Page 15 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

T oday has been a shit show.

Half of the cattle were out when I got down to their paddock to check on them and feed out. By the time I’d rounded up the last of them, made sure they were secured, and then fixed the broken fence post, my patience was just about worn through.

It’s fucking freezing today. Knifelike winds, straight off Devil’s Peak, slice across any bit of exposed skin. The kind of buffeting icy gale that leaves you aching down to the bone and exhausted from constantly fighting against it to do even the smallest of tasks.

My stomach is clawing at me, complaining loudly by the time I’ve finished looking after the horses, making sure they’re all fed, warm, and bedded down. Thick clouds have rolled in, making it seem way later in the day than it already is, but I’m about fucking over everything.

Except, nothing is ever goddamn done around here.

I still have to restock the firewood supply up at the house, split kindling, and get ahead with chopping more logs ready to replace what I’ll use overnight.

As I slog my way through what is a very necessary and unavoidable chore up here, my body might be physically wiped out, but my mind keeps returning to last night.

Maybe that’s been the added layer of chafing going on inside my skull—the coarse grit underlying how pissed off I’m feeling.

No wonder this entire day feels as though it’s been sent to conspire against me.

With each swing of the ax and dull thunk as wood splinters beneath the metal head, events from the bar keep replaying on an incessant loop.

Fucking Raine. I’m no stranger to being left reeling and wholly shaken up by him, but our collision course at The Loaded Hog has my skin prickling.

Screw him for being such a self-centered dickhead.

Where does the guy get off on pulling a stunt like that?

Marching over and interrupting a conversation—then acting like it was all on me that he felt like he had no choice but to intervene.

What kind of asshole acts like that? He looked ready to smash the dude I’d been talking to, all for lighting a cigarette next to me.

I mean, yeah, of course, I wasn’t going to fucking hang around with someone blowing smoke straight in my face.

I’m not thickheaded. But it’s not like I haven’t had to spend my entire life dodging secondhand smoke anyway.

To make it worse, the bit that keeps on leaping up to grab me and demand that I pay attention, whether I want it to or not... is the way my body reacted to the proximity of him.

It’s stupid; it’s nothing. I just hate the way I keep goddamn cataloging all these details that I can’t seem to outrun.

The whole drive back to the ranch last night in the dark, I kept replaying the way his Adam’s apple moved beneath his stubble as he talked.

Kept seeing the defined veins on his hands, standing out like a map beneath the crowned skull he’s got on his right hand, and the vintage-style rose on the other.

Thinking of his ink only serves to toss me back to encounters with him around Sunset Skies Ranch when I’ve been helping out there lately.

Ridiculous habits I’ve developed, like noticing his forearms whenever he pushes his sleeves higher while working.

The way those corded muscles flex as he grips a set of reins and runs a palm along the neck of one of the horses.

Jesus. It’s bad enough having to see each other again so unexpectedly, and here I am, lying in bed, staring at my ceiling with stray thoughts fixated on him for half of the night.

Even worse is the throat-tightening realization that the moment I saw him grab that girl and walk off.

.. it was the same feeling I’ve had in the past if a girl I had my eye on went home with someone else instead of me.

Except in this picture, I couldn’t have given a shit about that random redhead.

Why am I feeling any kind of way—let alone jealous—about seeing my stepbrother talking to pretty, available girls?

Women who I should, undoubtedly, have been talking to as well.

The exact kind of group who were at the Hog for a good time, the likes of which a past version of me would have been more than happy to entertain.

Talking shit about rodeo antics and giving away easy smiles.

Christ, I can’t seem to shake this guy off, and what’s worse is that I’m getting my budding interest in the male sex all entangled with this strange animosity we’ve got between us.

There’s no good reason for Raine to be occupying as much real estate as he’s currently taking up in my mind. We’re no better than strangers, having been out of each other’s lives for so long.

Maybe I need to ransack Layla’s veterinary supplies while I’m out here to find an equine-strength sedative, one that’ll knock me on my ass so I can get some proper sleep. I’m sure lying awake all night isn’t helping my cause either.

By the time I’ve replenished the wood stores inside and outside the house, I’m just about beat.

Ransacking through the deep freeze like a raccoon looking for a midnight feast, I find something that looks like it’ll feed about three people, enough to satisfy the demon currently gnawing its way through my stomach lining.

No doubt it’ll be some kind of stew my dad has made.

Boring as shit, but it’s meat and potato and serves the perfect function of feeding a rancher who has been outside in the freezing cold since early morning.

Tossing it in the microwave to defrost, I get on the radio unit briefly to check the latest weather forecast with the Sheriff’s office.

Still clear enough, even with the way that bitch of a wind has been whipping around my ears all day.

It’s not like I’m about to get stuck up here unexpectedly with an early dumping of snow.

After making sure the fire in the lounge is built back up again, I drag my ass through a brief shower.

It’s tempting as hell to stand under hot water and steam, to let that thaw me out for hours.

