Page 2 of Baker (Bastian Brothers #1)

That twister had been one of many we’d lived through.

We’d moved the round bales into a different shed, one that used to house steer calves being held for market.

Feed and equipment storage sheds sat next to muddy ponds dug just for watering cattle.

The pastures were now empty of beefers. A few horses were out in the nearest fields, moseying about as a herd of Whitetail joined them.

We had lots of wildlife here and big fish in the ponds.

A few of my fellow ranchers who were still hanging on by their teeth were now talking about allowing hunters to use their lands.

There was big money to be made opening up your land to out-of-staters with shiny new rifles and expensive camo.

I’d declined. So far. Seeing the deer, pronghorn, Rio Grande turkeys, and loping black bears was one of the few joys I had left.

Witnessing a big buck tied to the roof of some outsider’s car wasn’t on my agenda.

Not unless we were starving or the taxman was knocking on the door.

So far, we’d kept the tax collector from our front step.

Just by the skin of our teeth some years.

The sound of another round being fired rolled over the fields, startling the deer into bolting.

The horses were used to it, more or less.

Even Prissy, who could be scared into a meltdown by a jackrabbit in her path, never flinched at the pop of Granny’s 22 long rifle.

A shrill shout of frustration floated by.

She’d missed again. I enjoyed the view of the old gal kicking over the stack of empty soda cans she had beside her shooting station.

A line of cars rolling to the ranch caught my attention, yanking my focus from an irate eighty-year-old in robe and curlers to a convoy of vehicles led by a black hearse.

“The prodigal father returns,” I muttered to Prissy, who, clever mare that she was, tried to swing back to the wide open fields. “Sorry, girl, this is something we gotta do.”

Turning her back to face the ranch, the hearse slowed as it neared the house, as did the two SUVs in its wake.

Granny stood by the old well, arms folded over her rifle, in her best spring yellow robe.

I couldn’t see her expression, but anytime I was met with someone cradling a gun, I tended to proceed with caution.

The cars parked behind the hearse. Rentals by the look.

New and shiny. Well, not so shiny now. The drive into the ranch was long and wet.

Mud was thick on the sides of every car parked in front of my house.

Prissy raised her nose into the wind, scenting something, perhaps the other horses or a coyote skipping around downwind to try to grab one of Granny’s chickens.

Four people exited the SUVs, all men by the looks, although from this distance, they could have been women in suits and…

a hat? Guess I had some gender norm work to do.

Given what I knew of the crew that was arriving, I felt it safe to say my brothers, and a plus one, had arrived.

Half -brothers. It was important to make that distinction.

The leather saddle under me creaked as I leaned forward to try to see better.

Granny was not aiming the gun at them, not that I thought she would.

She was actually pattering to them to hug each man, even the slim fourth, as well as Mike McMillan, the owner of the funeral parlor in town, who was driving the hearse.

Four were dressed for a burial in dark suits.

The fifth was in a jewel-toned suit, bright blue like the feathers of a peacock, and wore a sapphire hat with netting just like the ladies over in England wear to fancy horse races and teas.

Maybe I’d misgendered that one after all.

Damn. I really needed to do better. So, four men and a petite woman in a gaudy hat.

Great. Next, she would invite them in to have coffee and a hot breakfast.

“Yep, there they go.” I blew out a breath filled with disgust. Sometimes my grandmother was too damn charitable for her— and my—own good. Knowing I couldn’t put it off much longer—Granny would be inviting them to stay for a while—I clicked to Prissy and rode down to face my brothers.

Half -brothers. Plus one hat-accessorized person, a funeral director, and a dead skirt-chaser.

Bet old Curly wouldn’t have been singing about this winsome morn…

***

I tended to Prissy first because a good horseman always took care of his horse before anything else, and if the people gathered inside didn’t know that, then they could jet on back to their big cities.

Hopefully, they’d be doing so as soon as the old bastard was in the ground and the will read.

After I had dawdled in the stable as long as I possibly could—every horse required a splash of fresh water and a pat or two—I ambled to the front porch, reeking of barn.

Not an unpleasant smell as far as I was concerned. My guests may think differently.

Granny’s rooster, a big red fellow with black tail feathers, was off to the left with his hens digging about under a weeping willow.

The screen door creaked. I took a moment to toe off my shitty boots in what we called the mudroom but city folks would call it a foyer.

I did note a line of newish-looking shoes lined up neat as pins.

Granny was a stickler for clean floors. Not an easy task on a working ranch, but I’d learned young not to track cow shit through the first floor.

She may be small, but she is mighty. I checked out the tiny blue flats among the other more traditionally manly footwear.

