Page 35 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
wyatt
ALL I HAD TO SAY TO ISAAC was, “Blonde from out of town, leaving tomorrow,” and he practically sprinted back to the bar ahead of me.
With that situation contained, I’m free to focus on Ivy.
Damn, she looks good in that dress. Seeing her in the boots I bought her brings out a possessive energy every time. I want to beat on my chest and tell every motherfucker in here that she’s mine.
But she’s not, and I have to keep reminding myself she’s leaving soon.
I’ve always been protective of my family, our way of life, and our ranch, but never of a woman. Not like this. And especially not one who doesn’t belong to me.
But now that we’ve admitted we both want this, I can’t get her out of this bar and into my bed fast enough.
I’m so focused on Ivy that I almost don’t notice Isaac’s two admirers—the blonde and the redhead from earlier—engaging in a heated discussion that’s reaching its boiling point.
Ivy notices though. She points over my shoulder. “Um, Wyatt? Maybe you should—"
“Fuck,” I bite out when I see the altercation brewing. “Stay here.”
By the time I reach the arguing women with my brother attempting to mediate between them, another man claiming to be the blonde’s brother has joined the mix. He’s wearing a fire department shirt from a few towns over and holding a pool stick.
This is why none of us like to go out with Isaac. All that charm of his usually gets one or more of us into a bar fight.
“She’s married, dickhead,” the guy barks in my brother’s face.
Isaac shrugs, unfazed. “She didn’t mention that.”
The blonde attempts to shove the guy back a step. “I’m separated, Derek. You know this. Go play pool and mind your own damn business.”
Derek’s glare, burning a hole through Isaac, makes me think he isn’t taking her advice anytime soon. “Does Mike know you’re out, fucking other dudes, Dana? Because I’m pretty sure he’s at the station, pulling double shifts to try and get it together so you can work things out.”
“You don’t know jack shit,” the Dana lady argues. “Ask him about your captain’s bachelor party last month. And about how married he didn’t act in Vegas.”
Isaac places a hand up. “I don’t want any trouble. Clearly, this is a private family discussion. You two have a nice night.”
The redhead takes Isaac’s arm and tries to lead him away from the ordeal. Bless her. But the blonde isn’t giving up without a fight.
“So much for being a real cowboy,” she challenges, placing a hand on her hip and nodding toward the redhead. “A real cowboy would’ve taken us both home tonight.”
Well, damn.
Isaac is not one to back down from a challenge. Definitely not one involving multiple naked women.
He glances over his shoulder at her. “If that’s a bona fide offer, sweetheart, meet us at my truck out front. It’s black. Has Triple Creek Ranch printed on the side. Can’t miss it.”
Her chin tips upward. “I used to be a barrel racer, honey. I can ride all night.”
The redhead, who I now recognize as Carly Rae Brannigan—a rowdy local rodeo Queen who also has a penchant for bar fights—winks at the blonde. “I’m still a barrel racer, blondie. Best bring your A game if you plan to outride me.”
Fucking Isaac. I swear, his dick is going to get this bar burned to the ground one day. Maybe our ranch, too.
Just when I think the situation is defused and I can get back to getting Ivy home and naked, good ol’ Derek makes an epically bad decision.
“Whatever, Dana. Go be a whore then. But don’t come crying to me when Mike kicks your ass out for giving him whatever disease you get from fucking this pretty boy.”
Isaac doesn’t mind being called names. Hell, we’ve been called worse. But we have two sisters, and no one gets away with disrespecting women to that degree in our presence.
I see the punch coming before Derek does. “Isaac, don’t—”
Too late. The crunch of bone on bone is as loud as the pool balls clanking together behind us. The blonde and the redhead wince in unison.
I get between the fight and the women, blocking them from the chaos, as Derek returns the punch, only for Isaac to shove him onto the table beside us. Empty glasses and beer bottles shatter as they hit the floor.
“It’s not nice to name call. I think you need to apologize to the lady,” Isaac says evenly, pinning him by the throat. “Now.”
Isaac is leaner than me, but has always been freakishly strong. I’ve watched a few guys my size get their asses kicked because they underestimated him.
Derek, the dumb dickhead, spits in his face.
