Preacher

by Dahlia West

  She was cute when she was mad.

  He made a mental note to track mud into the kitchen when they got back home.

  She thawed out, though, when they made a stop along the way. Erin was in love with the puppies they’d come to check out and Jack could see why. They were cute, he agreed. But cute wasn’t what they needed. They needed tough, they needed mean. They needed a guard dog.

  A nearly fully-grown male from a previous litter bounced around them excitedly, but every time Jack started toward him, he bared his teeth.

  Jack figured this dog was exactly what they were looking for. Jack figured this dog was a good judge of character if it didn’t like him all that much. “How much for this one?” he asked, jerking his thumb at the exuberant beast.

  “Duke?” the woman asked, glancing over her shoulder at the pen of pups. “But he ain’t—”

  “He’s perfect,” Jack told her and drew out his wallet.

  As much as Duke didn’t care for Jack, he seemed to love Erin and Jack was glad for it. The huge dog was practically in her lap the entire ride home.

  Jack made a mental note to teach him to ride in the truck bed, though, when he got a chance because Erin’s jeans were a mess, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  When they arrived at Thunder Ridge, the dog leaped out and took a good look at the place. He sniffed (and marked) almost every inch of it. He made a wide berth around the chicken coop, though, and Jack wondered if the breeder had had a Julio of their own.

  Erin had to get King out to the pen for his afternoon workout and that left Jack to show the dog where the water bowl was. Getting his own work done seemed damn near impossible, though, as the dog seemed to want to play every second that he wasn’t pausing for water breaks.

  It took almost an hour for Jack to realize the teeth-baring wasn’t a warning at all. It was some kind of goofy lab grin that Duke displayed whenever he was deliriously happy, which was all the time, apparently. And for whatever reason, Jack, of all people, made Duke deliriously happy.

  Jack was starting to question the dog’s judge of character after all.

  Duke came back with a makeshift toy and dropped it at Jack’s feet again.

  Jack shook his head. “No,” he said. “No more playing. I’m busy.”

  The dog objected with a loud bark. When that didn’t appear to have any effect, he lay down next to Jack as he was sorting the lumber purchase, put his head on his paws, and whined.

  Jack sighed. “You know,” he told the dog, “no one’s ever had the balls to call me out for being an asshole.”

  Duke looked up at him, eyes full of cautious hope.

  Jack had made him a toy, which was really just a sock stuffed with straw. But he’d drawn eyes and a beak on it and shook it while making stupid chicken noises. He was pleased to see that the dog was interested in trying to tear its little head off.

  “Oh, all right,” Jack huffed. He picked up the sock and waved it a little at Duke to get his attention. “Chicken,” he said. “Chicken bad. Go get it!” He whipped it across the yard.

  The dog made a noise that Jack swore sounded surprisingly like “Thank You!” and beat feet after it.

  It was impossible not to smile as he watched Duke’s long ears flopping around wildly, tongue half out of his mouth, that damn tail in constant motion.

  Duke snatched it up, scrambled back, and deposited it on one of Jack’s boots again.

  Again Jack hurled it away, as far as he could. He noticed that it was a decent workout for his ribs, playing with the dog.

  He had to wrestle the toy out of Duke’s mouth, though, every single time. And his hand came away with goo. This time, though, Duke jumped on him and clamped down on his wrist. But not hard enough to draw blood.

  “No!” Jack cried, trying to free himself. “Not me! The chicken! Bite the chicken!”

  Duke hesitated, seemingly confused, then let go of Jack and lunged for the toy. He danced happily in a circle, shaking the fake rooster between his fangs.

  Jack snorted at the idea that he was now only able to inspire loyalty in dogs. Oh, well, he thought as he headed toward the front door. At least he was reasonably sure that Duke would never turn on him. He finally managed to wear the dog out, which was no mean feat as Duke seemed to have an endless well of pent-up energy.

  The sun was starting to set, though, and Erin had long since put King away and gone inside.

