Page 20 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

TRIPP

Dust kicks up in lazy clouds, curling in the still air as Heston, Gage, and I ride the fence line. I squint at the puffs of dirt, making a mental note to rotate these cows soon to let the grass catch up.

Most of what we accomplish between March and October is done during the morning hours.

It’s not quite noon, but the West Texas heat has already settled thick over the land.

Before lunch rolls around, we decide to do a quick check on the close pastures out front.

I lean into my horse’s natural movement with the reins loose in my hand.

Her name is Regal for a few reasons. The first of which is that it’s the only tiny connection I have to my mom. I don’t talk about it, but it stays on my mind like a splinter too deep to cut out.

The second being when faced with an open range, my mare never falters. Always calculated and elegant. Never rushed or uneasy in her stride.

No wordless bond exists as strong as ours. My left heel moves gently into her side, barely an inch, and she picks up to a trot to close the distance behind Gage’s and Heston’s horses.

The moment she stops and tosses her head with pricked ears, I know something is off. I bend forward to pat her neck, while Gage pulls up sharp in front of me. “You hear that?”

The rattle came first—sharp, dry, and unmistakable. My fist rests on the horn of the saddle with plenty of slack in the reins in the event Regal decides to take off in the direction of whatever triggered her. It’s then that I spot the cow with her head hung low.

I cringe. “Hope that’s a stray branch hanging from her jaw.”

“That ain’t a stick,” Heston mutters from behind us. “That’s bad luck with fangs.”

“Damn things are out early this year. Run her up before she lays down,” Gage says with a sigh. “I’ll see if we have some Dex and Penicillin. If not, I’ll call the vet.”

He takes off toward the barn as Heston and I approach the scene. The cow’s cheek is already swelling to the size of a grapefruit, and I scan the ground for any signs that the culprit might be hanging around.

The cow’s advance is sluggish, but she doesn’t protest as we slowly flank her through the pasture. I sit tall in the saddle while pulling up the bottom of my faded t-shirt to wipe the sweat from my brow. When she’s finally sorted and in the chute, we round the barn to put up our horses.

She looks damn miserable.

I hate shit like this. There’s always some sort of crisis waiting for us on this ranch.

It only took me a week after moving in and starting my job here to learn that it comes with the territory, though.

As exhausting as it is sometimes, there’s still a flicker of content in my chest on even the roughest days.

This isn’t the type of life I’ll ever run from. The only thing that’s ever been missing for me is finding my real family. I take a sharp inhale of air, realizing I’ve let my thoughts drift in that direction yet again after I’d been able to push them back for so long.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Old dreams I’d once given up on creeped up out of nowhere.

Maybe this is my sign that I’m officially turning into an old bastard.

The chaotic list of other things that won’t fucking leave my thoughts alone aren’t helping disprove that notion, either. It’s like I’m trying to catch something just out of reach, and that uneasy pressure is not something I’m used to dealing with as a more go-with-the-flow type of guy.

Not sure how Heston does it, so deep in his head all the damn time. I’m not a fan.

Two months ago, the same night Mesa showed up, I received a call that I thought might finally provide some relief in that department. It turned out to be a false lead. Despite trying to convince myself that I didn’t care, I dwelled quietly on the disappointment.

I hate that it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks again today.

“You gonna stay up there, or?”

I shake my head. Heston is already on the ground and loosening the cinch on his saddle.

“No,” I mumble, throwing a leg back and hopping down. Regal nudges me with her nose, and I rub her chin just under the bridle before getting all the tack put up.

“You hungover or something?”

“No,” I scoff as I follow him to the chute next to the barn.

His question makes sense. I’m not myself—more sentimental and broodier than ever today. I hardly recognize myself right now.

After walking toward the crowding pen, Heston props a boot on the chute floor lever. I park in front of the head gate to get a good look. With a wince, I pull out my phone and take a picture of the poor cow currently blind on one side because the swelling has gone all the way up her face.

I send the picture to Mesa with a text.

Hell of a day so far.

Mesa

Wtf eww

Rattlesnake bite.

Mesa

Is she okay? *crying emoji*

We’ll see. Caught it fast in the pasture right out front so I bet so. Gage has her taken care of.

Mesa

Little wins. *hearts around smiling face emoji*

I chuckle while replying to her. She’s always bringing up her favorite mantra .

I found myself saying it just yesterday when I stepped out of the shower to no clean towel.

The consolation was that I got to steal Heston’s folded one in the cabinet.

He was a raging ball of anger when he’d realized it too late this morning and had to stalk down the hallway, wet and naked. Little wins.

Her more big picture version of the phrase is probably a whole lot deeper than that, but it cheers me up to use it in insignificant situations just the same.

“You’re acting fucking weird,” Heston points out. Since when is he so observant? Or the least bit concerned, for that matter?

He’s not wrong, though. I scowl at him. My brain switches gears to pinpoint what he’s getting at, and at that moment, an invisible light bulb illuminates over my head as I swipe a hand down my face.

“And that’s on no pussy,” I state. “My dick is going to fall off, fellas. It was nice knowing y’all.”

Is that really it, though? It’s exactly what I’d normally say if I were stuck in a dry spell worse than the Dust Bowl. But the once-familiar explanation doesn’t feel right coming out of my mouth this time.