Isaac grins. Because as charming as he is, he’s a true cowboy, which means he has plenty of inner psychopath. Blood and spit don’t bother him.
I see the hard, excited glint in his eyes.
Ah hell. There went the possibility of getting Ivy naked in my bed anytime soon.
A man I didn’t see approaching takes a swing at Isaac, misses, and clocks me in the jaw with a solid sucker punch. I attempt to grab the guy by his buffalo plaid flannel shirt and move him aside, but he swings again, forcing me to duck.
And that’s when I see Beau and Brett Mitchell out of the corner of my eye.
Isaac’s best and worst friends. When we were kids, Beau failed fifth grade on purpose so they could all be in the same grade and terrorize the teachers as a trio.
I think they’ve been banned from most other bars and maybe even from the local strip club a time or two.
Without a doubt, this is about to become a shit show if it doesn’t end quickly. Where those two go, trouble follows.
I’m a big enough dude to take these guys on my own, but I’m not a fighter. I’m a finisher. I grab Derek by the arms and toss his ass into the closest booth. I get a grip on Flannel-Shirt Guy when Beau decks his ass.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him, hoping he and Brett will back off.
They don’t.
The next two guys who come at me get knocked out cold in one punch because I don’t have time for this shit. I have a beautiful woman waiting for me.
Several others end up involved in the commotion, becoming a blur of bodies, until Mick O’Malley—the owner—whistles loud enough to pierce our adrenaline and testosterone-flooded brains. We freeze, and I take stock of the situation.
The blonde and Carly Rae are fawning over Isaac like he just returned from war. There’s barely a speck of blood on his lower lip.
Between me and the Mitchell brothers, Derek is a heap in the booth beside us, Flannel-Shirt Guy is bleeding profusely from the mouth, two dudes are barely regaining consciousness, and some random I didn’t know had joined the fray holds a broken pool stick I think he snapped over Brett’s or Beau’s head.
They look mildly amused and uninjured—probably because this is a nightly occurrence for them.
Matter of fact, they’re grinning like they’re having the time of their lives.
Fucking lunatics, all of them.
My right eye and the left side of my jaw throb like they’ve developed their own heartbeats. My lip is split, my knuckles are bloody, and I might’ve fucked up my shoulder, tossing Derek’s overweight ass.
It’s the same one I tore playing high school baseball. Awesome.
Turning, I see Archie Bennett—a sheriff’s deputy—coming over to see if anyone wants to press charges. Behind him, still at the bar where I left her, Ivy stands, wide-eyed.
I can’t tell if she’s pissed, repulsed, or impressed.
Once Archie says we’re free to go, and he does mean go—as in get the hell out of here, pronto, he clarifies—I make a beeline for her, and she hands me an amber bottle from Mick, who says it’s on the house.
“Thanks.” I take a swallow and taste blood mixed with my beer. “Tell me the truth. Is my face too ugly to sit on now?”
She smiles, but there’s pity in her gaze. “I think I’d be too worried about hurting you to fully enjoy it.”
“Damn.” My gaze lands on her pouty mouth. “For the record, I have an extremely high pain tolerance.”
“I noticed,” she says, nodding toward the damage we caused.
Mick leans over the bar between us before she can elaborate any further. “Who started it?”
I try to recall. “Isaac’s dick, I think.”
I reach into my wallet to give Mick some cash for repairs, but he waves me off.
Sure enough, we watch Isaac head toward the front exit with a woman on each arm.
Mick shakes his head. “Ah, to be young again.”
The other bartender, Brooklyn Harris, who I didn’t realize was of age to tend bar yet, steps over and hands Ivy a sandwich bag of ice wrapped in a bar towel. She holds it to my jaw.
I refuse to flinch, even though the shit stings. I see the blood on it when she moves it slightly.
Her eyes meet mine, and words escape without my permission.
“Fuck, you’re so damn beautiful.”
Her cheeks turn a sweet shade of pink. “I think you’ve taken too many hits to the head, rancher.”
I shake off the ice and grip her wrist, pulling her to me. “I was planning to take you back to my place and spend all night rewarding you for being the best ranch hand ever.”
She shivers in my arms, and heat sparks in her eyes. “I still have the rest of this week,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say low against her lips. “Because that’s probably how long it will take me to show you how proud of you I am.”