

  Flipping through the playlist, I select Like a Wrecking Ball by Eric Church.

  “Proceed.” I set the phone aside and clasp my hands behind me. “Do it to the music.”

  Just the very first note of this song inspires friction and tangled sheets. But it has nothing on the salacious striptease that fills my view.

  It’s an unhurried torment of discarded clothes and wandering hands. As each dip and curve is revealed, all I can think about is sinking into my home.

  I prowl toward her, follow her down to the bed, and surrender to the gasping heat of her mouth and body.

  She pleasures me with passion.

  I love her with fire.

  Together, we reduce the night to ashes.

  Nine days later, I collapse onto our new king-sized bed in a pile of sore muscles and overworked joints. We’re only halfway through branding week, and I’m dead.

  “Think of it like this,” Raina says from the bathroom. “At least it’s not your ass getting branded or your penis being whacked off with a dull knife.”

  “We remove the testicles, not the…” I lift my head, and my throat dries.

  She stands in the doorway, backlit by the bathroom light. The rounded outline of her hourglass figure beneath the thin nightgown is even more erotic than her nudity.

  But it’s her riveting eyes that hold me, luring me like a drug. There’s something so mystical in the way she looks at me. It’s a look that listens and finishes sentences without an uttered word.

  “Don’t even think about getting hard.” She walks through the furnished room, picking up clothes and setting things away. “You need sleep.”

  I’m already hard, but she’s right about the sleep.

  At least our room is finished. When the online purchases arrived last week, we decorated the space, fought and seethed while assembling the furniture, and reconciled in a sweaty heap of stripped clothes and panting breaths.

  We officially moved in, marking the start of our future together.

  If I could only wrap up the damn loose end in our past, I might actually sleep through the night in our new bed.

  During the few days we had left before the branding began, we worked on practicing her aim with the shotgun. She’s improving and gaining confidence with it. She understands every part of a firearm, how to assemble them, and the proper procedures when they jam.

  I would never send her out to take down John Holsten, but she has the skill to do it.

  “I have something for you.” I roll my tired ass to the nightstand and remove a small envelope.

  She approaches in a swirl of warmth and flowers that intoxicate my brain.

  “What is it?” She accepts the package and sits beside me on the bed.

  “Open it.”

  Her fingers feather over the paper, and she slides out a bracelet of woven wire that
matches the color of her bronze skin.

  “Lorne…” She traces the brass ball ends that gather like charms where the bracelet fastens together. “Are these your guitar strings?”

  “Yeah. They needed to be replaced, so I ordered new ones. But I couldn’t throw the old ones away.”

  They’re the same steel strings I played the night at the ravine. They lived on my guitar all these years and survived just like the rest of us.

  I don’t have to explain the meaning of that to her. It’s there, in the glistening sheen of her eyes.

  “I used the entire set of six strings. Since the steel is wrapped in copper and silk, it shouldn’t irritate you. And I didn’t weld them. They’re just braided together and held by this.” I tap the tight coil of wire near the grouping of ball ends. “If you loosen the coil, the strings will unravel and return to their original shape.”

  She slides it on her wrist with trembling fingers. “I’ll cherish it, Lorne. It’s…” Her chin quivers, and she turns to me, hands on my face and lips against my mouth. “It’s beautiful and perfect and… Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” I hold up my arm, indicating the dream catcher necklace I’ll never take off.

  As she touches it, the appreciation in her eyes imparts an echo on my soul.

  This is just the beginning. Someday, she’ll wear my mother’s ring, and if I’m lucky, she’ll carry my child.

  She leans her forehead against mine and whispers over my lips, “I love you.”

  “I hear you, too.”

  Our noses fit together, sliding side by side as our breaths mingle without expectation. There’s desire there. It keeps a constant vigil between us. Her tongue peeks out, tasting our chemistry, eager to feed it despite the late hour. But I hear her protest before it migrates to her vocal cords.

  “We’re going to sleep,” I say.

  She’s putting in as many hours as I am at the ranch, in addition to preparing our meals and keeping the house clean.

  A sigh pushes off her lips, making them pout. “I need to check the laundry and—”

  “Come here.”