by Brynn Hale
Breck
Peacock Ridge Cowboys Book 2
Brynn Hale
Contents
TILLY
BRECK
TILLY
BRECK
TILLY
BRECK
TILLY
Epilogue
About the Author
TILLY
“I swear, if he’s set up traps or snares, I’ll hurt him. And I’ll make it look like an accident.” I look in the rearview mirror of my truck and my eyes look a little deranged. “No one would suspect me. Nice little Tilly Warren never hurts anyone. Never does anything wrong. Never takes a chance. Never…” I roll my eyes. My brain has definitely gone off the rails. I often do that when I’m upset.
My job as a conservationist for a small non-profit, Hearts 4 Wildlife, brings me to ranchers’ doors often. Lately, I have discussed and disagreed with them on a myriad of fauna issues with the area residents. The ranchers have a hate-hate relationship with many species that really don’t mean any harm and are mostly misunderstood. It’s my job to get them to understand skunks, groundhogs, bobcats, pocket gophers, fox, and raccoons—and lately coyotes—and much more. Everything has its place in the ecosystem.
However, I tend to like animals more than people because in my eyes, they were here first. We should be living around them, not the other way around. But in many of the rancher’s eyes I would be very wrong. We agree to disagree.
I’m just attempting to get them to use humane ways to encourage the animals to live in symbiotic relationship with both people and their domesticated animals, including cows and pets and recently, ostrich, bison, and emu farms that have popped up over the last twenty years here in northern Colorado. I’m not trying to stop them from earning a living, but of course, many of the generations here believe that their property is theirs to do with as they wish, even if it upsets the balance in the circle of life. Take away the coyotes and the nest predators they keep in check would decimate the populations of ground nesting birds, like the sage grouse.
I crunch harder on the piece of glass candy that my mom cooked up as gifts for Christmas. She tried something new—strawberry and lemon flavorings. It’s completely different from the traditional cinnamon and wintergreen flavors and reminds me of spring when I would go to the Reeves’ ranch and pick strawberries in their huge garden. Those memories are some of the best of my twenty-nine years of life.
And that’s just sad.
I wring the steering wheel of my ’71 Ford Bronco, preparing my speech. The rust is the only thing holding my baby together, but we’ve been partners for almost ten years. Unlike humans, she’s never let me down. Humans on the other hand bring forth disappointment regularly.
The truck fishtails as I pull onto the lane that leads to the Peacock Ridge Ranch B&B. My guitar slips off the seat and releases an odd sound as it hits the floorboard. Stupid snow. I regain control. My disappointment in my friend and his neighbors is making me take chances that I shouldn’t.
Doesn’t help that I’m driving in the middle of nowhere two days before Christmas, prime bad weather season. It’s a miracle Santa can find us most years.
Peacock Ridge has been my home forever, and I probably could drive these roads with my eyes closed, but tonight that wouldn’t be smart.
I near the house but Cole’s truck isn’t there. He’s never not home in the evenings. If there’s anything my friend is it’s dependable and predictable.
I park the truck next to an out-of-state plated SUV. By the empty spots, I can tell the B&B isn’t full-up on guests. But they’ll all be gone in a couple of days. The Reeves family is known for their Christmases. They’re packed full of friends and family. I attended one year, but everyone was all dressed up and the women had perfume on and the guys were wearing dress shoes that I know made their feet hurt. Why anyone wanted to wear uncomfortable shoes was beyond me?
Which brings the yearly community Snow Ball into my mind. The Peacock Ridge Christmas dance event that brings all kinds to the VFW hall. All kinds except my kind.
Wearing a dress. Not going to happen. My boobs stay hidden behind flannel and sweatshirts for a reason.
Wearing shoes that kill your feet. Not a chance. I’ll keep my hiking boots, thank you very much.
Wearing my hair down. That’s a recipe for hell. One—static electricity. Two—I don’t care.
The only thing I’ll be wearing tomorrow night are my flannel pajamas and a pair of fuzzy slippers. Comfort over fashion.
