Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

by Lauren Landish

  It’s so not.

  I know that as soon as I walk in the door. Unc is behind the bar, wiping down the already shining surface. His blue eyes, cold and hard as ice, cut to me with the creak of the door.

  I crumble instantly. Bellying up to the bar opposite him, my apologies gush off my tongue in one big rush of words. “Unc, I am so sorry if I overstepped yesterday. I was trying to help, thought it’d be nice for you to drive up and see everything spic and span and safe. But I should’ve asked. I’m sorry. How’s your hand?”

  Without a word, he holds his hand up. He’s wearing fingerless leather gloves, like something you’d use to work out, that block me from seeing a darned thing.

  “How many stitches? What did the doctor say? Do you have an antibiotic prescription? I can pick that up for you.”

  Unc’s eyes narrow, but he answers aloud this time. “Ten stitches. Doc said to keep it covered in ointment and bandaged.” He wiggles his fingers around, and I can tell they’re restricted, hopefully by the bandage beneath the glove. “Figured I’d keep the bandage covered so nothing got in it and people didn’t come around asking nosy questions.” One of his bushy eyebrows lifts pointedly at the questions I’ve been asking.

  “Sure, good idea,” I agree. My head bounces up and down as though I’m a bobblehead, reassuring him that everything’s fine. Just fine.

  Maybe if I say it enough, to myself and to him, it’ll be true.

  He sighs and goes to run his fingers through his hair but stops short as he remembers the injury. “Come in here a minute so we can talk. I don’t need the whole town knowing my business.”

  There’s literally no one but us in the bar right now. No customers yet, and Olivia is nowhere to be seen. But I hear clanging in the kitchen, so Ilene must be here getting prepped for the day.

  Unc opens the door to his office and steps inside, indicating that I should sit on the bench. I do, watching closely as he goes around the desk and sits down. He lays his hands over one another, bad one on bottom. He’s not a man who willingly shows a weakness, and an injury is definitely something he’d consider a weakness.

  This feels ominous.

  I think I’m about to get fired by my own uncle. I’ve never been fired from a job in my life, but that it’s Unc doing it makes it sting that much more. Especially when I was only trying to help.

  “I’m so sorry, Unc.” Hopefully, another apology will soften his heart into giving me another chance?

  “Willow.” He pauses dramatically, and my heart climbs another inch up my throat. “I asked you this before and didn’t push when you lied straight to my face, but I think it’s high time you tell me the truth. What brings you to Great Falls?”

  Huh? He knows I lied?

  Oh, shit, he knows I lied.

  I’m in deeper trouble than I thought.

  He pins me in place with a glare, and I can’t help but fidget, my knee bouncing rapidly. “A change. I told you.” I swallow down the bile threatening to come up. It’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth.

  “Tell me more. After all these years, why now?” A thread of anger weaves through the question, and while I’d like to tell myself it’s a leftover emotion from Grandpa or Mom, I know it’s because he can read me like a book. And he knows I’m still lying to him right now.

  If the only way out of this is with the truth, then so be it.

  Sorry, Mom.

  “I remember you from when I was younger. You know I always thought you were my cool uncle. You’d take me for rides in your truck, letting me bounce around in the front seat when Mom made me sit in the back, and you’d tell stories and cuss with zero care that Oakley and I were in the room, and you . . .” I fall back into the past, into memories around the dinner table with Mom, Dad, Oakley, Unc, and me. “You talked to me like I had thoughts and opinions worth hearing. Other than Mom and Dad, you were the only adult who did that. It made me feel . . . not invisible at a time when all I felt was invisible.”

  He starts to say something, but I need to get this out while I have a chance. If he sends me out of here today and I go home to the city with my tail between my legs, I need him to know how much he means to me.

  “But when you and Grandpa . . .” Unc flinches, and I graze around that wound. “Fought, you left. You left me like I was nothing, like maybe I wasn’t so worthwhile and important, after all. And I was hurt. I was furious for a long time. But time keeps passing, and when I got older, I realized we don’t always have ‘later’ to sort things out, so I came. For a change with you, before it’s too late. Before we’re out of time.”