The lady in the blue suit with the fancy hat had tiny feet. Her shoes had sequins. Huh.

The soft rumble of conversation stalled as Granny shouted my name.

“Yep,” I replied, threw my shoulders back, and made my way down a slim hallway past the living room and pantry to the kitchen.

All eyes touched on me as I entered. I was ridiculously underdressed.

Well, aside from Granny, who was in her robe yet.

“Was out checking fence,” I lied as I took in the room.

Mike McMillan sat beside my grandmother, duded out in the standard black suit all funeral directors wore.

He was an older man, probably early sixties, with a soft manner that worked well for his line of work.

Thinning hair, dark eyes, he stood to offer me his hand and his condolences.

“Nice to finally meet you,” the youngest looking of my three half-siblings said as he stood.

“Ford.” He had a firm handshake for a city boy.

Thick New York accent. Blond hair that tickled the collar of his shirt, blue eyes that skipped from one person to the other like he was waiting for someone to pounce.

Big city living did that, no doubt. No one had ever been mugged in Bastian Grange unless you counted the time Potter Hennessee got drunk and fell into the duck pond on the green.

A pair of Canada geese had taken over the pond that year.

The mugging made the front page of the Bastian Grange Bugler that week. “This is my friend Bella Dee Britta.”

I gazed down at the platinum blond seated beside Ford. The blond gave me a long, coy look with precisely made-up eyes and offered me a hand with a grip like a lumberjack’s.

“Pleased to meet you, cowboy.” Their voice dipped low enough that I realized this person was not a woman at all, even though he was trying to speak as one.

I thought to ask but bit it back. Bella smiled a knowing smile as I tried to parse things out.

Nothing more was said about Bella Dee, so I shifted my attention to the burly bearded bear of a man with the earring and take no shit aura.

He wore his handlebar mustache and the small hoop in his left ear well.

“I’m Linc,” he said, pushing to his feet to shake my hand.

Big hand, rough, the hand of a working man.

This was the one who owned a bar. His eyes were deep brown, his hair and beard brunette.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He jerked his hairy chin at the ginger coming to his feet on his left.

“This is Dodge.” Dodge was the tidiest of us all with his grooming.

Short red hair with neatly trimmed cinnamon scruff.

Hazel eyes. Freshly pressed suit and tie.

He looked the part of a dental worker well.

Put him in scrubs and hand him one of those spit suckers that dentists use and there you go.

Which reminded me that I was overdue for a cleaning.

“Pleasure.” Dodge took my hand and pumped it just once. “Funny how it took his dying to bring us all together.”

“Yep, it’s funny all right,” I muttered.

Mike chuckled softly. We all glanced at him. “Sorry, I just realized that each of you is named after a make of car aside from you, Baker.”

I hated having to explain this the most out of just about everything. “No, he stuck me with a car name too. Baker. Short for Studebaker.”

“Studebaker Bastian,” Granny crowed as her coffee pot gurgled. “Ain’t that one hell of a snazzy name?”

Snazzy was not the word I would have used for my name.

My brothers all muttered in polite agreement to the old woman. Half -brothers.

“What was his car thing?” Ford asked as he sat back down beside Bella Dee.

Bella and Granny were the only two who were not clearly uncomfortable.

Granny was in her glory. Coffee was perking and she would soon pull out some eggs and scramble up a panful for the boys.

Sitting down to eat with this hodgepodge of men was not top of my agenda, but I was starving, and it was going to be a long day.

“Did he leave you all the car that you’re named after?” Mike enquired as he placed his forearms on the table. “Like Ford got an old T-Bird, or Linc got a Lincoln?

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that Cash would have had to care about his sons to leave them cars. Cash cared for no one but Cash.

All four of us shook our heads. “He just thought it was cool,” Ford interjected. By the looks on our faces—faces that did not resemble each other at all so old Cash must have had some weak ass genes to go along with his weak ass personality—not one of us found it cool at all.

“Why don’t I get some breakfast going?” Granny said as I knew she would. “Baker, get washed up. You smell like the barn.”

“I’ll help. I love to dabble in the kitchen,” Bella brightly announced, springing to his feet.

“Excuse me.” I dipped my head, then beat a hasty retreat.

We could not get my old man in the cold, wet ground soon enough.

These guys were throwing out anxious vibes by the bucket load.

Maybe we could get this whole nasty situation wrapped up and have them on planes back to their urban lives by nightfall.

Sometimes God did smile on kids, drunks, and dogs as our personable sheriff was known to say. Perhaps this was one of those times.