  He held the side door for Duke and the dog dragged his chicken into the house and plopped down on one of the large dog beds they’d gotten for him at the store. He gnawed on it happily, covering it with Lab goo.

  Jack figured he’d better clean the goo of himself, before he tried to do anything else.

  Erin looked up at him from the stove, half-surprised, half-irritated. “I thought you were going out tonight.”

  “I need a shower first,” Jack told her, enjoying the way she had to duck her head so that he wouldn’t notice her cheeks flushing.

  He plucked a biscuit that was cooling off the counter and headed up the stairs to the second floor. Below him, Erin was muttering something that he couldn’t quite hear.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‡

  Jack showered and shaved and was already headed back downstairs when a truck pulled up in front of the house. He looked out the screen door and scowled.

  Duke, emulating him, perked up his ears and a low rumble sounded in his throat. The dog might be a goofball, but he was extremely perceptive, and anything Jack didn’t like, Duke took an instant dislike to, as well. Like Julio.

  “Growl all you want,” Jack told the dog as Buck’s truck parked in the swirling dust of the driveway. “In fact, if you take out a piece of his hide, there’s a rib eye in it for you.”

  “Jack,” Erin chastised, but secretly she wouldn’t have minded if Duke took a nip at the old man.

  Jack grinned. “He doesn’t understand anyway.”

  But the hackles on the back of Duke’s neck stood up and Erin thought that the dog understood quite well enough, thank you very much. “Go lay down,” she ordered.

  Duke gave her a quick glance but didn’t move from his self-appointed post.

  Erin sighed. “What’s the point of a dog who’ll only take orders from you?”

  Jack shrugged. “He’s afraid of me.”

  Erin met his gaze in the fading sunlight. “Is there anyone who’s not afraid of you?”

  He seemed to consider this for a moment before replying, “No.”

  Erin’s father emerged from his enormous truck dressed in his Sunday best, which Erin found ironic since she was pretty sure if Buck Walker ever entered a church, lightning might strike the man dead before his ass hit the pew.

  Buck had made some effort though, with his brand new blue jeans and starched, button-down white shirt. He had on his brilliant white Stetson and the matching cologne reached her before the old man actually did.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I don’t owe you a check for another few weeks.”

  “I just…I thought…” Buck fumbled around, looking slightly pained. He didn’t seem to be able to finish the thought, and the only sound between them was the leaves rustling in the breeze.

  Erin sighed heavily. It was doing no one any good to just stand out here, anyway. The food was getting cold. “Come on,” she said, turning to the front door.

  Buck ducked inside the house, giving Erin a sheepish look.

  Duke squeezed past Erin as she held the door and headed Buck off as he tried to get to the kitchen. The large dog growled menacingly.

  Erin sighed, then turned her head slightly. “Jack,” she said plaintively, gesturing to the dog.

  Jack frowned but snapped his fingers and pointed to the living room. “Bed,” he demanded.

  Duke whined but headed out of the entryway and into the adjoining room. He crouched on his large cushion, but his sharp eyes tracked Buck as he entered the kitchen.

  “This looks good,” Buck said encourag
ingly as he pulled out a chair.

  It was Jack’s chair, across from Erin’s. She expected him to complain, demand to have it back, but instead he settled himself in a chair right next to hers. And he didn’t look all that upset about it.

  Buck helped himself to chicken and dumplings.

  The silence at the table was thicker than the gravy.

  When all the biscuits were gone, and Buck didn’t have anything left to stuff into his mouth to avoid conversation, he said, “I saw Tucker DelRay at the diner the other day. He was telling me all about King’s progress. Sutter and Frank were listening in. And I said, ‘Yep. That’s the way of it.’ I said you’d gotten hooked up with a halfway decent foreman now and—”

  Erin’s blood boiled. She was grateful to Jack, of course, for all the help he’d been around the place, but to suggest that he had anything to do with King’s rehabilitation, that he could in any way take credit for her hard work, was infuriating. “So you told him it wasn’t even me? That my foreman wandered onto the property one day and suddenly, magically—”

  Buck spluttered, red faced. “I didn’t say he wandered anywhere. I just said—”

  Erin fumed. Jack didn’t even know a fetlock from a forelock. “Jack does not—”

  Underneath the table, Jack’s hand came down on her leg. She was so surprised that her mouth clamped shut and she forgot what she was going to say to Buck. She slammed her knees together to stop him from venturing any farther, not that it appeared that he was going to. He was perfectly still.

