6-Pack Wrangler (Six-Pack Cowboys Book 2)

by Em Petrova

  Take care of yourself, Pup. Those were his last words before his eyes had glazed over and he’d stared sightlessly at the sky. The wrong sky—not a Texas sky.

  They were all supposed to grow old together, get together once a week for poker games and to shoot the shit. But Matt had bugged out early, and now it was up to Brodie to hold the group together.

  Only they couldn’t possibly all stay in Los Vista. Not without a miracle.

  A dog barked, and he searched the land for a glimpse of the animal. When he saw the black hound bounce above the grasses, ears flopping, Brodie’s heart lurched. His eyes blurred as a total sense of joy overcame him.

  The dog rushed him. Hit him square in the chest with his enormous paws, rocking Brodie back. He laughed and hooked the dog around the neck. “Hey, Crow. How are ya, boy?”

  Crow wagged not only his tail but his whole body. He snaked his pink tongue out and licked Brodie’s nose.

  It had been Matt’s idea to name the stray puppy Crow, partly because of its coloring and partly because they’d found him near the ruins. On the outskirts of town, a cave was hidden in the land, but most of the residents of Los Vista knew about it and had visited it at some point. The guys had taken plenty of girls there, knowing they’d be spooked enough to want the boys’ arms around them.

  Nobody knew what Indian tribe had inhabited the cave, but there were plenty of drawings and some artifacts. The dog had been found near enough the cave that Matt had called it an Indian pup, and it had become Old Crow. Just Crow for short.

  He patted the dog on the back and it dropped to all fours. Together they walked the rest of the way to the long ranch house. Each step felt weightier. Crow stopped wagging his tail and paced slowly alongside him.

  The house was unchanged, bar a few shingles that had been torn off the roof during the storm. Of course, the miles of fence running between properties was ripped up or the posts were slanted.

  Brodie stepped onto the low, wooden porch. Here they’d played cowboys and Indians as boys. They’d sat on the steps and had their first stolen sips of beer.

  When he pulled open the screen door, it still gave a pleasant creak. He rapped on the familiar wood while Crow panted at his side. He tried not to think of his reason for being there or what he was going to say. There were no words for this occasion. He’d do what he’d always done in times like this—he’d wing it.

  Footsteps sounded inside, and his heart began to race. The throb spread until his temples ached and his eyeballs felt as if they were bulging.

  Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight…

  The door opened, and he found himself staring at slim bare feet with red painted toenails. He followed them up to narrow ankles, curvy calves, thighs the warm, smooth color of a brown egg. He let his gaze rush the rest of the way up to the woman’s face.

  His jaw dropped.

  Her full, ripe lips fell open.

  For a heartbeat, he couldn’t think of who this gorgeous, tawny creature was. Long, dark hair that spilled over rounded breasts. Her eyes the same color as—

  “Pup!” She launched herself at Brodie, climbing him like a tree.

  On reflex, he locked his arms around her and held her to him, his panic forgotten, a low ache spinning through his gut. His cock twitched at the feel of her crotch against his fly, warm and covered only by a thin strip of denim and some cotton panties. At least that’s what fantasy played in his head.

  “Danica?” he choked out, catching a whiff of her hair that left him with a strangely familiar feeling. She smelled of hayfields and bonfires. Of sour apples and everything he’d loved about spending time with the Popes.

  “Jesus Christ, Brodie. Oh dear God.” She wrapped her arms and legs around him, unwilling to let go.

  He held her effortlessly, though Matt’s kid sister was nearly as tall as he was. Flat-footed she must have reached six feet. “Holy fuck, Danica.” He buried his face against her hair and just breathed. If driving into Los Vista had left him feeling empty, holding Danica felt like coming home.

  She pulled back to look into his eyes. The cornflower depths of hers were filled with tears, and while her smile was wide and her teeth blindingly white, he saw the glint of pain in her eyes.

  Very gently, he set her on her feet. She stood before him, tall and curvy. A real cowgirl in a plaid top rolled to the elbows and knotted at the waist, affording him a glimpse of tanned midriff.

  Fucking hell, she wore a silver hoop in her bellybutton.

  He snapped his gaze back to her face in time to see her features crumple.

  “Oh sweetie.” He reeled her into his arms again, just holding her and swaying back and forth as her grief crowded out the feelings of happiness they’d shared. The bag he still held seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, and he kept his wrist cocked so the bag didn’t touch her back. He wasn’t ready for her to ask what was inside. Right now, he just wanted to hold her.

  “When did you get in?” she sniffled.

  “Few hours ago.”

  “And…” Her breath washed over his neck, raising hairs he didn’t realize he had there.

  “And the town’s a fucking mess.”

  “Nobody told you?”

  He shook his head. When she withdrew from his hold to meet his stare, she’d composed herself a little. No tears wet her cheeks though some lingered in her eyes. She waved at the porch furniture, and he nodded.

  Her tanned bare feet made scuffing noises as she crossed the porch, and she tucked them under her as she sat in an old wooden chair with a cushion. Brodie purposely skirted a certain chair and sank into another. One that didn’t hold so many memories of the man—or boy, rather—who used to sit there.

  Brodie’s throat clogged again. He set the bag on the floor between his feet, leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. Forty-seven, forty-six, forty-five.

  A whispery touch on his arm made him look up into those tear-bright eyes that were breaking his goddamn heart. “I’m glad you’re home, Pup. It’s good to see you.”

  He reached for the bag, but she tightened her grip on his arm. Her fingers were long and slender, shaped so much like her brother’s.

  “I know what you brought, but I’m not ready to see it, okay? Let’s just talk. Like old times. Please?”

  He bobbed his head in agreement and sat back in his chair to look at the only thing left in Los Vista worth seeing. Matt’s kid sister had certainly grown up.

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