  The last words are my real fear. His time is short, shorter than it was all those years ago for sure, and there’s more at stake now.

  He starts to speak but coughs, covering a catch in his throat. “How long have you known?”

  “Since I came. It’s why I came,” I confess.

  “I figured as much,” he says dryly, leaning back in his chair. He props his feet up on the desk, crossing his hands over his belly, the bandaged one still covered by the good one. He’s somehow the utter picture of relaxation, as though yesterday didn’t happen and we’re not discussing a cancer diagnosis.

  The word alone hits me hard, which is why I’ve tried to avoid it, even in my own thoughts. Unc has cancer. It’s bad. He’s alone and needs help. He needs me.

  Cancer. Death. Fear. Time.

  Powerful words that seem to not hit Unc in the slightest. I want this memory—of Unc strong and resolute, dismissive of the seriousness of his reality. Click. Not with my camera, but with my mind this time. I know I won’t forget this image.

  “Okay, your turn. If we’re getting this out in the open, what’s the prognosis? What does the doctor say your odds are and how can I help?” I’m a woman on a mission, charging full steam ahead to handle whatever needs attention. This is what I’m here for, and there’s no need to refute it any more or hide it in subtle, secretive moves so I don’t poke at his pride.

  Unc snorts derisively. “Like he knows a damn thing. He says this is what’s gonna kill me, but he ain’t got a crystal ball. I might get hit by a bus tomorrow, so no sense worrying about what he thinks he knows.”

  What a bright, uplifting outlook, I think wryly.

  “There are no buses in Great Falls,” I challenge.

  “You know what I mean. I ain’t worrying about things I can’t change. And school buses,” he counters, plenty of sass in his own voice.

  I don’t bother reminding him that it’s summer and school buses aren’t running. “But you’re doing what the doctor says, right? Following orders?” I already know the answer, but I want to make him say it so he sees that he’s doing too much.

  And he is—working six days a week for lunch and dinner shifts the way he always has, with just those rare two days he took off, still carrying boxes around like he’s a muscled up man of twenty, drinking his craft beer and eating from Ilene’s kitchen every night where even the vegetables are cooked in butter and salt. I’m not sure how to fight cancer, but my gut tells me it involves a lifestyle based on less stress, healthy eating, and eight hours of sleep every night. All things Unc is not doing. Hell, things he’s probably never done!

  “I’m doing what I want, same as always. No reason to fix something that ain’t broke. And to be clear, I ain’t broke.” This time, I lift one brow, mimicking the move he’s perfected. “I’m not,” he asserts. “I’m old, not done.”

  I’m glad to hear that he hasn’t given up. His fight is strong, going so far as to fight the doctor and whatever weakness his body has succumbed to with the iron will he’s always had.

  Relief grows inside my heart, even though nothing has really changed.

  Unc still has cancer. But now we’re talking about it at least, and that is a change for good.

  He’s still a stubborn old coot. But now I can call him out on being pig-headed and ornery.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from the get-go, but I wanted to s
tay, wanted time with you. I still do,” I plead. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with the yardwork and office organizing.” I look around the room, gesturing to the file cabinet with drawers that actually close cleanly instead of getting stuck on stacks of crooked papers. “I really was trying to help without stepping on your toes.”

  His boots wiggle on the desk. “These old boots protect my toes just fine, girl. Don’t you worry about dancing on them. If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you.”

  I shake my head, and he does the eyebrow thing, freezing my tongue before I can argue.

  He sits up straight, his feet on the floor once again as he leans forward over the desk. “You said your piece, now I’m gonna say mine. You’d best listen up, too, because I’m not doing this whole thing again.” He points from himself to me, like this conversation is the very definition of hell to him. Not because it’s me, but because words have power and he’s speaking out loud about something beyond his control, a scary prospect for anyone, but certainly for a man like Hank Davis.

  I nod, zipping my lip and listening.