Gage laughs as he turns to point the syringe at me. “Lies. You haven’t gone a week without banging some rando since the day I met you.”

My face twists. “Fuck you, first of all. And yes, I have.”

“I’m not judging,” he grunts as he pulls the head gate to let the cow out into the pen. She trudges out slowly, but I think she’ll be just fine. “I don’t care what you do or how often you do it. Just stating facts.”

“It’s not even that,” I fully admit while sighing and rubbing a hand over my face. “It’s—I don’t know. It’s a bunch of shit.”

“Oh, it’s not sex. It’s girlfriend problems,” Gage suggests with a smirk.

“We’re just friends.”

Heston raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

“Right,” Gage agrees sarcastically. “That’ll be a weak argument when you ghost her. She’ll key your Bronco and leave the country in tears in three days’ time. Clockwork.”

“I wouldn’t do that to her,” I spit.

They both fall silent for a minute, either shocked by my tone or just plain giving up on the argument.

I don’t get what’s so unbelievable about it.

They’ve had a chance to get to know her and should be well aware that she’s cool.

They’re friends with her too, after all.

She’s out of my league and not the type of girl to fawn over a horny loser like me, anyway.

We’re friends, plain as day. Even these idiots should see that.

“Being friends with Mesa isn’t all that crazy,” I continue to defend myself. “It’s mature. I can be mature.”

I’m lucky Warren is in town working at his equipment dealership today. He’s by far the most intuitive and wouldn’t hesitate to narrow his eyes at the slight uncertainty in my voice. He’d probably ask if I were trying to convince him or myself.

Gage takes his hat off to brush the brim. I follow behind as he and Heston head to the bunkhouse for lunch.

“Mature,” Heston mumbles, “but none of your shirts have sleeves. Got it.”

“By sleeves, I assume you mean arm prisons.”

“Alright,” Gage jumps back in with a hand up like he’s testifying in court.

“Maybe you’re not hitting it on the side.

But that doesn’t help your case, man. If anything, I’d think you were in love with her.

Fifty dollars and a flask of Crown says you’re working an angle.

No shot you’re buddying up with her just for the fun of it. ”

I open my mouth to encourage the bet he’ll most definitely lose when a little red bug pulls in to park next to the line of trucks out front. It fits perfectly between Heston’s black Raptor and my Bronco like it belongs there.

Mesa steps out in fucking tiny jean shorts of all things. A baby blue bandana cloaks the back of her head, and she pulls down on the front hem of her tank top. The trunk opens as she retrieves a box full of lush green plants spilling over the sides.

Cute as hell.

I curse under my breath, knowing this will spur them on. Gage claps twice and howls with deep, knowing laughter while Heston shakes his head.

I sigh and kick off my boots once we’re inside. With a hand braced flat on the door to hold it open, Mesa ducks under my arm and sweeps in, heading straight to my room.

As any man would do, I stare at her ass before remembering I can’t bite it. She just wants me to guide her through getting someone else to do it.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy, or at all possible, for me to ignore how good she looks in shorts and a skimpy top.

Fucking joy .

Gage lowers his voice to a whisper. “Gate code and room privileges?”

“Shut up before I hire a bus of strippers for your bachelor party and tell Blythe it was your idea.”

He presses his lips together with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t overdo it on the watering, okay?” Mesa appears from the hallway and prances to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. “I came to check on that poor cow and take a break for a little bit. Is she hanging in?”

“They’re not pets,” Heston grumbles.

She shoots him a glare. “Shut it, grumpy.”

I smirk at how she isn’t scared to push back around him anymore. She knows better than to take Heston too seriously. If she keeps putting him in his place, he’s going to get a crush on her, though. He gets off on that kind of thing. Deranged motherfucker.

I step in front of him and toss a bag of her favorite cheese-flavored chips that she catches with one hand.

“She’ll live,” I say. “What’d Hazel say about your tracker idea for the app?”

Mesa hops onto the counter of the kitchen island and crosses her feet while opening the bag in her hands. “She loved it and mentioned that psychologically, kids love that sort of thing. Seeing their progress in real time. I just need to get with Sophia on how to add it in.”

I don’t know much about plants, apps, or childhood education, but it makes sense. By not much, I mean practically nothing at all. I liked the idea when she pitched it to me a few days ago, though. I’m not surprised it went over well.

“Little wins.”

She beams and lifts her hand to reciprocate my high-five. “Little wins.”

The fridge is stocked, and I load an armful of items to lay out on the counter. Mesa does a chef’s kiss when I hold up a bag of tortillas and lift an eyebrow in question. Wraps it is.

My eyes flick to her every few seconds as she watches me make her lunch. It hits me when she sets her chips down, leans over to steal a grape tomato, and pops it into her mouth with a smile—I can’t fucking do this.

“I’m coming over later,” I say in a lowered voice.

“Okay!” She leans back and braces her hands on the counter. “You can turn over my compost pile.”

I know she’s joking, but I don’t laugh like I normally would. After finishing her wrap that was probably thrown together way too quickly, I push the plate toward her and lift my gaze to meet hers.

“Nope,” I say. “We’re going to have a little talk.”