Always.
I reach the front door and walk right in like always. I’ve known the family since I was in diapers and I feel like a sister to Cole.
“Hello? Cole?”
A pair of boots clack across the wood floor at the far end of the house in the den.
Someone who looks similar to my friend Cole rounds the corner.
“Tilly. Hey.” He chin juts and makes brief eye contact with me. “Cole’s in town seeing Ellie.”
“Ellie Roberts?” That’s news to me.
Breck nods, his longish dirty blond hair flopping into his face. “That’s the one.”
“For?”
He folds his arms and ignores my question. “Did you need something?”
I lean against the hallway wall. “I needed to talk to him about this coyote problem that Nolan Church is claiming.”
“Claiming?” His bushy dark blonde eyebrows rise.
I tip my head. “You know what I mean.”
“I only know that those coyotes were harassing our cows two nights ago. And one took out after Roscoe.”
I push off of the wall my heart pounding. “God, I’m sorry to hear that. Is he okay?”
“Roscoe!” Breck calls out and the blue healer comes bounding around the corner. The dog sniffs me, smelling my own dog, Bella, and then he lifts his leg.
“Hey! What the…” I jump out of the way as he lets go of a stream.
“Roscoe, outside!” Breck says while he rolls with laughter. He grabs paper towels and cleaner and squats to clean it up. “I guess we know what Roscoe’s opinion is of the situation.”
My jaw tightens. “He smells my dog, Bella. She’s in heat right now.”
“Sure she is.”
“I really need to talk to Cole, but is Luke here?”
Luke is a good second option. The youngest brother of the three Reeves brothers, he’s as levelheaded as Cole, but he really doesn’t have the authority that Cole has as the oldest. But…as the marketing manager he doesn’t want bad press, I can appeal to that. Anyone but the man crouching in front of me.
Breck.
God, anyone. I plead to a higher being.
He stands. “As I said, Cole’s not here and neither is Luke. He has a poker night in town Thursdays. So, either you talk to me or you decide to keep it all bottled up inside that supernatural, witchcrafty head you have when it comes to what we ranchers should do and not do on our own property.”
And this is why I don’t talk to Breck.
Cole might have issues with what I ask of him, but he at least listens to me. His brother Breck’s the middle son of the late Betty and Carson Reeves; two of the kindest people in the world. But that gene seems to have skipped a generation when it comes to Breck.
I will not engage him. I will leave. I will…examine him from the top of his head down to those sexy black cowboy boots.
Okay, maybe…maybe he’s a tall drink of water and right now, I’m feeling slightly thirsty. And maybe his lips look like they’d make any woman moan with delight. And maybe I’ve fantasized once or possibly twice about what it would be like to be in his bed. But with comments like that, the dreams disappear and I’m right back to understanding why I never take a chance.
Hell, I’ve never taken a chance with any man.
&nb
sp; “Coyotes—”
He steps closer and his gaze floats over my face. I swallow and recoil from the action just slightly.
“Come on. If you’re going to continue with this nonsense, I need some whiskey.” He nods over his shoulder. “I’ll let you get it out and maybe then you’ll feel better.”
My stomach flutters and I consider turning on the heels of my boots.
At this moment I can only imagine one thing that will make me feel better, Breck, and it’s not talking.
BRECK
If I have to be the surrogate-Cole I might as well coat my pain with some of Dad’s best whiskey. Our father’s been gone two years now and every time I lift that cut crystal decanter, I think of him.
I figure Tilly’s either going to follow or she’s going to leave. But I have to admit I’m a little surprised when I hear those massive camel-colored men’s boots clomping behind me and into the den.
I’m sure she thinks she can change my mind about those detestable and dangerous coyotes needing to stay off our land. One cow gets a little far from the herd and they’ll take it down. And I don’t even want to think about a calf. It’s happened and each time my gut twists when that momma cow cries out for days. It’s honestly heartbreaking and every time makes me a little more jaded about the balance that Tilly will try to convince me is needed.