  “One, nobody knows shit and I intend to keep it that way. The gossipy Guses of this town have enough ammunition to keep them busy six days a week and twice on Sunday, and I don’t need them gossiping about me, coming in to check on me, and sending over casseroles like I can’t cook my own damn dinner.”

  He says the word ‘casserole’ with disgust, and a smile tries to bloom, but I press my lips together.

  “Two, you’re a damn good worker and an even better bartender. I might have some days where I’d like to sit on my keister and catch a fish or two, so if that’s what I want to do, I’m gonna, if that’s good with you?”

  He means the days he’s too tired or nauseous to come into work, but if he wants to call it ‘fishing’, I’ll happily oblige.

  “Of course. Fishing is important. Relaxing on a boat in the sunshine sounds lovely.”

  He looks toward the door, and I know he’s trying to escape this next part. But he digs down for courage and says what’s on his mind. “Third, there might be some days where I’d like you to go fishing with me, just sit on the boat by my side, you know? I promise not to be a grumpy asshole and throw screwdrivers around when you’re trying to help me . . . fish. Sorry about that. It was a bad day.”

  Tears prick at my eyes, hot and burning, but I refuse to let them fall. If he can be this brave, so can I. “I would love to go fishing any time you’d like, Unc.”

  He dips his chin once. “Thank you, Willow-girl. You’ve always had the sweetest spirit and you’ve already brought so much sunshine to my days.”

  I smile at the kind compliment. Right up until he finishes . . .

  “Now get out there and get to work. The lunch crowd ain’t gonna wait for you to get ready for them. They want their drinks and want them now.”

  He’s not my kind uncle anymore, down because of a hard situation. Nope, he’s back to my steel-cored, iron-willed boss.

  I salute, definitely getting the form wrong, but he cracks a smile, nevertheless. “On it, Unc.”

  I get up, beelining for the door, only to have him stop me.

  “One last thing.”

  I turn around, eyes questioning.

  “How’d you know? Who blabbed?”

  Oh, shit. There might not be buses in Great Falls, but this is a loaded question, one that’s going to shove someone right in harm’s way. But I’m not going to lie, not when Unc is finally being honest with me.

  “Doc Jones called Mom. Told her you needed somebody and we’re the only family you’ve got left. She thought it’d be too hard on you to see her, so she sent me instead.”

  “Asshole. Doc, not your mom. Carrie’s sweet to care after so long. Doc, on the other hand, I’ll rip ’im a new one for nosing around in my business when it ain’t none of his concern.”

  “If he had something going on, you’d take care of him. Or Richard. You three are thick as thieves. The Three Musketeers of Great Falls. He did what he thought was right. And it got me here, so it’s not all bad.” I think my case is pretty strong that Doc did right by Unc, but who knows if he’ll feel the same way?

  “Mmm, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll just lord it over his head a little. Get him to feel sorry for me a bit so I can win a few hands at Sunday’s game.” His smile is tinged with ornery devilment.

  “Well, you two work it out however you need to. I’m going to get to work, if that’s okay?”

  His eyes refocus on mine, likely leaving the fantasy world where he wipes out Doc Jones’s entire piggy bank without telling him that the cat’s out of the bag. “Yeah, thanks. And tell your Mom to come visit soon. I’d like to see Carrie before . . .”

  His voice trails off, and I let him leave that possibility on the tip of his tongue. No need to speak it into existence. Instead, I nod. “She’d like that. I’ll let her know.”

  “Willow Parker! You’d best get your boo-tay behind that bar and start slinging drinks like your life depends on it! Or you can act like we’ve been bought out by Coyote Ugly and climb up there to shake your moneymaker so these heathens don’t realize how long it’s been since they ordered a Coke! I’m in the weeds, girl!”

  Olivia’s voice carries through the whole room, and everyone stops what they’re doing to look at me. They’re probably wondering which option I’m going to choose.

  Option one, for sure. There’s zero doubt about that.

  I step behind the bar, already apologizing. “Sorry, I was talking to Unc.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more drink making,” she says, waving a hand to rush me.

