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Was he with her?
That thought burned my insides, though I had no right to feel that way. I’d brought a woman along to Wildflower Canyon—and had flaunted her in front of Elena. Just like I’d known the impact she’d have on me, I suspected I had the same on her.
How could a love affair from all those years ago still bring me to my knees—how could it still bring her to hers?
I could still remember the gut-wrenching sobs she’d let out by the river, and it had given me no pleasure at all. I didn’t like seeing her hurt. That had been a surprise because I’d assumed I would. I didn’t like seeing her in pain. I never had, no matter if I’d caused her plenty of it.
Elena was in my blood like I was in hers. And if I could fuck Fiona and so many others before her despite the woman beating inside me like a pulse, she could do the same—so, if she was in the cabin with Maverick and he was fucking her brains out, I just had to accept it.
All that sounded good in theory, but the minute I even thought about Elena naked with another man, I feltnausea churn inside me. Is this how she felt when she saw me with Fiona?
I had to get rid of her…Fiona, not Elena, because there was no getting rid ofher. I was coming to terms with that truth about myself.
I’d spent ten years without her, and I was exactly where I started, begging for her attention the minute I breathed the same air as her, even as I kicked at her because I blamed her for things out of her control and mine.
In my head, I understood it. In my heart, not so much. For a man who thought he was heartless and was an objective unemotional sumbitch, I was undoubtedly behaving like a pussy in a rom-com movie.
I found myself outside the bunkhouse. I could hear the low rumble of voices, the clink of poker chips, and the occasional burst of laughter.
I didn’t bother to knock. No one did that when they entered a bunkhouse, even my absent cowboy ass knew that.
The air inside was thick with the scent of whiskey, leather, and the remnants of the day’s work—sweat, dust, the faint char of grease from the mess hall next door.
Boots were kicked off near the door and lined up in a lazy, uneven row. Someone had slung a jacket over the back of a chair, and the long wooden table by the far wall was covered in half-empty coffee cups, a deck of playing cards, and the kind of mess only working men left behind.
I knew this place.
I’d spent two summers here, back when I was just another kid trying to prove I belonged. Before the suits, before the land deals, before my last name meant something to the people around me. Because on Wilder Ranch, I wasn’t the owner’s son—I was just Duke, the kid trying to keep up.
I remembered early mornings before sunrise, piling in for coffee before heading out to work. I remembered the long row of bunks in the back, where the ranch hands crashed after twelve-hour shifts. The stove always ran hot, and Miss Patsy kept coffee on even when the sun was high, feeding anyone who wandered in.
In ranch country, you were measured on your grit. On how early you got up, how well you rode, how steady your hands were when doctoring a calf. On whether you could pull your weight, take a hit, and get back up without whining about it.
It didn’t matter who your daddy was. Out here, the land didn’t give a damn about your pedigree. Either you earned your place, or you didn’t.
This was where Nash used to come at the end of a long day—not the house, not the office, but here. He’d sit at the card table, boots propped up, drinking cheap whiskey and playing poker with the men who worked his land.
And now I was intending to do the same. I wasn’t sure if that meant something. I just knew it felt better than standing in a room full of men who wanted to carve up my inheritance.
I waited for a beat, wondering if I had the right to go into the bunkhouse like Nash used to.
“…all I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t got Nash to hide behind anymore,” Sawyer’s voice carried, smug and full of malice that sat wrong in my gut. “And we all know the new boss ain’t exactly her biggest fan.”
“Elena is terrific,” Ben remarked. He was the kid who worked in the stables.
“Elena is a cunt,” Sawyer snapped.
My jaw tightened. That son of a bitch needed his ass handed to him, and on a daily fucking basis.
“Boy, you need to shut the fuck up about Elena,” Cal said.
“What she suckin’ you off?—”
There was a big thump and some snickering.
“Hey, Cal, cut that shit out,” Sawyer cried out.
“Then you shut the fuck up,” Cal replied.