I know they’re wild animals and yes, they were here first, but if we can’t live here amicably, they will be the ones to go.
I turn around. “Whiskey?”
She slides to a stop. “You have tequila?”
Interesting choice. I shiver remembering why I don’t drink tequila. One night in Tijuana, a horrible incident that Cole won’t let me live down. I learned my Tequila Lecture 101 grade—it was failing. Almost everyone I know has earned theirs.
Except out little bro Luke. Huh.
From the outside I’d think Tilly’s more of a beer girl. Non-pretentious. Down-to-earth. Maybe even tomboy might fit, if I didn’t see how those buttons on her flannel stretch over her chest as she takes off her coat.
I squat to look through the cabinet.
She moves to stand beside me, then crouches next to me.
I’ve never thought of Tilly Warren as gorgeous. Sure, she’s not bad to look at. She’s just…
Interesting.
I turn my head. “White or yellow stuff?”
She huffs. “Blanco or reposado?”
“Potayto…agahve,” I say with a lift of my shoulders, in a play of the “potayto, potahto” saying.
She laughs while saying, “The white stuff, please.”
The delicate laughing makes my gut float like I’ve been touched by an angel. The sound is soft, sweet, and silky and in comparison to her assertive presence, a total gut punch. Her honeyed breaths brush my face with the smells of summer and I’m already intoxicated. Her flannel shirt gapes in the middle from newly popped snaps, under pressure from her deliciously full breasts. I try to drag my eyes away, but the hint of a black lacey bra is totally unexpected. I can feel my blood pressure pulsing through my body, as well as what’s between my legs starting to make his presence known.
“Um, your…uh,” I look away. “Shirt’s open.”
She stands quickly and turns her back. “Um…sorry.”
We have a selection of alcohols for the guests that are in a cabinet in the hallway, but that stuff’s complete garbage. I reach to the back and the glass clanks against other bottles as I pull it forward.
“No need to apologize.” I stand, kicking out my legs as the blood rushes to them and to give my cock a little room in my jeans.
I pour a generous glass for no reason other than maybe she’ll stay a little longer than if it was just a shot.
“Did you know that coyotes often mate for life?” she asks.
I still with the glass held out. “No, I didn’t.”
“And did you know that killing coyotes actually causes their procreation to increase, by instigating a threat response in their DNA?”
Our hands brush as she takes the glass from me and a zip of electricity—or probably static electricity from the winter season—rocks into my hand.
“Sorry again,” she says.
“Stop saying that.”
“Saying what?” she asks as she lifts the glass to her soft pink lips and takes a sip into her mouth, allowing the liquid to slowly descend her throat with a long swallow of her delicate neck.
Delicate neck? Soft pink lips? What is wrong with me?
I decide that I’m maybe a little tipsier than I thought. One glass of whiskey and I’m already a twenty-one-year-old on their legal-drinking-age birthday and that moment for me was eight years ago. I’m a seasoned drinker. Not a newbie.
I shake my head and clear the lingering smog that she’s drifted over my brain.
“Saying that you’re sorry.” I’ve never known her to be this introverted and needlessly apologetic.
“Oh, sor—I mean, okay.” She straightens her back and throws back a hearty drink of the tequila. That’s the Tilly I know.
Pointing to the loveseat, I wait for her to take a seat before looking at my options. Next to her, which with her heavenly round hips will be a nice tight fit for both of us, or in the club chair across from her.
She takes a seat and scoots to her right, tight against the armrest. Obviously, she’s fine with me sitting with her.
I slide onto the leather, our thighs touching as I adjust to get comfortable.
“To answer your question, no, I didn’t know that they procreate like that. So we’re fucked if we don’t do something and they fuck if we do do something.”
She rolls those big teal blue eyes. “The point is that fucking with the ecosystem isn’t healthy for anyone. It frustrates ranchers because they only see more coyotes from the DNA reaction, and it makes coyotes more aggressive because they feel threatened. It is possible to live in harmony.”