But my stomach rumbles a protest loud enough to echo around the bathroom tiles, serving as a reminder that I need to eat and crawl into bed. Maybe not even in that order.

Before getting up at the ass crack of dawn to do it all again tomorrow.

Even with feeling dog tired, I’m refusing to entertain the reason my cock might be currently standing halfway to attention.

There’s absolutely no need for that asshole to be perking up.

Making quick work of toweling off, before tugging on a pair of sweats and a tank, I’m hit with a mouthwatering aroma of savory goodness wafting from the kitchen.

It’s more of a race to fill my belly than anything. I scoop up my bowl of dinner and some bread rolls, along with my phone, and make for the fireplace. There’s a wide concrete mantel flanking the base that’s perfect to sit on and be cozy without lighting your tail on fire.

As I settle in, with phone balanced on my knee, bowl cradled in one hand, and spoon poised in the other, I inhale mouthful after mouthful.

My dad might have perfected the gruff asshole mountain cowboy routine, but the guy is remarkably good at just about everything.

It’s what his life has been, I suppose. Growing up here, living almost entirely without technology—shunning it for the most part—he’s just always learned to be capable.

Figure out how to get by while doing everything himself.

Which includes hunting for wild meat, on top of anything he doesn’t sell when it comes to the cattle he runs on the property.

No surprise, he’s not a half-bad cook, either.

The old man loves to keep his freezer stocked.

Using my pieces of torn-apart bread to mop up the gravy, I chuckle to myself, thinking about his expression when he gets back and realizes all that remains in there are my terribly clumsy efforts at replacing the meals he’d prepared and frozen throughout the summer.

I can already imagine him standing there, pinching the bridge of his nose with a groan.

Brushing the crumbs off my hands, I swipe through my phone to our chat.

He might be halfway around the world, but nighttime for me here in Montana is the early hours of the morning for him, and if I know anything about Colton Wilder—no matter how much he might love traveling with Layla—the man doesn’t sleep all that well being away from the ranch.

He agrees to go overseas with her because he loves that girl more than his own goddamn life, but it pushes him far beyond his comfort zone.

Which is why I’m hardly surprised to see him read my message straight away when I send a quick check-in.

Your cooking sucks.

Had to force down another one of those lame stews you insist on filling the deep freeze with.

The Old Man:

Funny guy.

How’s everything?

Good. A few of the heifers decided to go for a wander this morning, but they didn’t get far.

Fuck. Was it that same gate again?

Yeah. Same as last time.

Fixed up the post, though.

Sorry you had to deal with that on your own.

Don’t worry about it.

Nothing I can’t handle.

Are you sure you don’t need me to get some extra help for you?

Receiving those words immediately makes my chest tighten.

I don’t want to let my dad down. I won’t dare let him think I’m not capable, or cause him to be a whole continent away, worrying about whether I’m coping on my own.

Not when he’s done this single- handed year after year since he was just a teenager.

He never had parents. All he had was an evil motherfucker of an abusive grandpa who he was sent to live with.

The guy deserves to have something good after sacrificing himself, after punishing himself by staying isolated out here for so long.

Nah, old man. You’ve got nothing to worry about.

Well, make sure you say something if you do need an extra pair of hands to help around the place.

Might require a day or two, but we can sort out a solution.

What I don’t need is a phone call in the middle of the night telling me you’re in the hospital or some shit like that because you’ve tried to be a smart ass and risked your neck.

I can’t help but chuckle under my breath. Considering my rodeo career, it’s ironic that my dad is more concerned about me getting hurt up here on Devil’s Peak by myself.

As if he can hear my thoughts, I see dots bounce as he’s typing.

It takes forever, like it always does with him.

But I suppose the fact my technology-averse father even knows how to use a cellphone is a small miracle.

The guy’s only in his forties and yet has mostly lived like a hermit up this mountain.

Seeing as there’s no cell coverage, he just never saw the point in bothering to learn.

Until Layla came along, that is. Count that as one of the weirder moments of my life. Teaching my dad how to use a phone and social media so he could track down his girlfriend... my ex. Yep. That was some twilight zone type of shit right there.

Your rodeo prep is going well? Finding enough time to get your training in?

Yeah, Dad. I’m cool.

Training down at Rhodes Ranch tomorrow.

Good. The weather forecast is still looking mild .

That has me laughing out loud, the sound bouncing around the room as the fire spits loudly, seeming to crackle in time with my mirth. Of course, this prick is in Ireland, spending his free time checking on the snow updates for the ranch.

Jesus. Take the cowboy out of Montana, but you’re still a control freak in every time zone, huh?

You’ll thank me if I’ve checked the reports before you wake up and let you know early that shit is about to turn.

And you’ll be a smug bastard about it, too.

Thanks. I appreciate you checking in.

Let me know how you get on at training.

Sure. Will do.

I promise it’s all good here. Chat tomorrow.