  Her leg was practically on fire, though, as Jack’s strong fingertips pressed themselves into the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

  If he was as suddenly—as ferociously—turned on as she was, he didn’t give any hint of it. In fact, his gaze was deadly cold…and it was trained on her father. “I swing a hammer, Buck. That’s all I do. When Erin said she needed help, it was for maintenance around the place, so she could spend all her time with the horses.”

  He gave her thigh another squeeze, not hard, but certainly a reminder to keep her temper in check.

  Erin realized she’d come dangerously close to saying too much about how Jack had actually come to Thunder Ridge. She had also been about to contradict their earlier tale of having met on the rodeo circuit.

  Buck wiped his mouth with his napkin and ducked his head. “Well, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Erin sighed. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. It wasn’t worth arguing over. She relaxed a little, dazed that for once she didn’t have to defend herself. As she leaned back in her chair, Jack’s thumb slid lightly over her skin. She had to fight not to close her eyes, be lulled by his touch.

  Thankfully, every square inch of her legs was shaved, if only to make herself feel better about how many hours she spent in the shower thinking of scenarios quite a bit like the one that was happening now.

  “I think we’ll skip dessert,” said Jack, the low timbre in his voice doing all kinds of naughty things to Erin’s insides.

  Buck nodded and stood up, pushing his plate away. He looked solemn, though, contrite.

  As much as Erin liked Jack’s hand on her leg, she pushed her own chair back and followed her father outside.

  On the last step of the front porch, Buck declared, “I just wanted to come to dinner.”

  Erin blew out a long breath. It’d been a long time since she’d looked at her father, really looked. He was so much older than her mental image of him. His hair line was receding as his beer belly got larger. Fine wrinkles appeared around his eyes and mouth.

  “I’m trying,” he said quietly.

  Erin wasn’t sure that simply trying would ever be enough. But she only had one father. And just this lifetime. “Okay,” she replied, hands on her hips. “Come again. In a few weeks.”

  Buck’s eyes lit up and he swept her into an awkward hug.

  Behind them, Duke growled but Jack shushed him.

  Buck took off down the driveway and Jack headed for the barn.

  Erin fought the impulse to call him back.

  What would she do if he did?

  Instead, she called out, “You missed your pony ride.”

  Jack didn’t bother to turn around. “That’s okay. I think I liked having my hand between your legs better anyway.”

  Erin’s thighs squeezed and her heart thumped in her chest.

  Time for another shower.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‡

  The next morning, Jack had a hankering for scrambled eggs and buttered toast. And the only thing standing in his way was a dick.

  Or a cock, to be more accurate.

  Jack scowled and shook his head at the dog. “You know, you’re supposed to be doing something about that rooster.”

  Beside him, Duke whined and lowered his head to the grass.

  Jack sighed and took a step closer to the coop.

  Julio trained his beady little eyes in their direction.

  “There’s a bottle of hot sauce with your name on it in the pantry,” Jack growled.

  The rooster strutted back and forth, guarding his portion of the yard, clearly not concerned.

  Jack glared at him. “I’ll buy her a dozen chickens. Two dozen chickens. She’ll never even miss you.”

  Julio stopped and gave Jack the evil eye, as well.

  Jack resisted the urge to cross his fingers to ward off the bad juju.

  It had been an empty threat, at least on his end, and Jack wasn’t used to giving those. It didn’t sit right with him, but there was nothing he could do. The problem wasn’t really the chicken. The chicken could be dealt with. Easily. Jack could either put a bullet in the nasty bastard or just wring Julio’s neck with his bare hands.