  I look over and there are four tickets. She’s nowhere near in the weeds. This woman could run this whole damn place singlehandedly if need be. But she does like giving me a hard time.

  Glancing at her, I find her forcing a ridiculously fake, sad frown. “I was really hoping you’d get on the bar. Really hoping.”

  I flick the water on my fingers at her and finish the drinks for the second ticket, already catching up. She laughs and runs them out to table eight while I do tickets three and four. In minutes, I’m back to prep work with zero tickets in my queue, and Olivia is waiting for food orders to be ready from Ilene.

  “How was your weekend?” she asks, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a country mile.

  “Great. Yours?” I smile warmly, as though I haven’t clued in to what she’s really asking.

  She growls. “Ugh, spill it, girl! I have people here for lunch solely because they know that you and Bobby Tannen had your first official date on Monday when we were closed. I didn’t tell them Hank gave you Sunday off yet. I’m holding that ace up my sleeve. But you’d best spill it. Enquiring minds want to know. Was he as good as I dream he is?” She pelvic thrusts the air, apparently auditioning for the Coyote Ugly option herself.

  I blink the vision away, laughing. “Does Hannah know you’re dreaming about sleeping with Bobby Tannen? Seems like she might have a problem with that.” Truthfully, I don’t know. I have yet to meet the elusive Hannah, though Olivia talks about her as though she’s right here in the room at all times. Mostly because they spend all day texting each other back and forth when they’re not busy at work.

  “Hannah says he’s dreamy too. We’re secure like that. Fantasies are just that—pretend. Just because the thought of some pretty, growly cowboy taking me rough is sexy, doesn’t mean I want to actually do it. People have all sorts of images in their head that get them off, but even given the chance, they’d never do it for realsies. That don’t mean I don’t want to hear every vivid, messy detail.”

  She props her chin up on her palms, eyes wide and focused on me like I’m about to give a speech on demand.

  Welcome to my TED talk. Today’s topic will be ‘Sex with Bobby Tannen’ with helpful illustrated handouts.

  Nope, not a chance in hell that’s happening. But I trust Olivia’s judgement, even if she is a bit crazy, so I give her one detail.

  “W
e said I love you.” I nearly squeal it, but my excitement has made me breathless and it comes out more like a whisper-scream.

  “What?” she yells at full volume again.

  Thanks for that, Olivia! Not!

  I nod, not willing to repeat the words lest I jinx the whole thing.

  “Oh, my God!” She claps right in front of her heart as though it needs more than a racing beat to show her happiness for me. But then her brows jump together. “Wait. Was this mid-boink? That doesn’t count.”

  “Yes, it does,” I counter.

  Her happiness melts, going sad as she offers a pitying smile. “Oh, honey, that doesn’t count. Guys say stuff like that when all their blood is in their dick. It’s science.”

  Any other time, her doubt would make me question myself. No, not any other time . . . any other guy. But I know Bobby meant exactly what he said.

  “He meant it. I meant it. For real. And what do you know about dick science?” I whisper ‘dick’ so customers don’t hear me, even though they most certainly heard Olivia.

  Olivia leans across the bar, getting in my face and whispering, “You love Bobby? And he loves you? Like dum-dum-dee-dum?” She sings out the notes of the wedding march song.

  “I don’t know about that last part, but the rest . . . yeah.”

  I can feel my face flush, my heart pounding as I remember how good it felt to be with Bobby. I picture the look in his eyes as he gritted out his love. I feel his cum on my skin, his gentle and comforting touch as I cried on his chest, and his marks all over my body, claiming me as his.

  I have zero doubt, not about Bobby, and not about my own feelings.

  Blinking, I come back to the moment at the bar with Olivia, who is fanning her face. “Whoo, child. Wherever you just went, whatever you were thinking about . . . con-grat-u-fuckin-lations. Because that seems like some Grade-A, heart racing, pussy pulsing, good stuff. I approve.”

  She slaps the bar and hops up to make her rounds, but as she scurries off, I can hear her singing under breath . . .

  Bobby and Willow fucking by a tree . . .