I’ve heard her argument and I’m ready to move on. Cole’s the one who really decides what to do about animal issues anyway. We all have our part to play in the workings of the ranch. If we all had a say in every topic and undertaking, nothing would ever get done.
I slide my arm along the back of the loveseat and her long ponytail slips into my hand. The silky blonde strands brush through my fingers. “What do you like to do when you’re not annoying ranchers, Tilly?”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“I guess I don’t know you and maybe…” I swallow a lump in my throat. No, there’s no maybe about it. I stare into those fathoms deep eyes. “I want to know you better, Tilly.”
TILLY
I don’t like to talk about personal stuff and my hand slickens on the glass. I’m thankful there’s a nice sharp etching on the outside of the lowball glass to keep it in my hand. I swirl the tequila, releasing the aromas of the clear liquid. I throw back the last shot and let the metallic and harsh rosemary bite coat my senses as well as my tongue. I can hold my liquor. Always have been able to. I don’t know if it’s genetics or my size or I’m just that stubborn and won’t let the alcohol affect me, but right now my head is spinning like I’m truly drunk.
But definitely in a different way.
“I like to paint.”
The side of his lips rises in a cocky smirk. “And what do you like to paint?”
I hold his gaze as he takes a sip of his whiskey. “Nudes.”
He sputters through the caramel liquid. “I’m sorry, what—”
“Stop saying that.” I return to him as he admonished me.
“Fair enough. You paint nudes, really?”
“And other things, but that’s my passion.”
We get lost in conversation, never moving back to the topic that brought me here. To my surprise, it’s comfortable talking to Breck. I feel…appreciated and in a very comfortable way. Breck is more easygoing than his two brothers, and as much as I remember him being that quiet and introspective kid in high school, a class ahead of me. He’s ext
remely insightful and offers his opinion without force. It’s actually a skill that I probably should work on, but sometimes my passion just takes over and I end up flustered and frustrated when the ranchers won’t listen to me.
I stand. “Well, I suppose I should get going.”
He nods and stands. “And I need to check on the cow in the barn that Dr. Ellie Roberts declared pregnant today. Surprise!”
“How did Cole miss that?”
He shook his head. “How did all three of us miss it?”
“Yeah, that, too.”
The Reeves family was three generations raised in this house and I knew how important the cattle were to them, even if they had a dozen other side businesses, the cattle were a tradition. Missing this fact was probably a little upsetting.
“Mind if I tag along?” Why? Why did I ask that? Here I was all ready to go home and snuggle up with my golden retriever and then I ask that.
“Sure.” He steps closer. “I’d love to have you along.”
My heart beats fast. My height and size have always been the impediments that make guys scared of me. Not many women are five-foot-eleven and weigh as much as a man. I’m that woman. I’m big. In my eyes I’m not beautiful, just big. But he doesn’t seem to look at me like I’m too much of anything. In fact, his hazel eyes glow like he’s ready to lift me up and throw me over his shoulder and take me back to his cave.
I clear my throat as it tenses under his scrutiny. “Actually, maybe I should just get back home. Bella needs to get let out.”
“She can wait a few more minutes, right?” He reaches for the glass in my hand and his warm hand slips it from my grip.
“I did let her out before I left.”
“Then she’ll be fine.” He sets the glasses on the counter and he’s out the door. “Tilly…” he calls, and I follow him like a love-sick puppy.
My whole body lights on fire. It’s like Breck’s ignited a fuse inside of me with his smirks, his questions, his listening to my answers. My homelife was always a “children should be seen, not heard” kind of decree. And even at twenty-eight, I tend to be a statue when I’m with my parents. They’re not horrible people, they just had me when they were in their later years and are set in their ways. Mom liked her romance novels and it took a twenty-one-gun salute to get her to look up. And Dad stayed out in his garage for hours. I’m not sure doing exactly what. It’s probably one of the reasons that I fight for animals. They have no voice, like I experienced and sometimes I still have no voice.