  The problem was that Erin liked this chicken. She wanted this chicken around—for some inexplicable reason—and that meant Jack had to tread lightly. And he couldn’t be sure, but it almost felt like Julio understood Jack’s dilemma—despite his tiny little chicken brain—and had come to the conclusion that this made Jack easy…peckings.

  This chicken was mocking him.

  “I could buy another chicken,” Jack grumbled. “A bigger chicken. And let him kick your ass.”

  Julio strutted again, beak high in the air, as if to say, Bring it on, asshole.

  Jack snorted. Julio probably would win. The little shit was one hell of a fighter. Jack would at least give him that.

  Julio stalked back and forth along the wire fencing of the henhouse, guarding his females, all of whom clucked appreciatively.

  Looking at Julio now, it wasn’t difficult to imagine him in a little hat, and a fluffy, white fur coat. If Julio had hands instead of wings, Jack somehow knew without a doubt that he would also carry a cane. “I’ve known pimps who weren’t as tough as you,” he declared.

  Julio crowed. Damn right.

  Jack was about to roll up his sleeves and get down and dirty with the bird when a car came down the driveway behind him. He turned to see a small, silver sedan pulling up underneath the oak tree. The driver’s side door opened and Duke let loose a fury of barks and snarls. The man behind the wheel jumped back inside, pulling the door closed behind him. “Is he dangerous?!” he shouted through the open window as Jack made his way to the car.

  Jack shrugged. “He looks dangerous,” he told the man. “I don’t know. Haven’t had this dog long. Just got him yesterday. Can’t say what he’d do, honestly. I don’t think he likes you, though. Just sayin’.”

  The man eyed Duke warily. “Can I get out of the car?” he asked Jack.

  Jack tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “Depends on why you’re here. You lost? I could understand that. We are at the ass end of nowhere. All you need to do is get back out on the highway there and just drive straight in whichever direction you prefer. If you head south, you’ll end up, eventually, in Rapid City. If you head north, there’s a tiny little town called Highland. And when I say tiny, I mean it might be the size of a crab hopping around on a toilet sea
t. And about as pretty.”

  The man bristled and tugged at his tie.

  Jack grinned. “Guess you’re from Highland.”

  The man cleared his throat sharply. “Don Cartwright. First National Bank of the Badlands,” he said and extended his hand through the open window.

  Jack made no move to take it but Duke seemed eager enough. He lunged again at the car, and Don Cartwright of the First National Bank of the Badlands jerked it quickly back inside. He slid the window up an inch or two for good measure.

  Jack shook his head. “I wouldn’t stick your hand out again,” he advised. “Just to be safe.”

  “Is Erin around?” Cartwright called through the crack of the window.

  “Erin?” Jack repeated, frowning.

  The man nodded. “Erin.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes at the man. He was pretty sure by the expression on Cartwright’s face that the fat, balding man finally understood that it might not necessarily be the dog that he should be afraid of. “Miss Walker is busy,” Jack declared.

  Cartwright patted his face with his hand. “Well, Erin—”

  Jack moved forward a bit, just rebalancing himself on the balls of his feet, really. Duke noticed, though, and gave another low growl. “Miss Walker,” Jack reminded him. “Because you two aren’t exactly friends. Are you?”

  “Er—Miss—Miss Walker is a client. One of our most important clients and absolutely we’d like to think of her as a friend.”

  Jack might have laughed, except he wasn’t amused. In the MC world, respect was everything. No one would dare call Preacher “Jack” or even “Prior.” It irritated Jack that this man thought that a simple business deal had somehow secured him the right to call Erin by her first name.

  Duke agreed because he growled again, low in his throat.

  “Does he actually bite?” Cartwright asked.

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe. Like I said, we haven’t had this dog long. Can’t say for certain what he’d do.”

  Behind him, he heard Erin’s boots on the gravel, but Jack never took his eyes off their unwelcome visitor.