Page 2

west

seventeen years later

S o, tell me, Jackson , ” the reporter—some woman named Sadie or some shit like that—said on the crappy bar TV, “ how does being the League’s first openly gay bull rider affect your experience? ”

“Jesus fuck,” I muttered into my beer. Who the fuck thought that was a goddamn good question?

“ Well, the only one who matters in this whole thing is the bull, and he only cares about two things as far as I’m concerned: tossing and trampling me. I think that’s all there is to say about that, ” Jackson replied. I snorted, shaking my head.

Jackson Ford Myles: the League’s poster boy for gay inclusion. What a fucking joke. Who cared where he put his dick?

Maybe I cared a little. It was a mix of resentment and interest if I was being honest with myself. Jackson was nothing but a bad reminder of what got me into this miserable fucking life. I glanced around the dingy, questionable biker bar. Yeah, I was living it up.

And yet, that didn’t stop me from sizing him up every time I saw him on TV. He really leaned into the whole cowboy thing, except now it worked for him. That wayward chestnut hair was damn near blond from the sun while those bright blue eyes stood stark against his tanned skin. The full beard he had did nothing to hide the chiseled jaw. Head to toe, he had broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and a toned physique. Working the ranch did something for him.

The mention of that place soured my mood even further. I tipped back the rest of my beer and pushed away from the bar.

“He leaves the bar!” Vinnie shouted as if it was some great feat to get me to leave the bar. Vinnie Barton was about the closest thing I had to a friend, but I wouldn’t call him that. I scowled as his scruffy face lit up with a laugh. Douchebag. “You going to come play cards with us or watch some more bull riding shit?”

“You know he’s obsessed with that shit,” Deaton commented. I hated Deaton Marcus—okay, I hated most people. But Deaton was President of the local Club and a special brand of asshole. I wasn’t a member despite my leather and bike, but I ran into his crew. A lot. Most of them didn’t like me but never took issues. Except Deaton. That might’ve had something to do with me accidentally picking up his girl one night. The only reason he hadn’t killed me was because I was new and didn’t have a fucking clue who anyone in town was. That didn’t stop him from trying to create a reason to drag my ass out to the desert and slit my throat.

Which was why I never played fucking cards.

If only he knew I hadn’t touched his girl, but that was a me problem.

“Like I’ve got a damn thing to do with what the fuck Mack puts on the TV,” I snapped gruffly. I fished out my pack of cigarettes and propped one between my lips. “Maybe next time.”

I wouldn’t fucking play next time. They all knew it.

“I think you’re scared I’ll win,” Deaton replied .

“Ain’t fear if I know for a fact you’ll fucking win. I like my money where it is.” What little I fucking had anyway. Part-time work and a tiny ass trailer weren’t getting me far in life. “Later, Vin.”

“You coming out drinking tonight?” he asked—a little too hopeful. Vinnie and I always got into stupid shit when we drank too much. Which was every time we went drinking.

“Nah, got work,” I told him. That wasn’t a lie. I managed to pick up an extra shift on the late-night tow line for our area. It didn’t pay much, but as a felon, I couldn’t be picky. Work was hard enough to come by without doing shady shit. There were moments I was tempted—money was a big fucking motivator—but I was trying my damnedest not to fall out of line. Jail was the last fucking place I wanted to go.

Outside, I took a deep breath. Fuck, I loved the fresh air. It beat the stench inside the bar. I lit the cigarette and wandered across the parking lot, trying to think of ways to kill a few hours before my shift started. I could get something to eat, or I could go back to my trailer and make something. Both weren’t appealing.

Truth was, if I went back to my trailer, I’d sit around thinking about Jackson, and I’d drown in a bottle all over again. Some memories just haunted you. I couldn’t afford that shit. I needed this fucking job.

My phone rang—thankfully. I needed the fucking distraction. Except, I didn’t recognize the number. I did recognize the Oregon area code, though, which made my blood run cold.

It wasn’t Harrison’s number, which was something at least.

“ Mr. Dakota McNamara? ” the man on the other end asked when I answered.

“Who the fuck is asking?” I demanded. I didn’t like unsolicited phone calls, especially from people who used my first name.

“ My name is Charles Hart, ” he replied, completely undeterred by my attitude. Good on him. Still a fucking douchebag for calling. “ I represent the McNamara family in the Double Arrow Ranch estate. ”

“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck about that shit,” I told him. “And I don’t handle that shit. You want my fucking father.”

“ That’s what I’m calling about. I’m handling Harrison McNamara’s will. ”

My heart damn near stopped in my chest .

“My old man is dead?” My stomach rolled even as I asked the question.

“ Did no one contact you? I’m so sorry, ” Charles rushed to say. “ I thought someone had informed you of your father’s passing. Had I known— ”

“Harrison McNamara has been dead to me for the better part of seventeen fucking years,” I interrupted gruffly. “I didn’t give a fuck about the old man then, and I sure as fuck don’t give a fuck now.”

That was mostly true. I didn’t have nightmares about him finding and killing me no more, but I still found myself looking over my shoulder every once in a while. That man fucking destroyed me. Me. His own flesh and blood.

“ Well, there’s the matter of the Double Arrow Ranch, ” he continued.

“I don’t fucking want it,” I said. “Sell it to the Myles. Give it to them for all I fucking care. I don’t give a fuck.”

“ Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple— ”

“It is that simple. I don’t want a fucking thing to do with that goddamn place.”

“ I understand that, but— ”

“No buts,” I growled.

“ In order to sell the place, Mr. McNamara, you have to come here personally to handle it. All of your father’s affairs need to be handled, ” he explained. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I drew in a sharp breath. That unsteady clawing feeling weaseled its way into my chest as I tried to focus on my breathing. I didn’t want to go back there. “ We just need a single meeting to handle it all. That’s it. ”

“We?” I managed to ask.

“ The estate needs to be gone over with you and Mr. Myles—Jackson Myles, ” he told me.

“Fuck,” I snapped. I ran a hand over my face. I couldn’t go back, let alone be in the same fucking room as him. “Fuck!”

“ When should I set up this meeting? ” Charles continued without hesitation. This guy really did just fucking plow on forward.

“I can be there next Monday.” I heard myself say the words but could barely comprehend them as they came out of my mouth.

The attorney kept talking, but I didn’t hear a fucking word of it. I folded over and did my best to breathe while my stomach tried to empty itself and something awful tried to crush my lungs.

Double Arrow Ranch.

I didn’t want to go back there.

And I certainly didn’t want to see Jackson Myles again.