Chapter 16
“Hey, buddy, we’re not open yet,” said a voice from somewhere in the dark.
Of course not, it was early, ten in the morning early. Way too premature to be walking
into a bar. Cole squinted, his eyes adjusting enough to make out Randy from behind
the long polished wood.
“Oh hey, Cole. Didn’t realize it was you,” he said, greeting him with a smile. Randy
was the owner of the last family-run bar and pub left in town. Which was good for
Randy. With his red hair and freckles, he was better off tucked behind shuttered windows
than under the blistering Texas sun.
Cole pulled out a stool in the far corner and positioned himself in front of a flat
screen blaring ESPN. Dark, mindless . . . perfect. He settled in, preparing to slaughter
brain cells by the hundreds.
Randy walked over to where Cole sat, threw his dish towel over his shoulder, and propped
his head up with one hand. “What brings you here?”
“Tequila.”
“Sorry bud, but we’re not serving yet.”
Cole waited. He didn’t speak, knew he wouldn’t have to. Randy had been tending bar
since he’d been old enough to pour a draft with no foam and considered himself an
expert in psychology.
The look on Cole’s face must’ve been one Randy had seen on thousands of men before
him. A look that started around the eyes, then settled into the creases along the
mouth, one that screamed the man in question needed a drink.
The bushy red above Randy’s eyes rose and got lost under his mussed hair. He nodded
and placed a shot glass in front of Cole.
“No, I meant the whole bottle.”
Randy stilled. Cole wasn’t surprised. Randy had known Cole his whole life. Had been
fishing buddies with his father. Cole had even dated his oldest girl, Julie, the brief
summer when he was sixteen, when his whole life had been ahead of him. The last summer
his father had been alive.
If Cole wasn’t such a prick, he would ask how Randy’s daughters were. The last he’d
heard, Julie was married, with the third, or was it the fourth, kid on the way.
“Aw hell.” Randy turned and pulled a bottle from his shelf. “It’s on the house.”
He filled the glass to the top, then left Cole to drink alone.
Cole’s insides sagged with relief, though he made sure his expression was carefully
schooled. He wasn’t up for conversation. Had no idea what he’d say if he was. His
mind was surprisingly numb. There was no turmoil, no lingering doubts about what he
should do. Resolution was good.
Sometimes the right thing is the hardest thing.
He hated that saying. His father had said it to him so often, one would think he’d
be used to the way the words curdled his stomach like month-old milk. And then James
had gone and thrown the same words in his face.
He drained his shot. And before the burning subsided, poured himself another. That
was the way to drink, keep on top of it, so the effect hit hard and quick.
The luxury of taking the whole day to get crap-faced was for bankers and white-collar
types who had weekends off. His time was limited, every moment counted. As it was,
his phone was going spastic, vibrating with all the calls he wasn’t answering.
Before he’d talked to James, Cole had left Katie a message and told her to meet him
at the swimming hole later tonight. Like some sappy fool he’d envisioned a picnic
with a bottle of champagne, and even a damn bended knee when he proposed. Now, it
was going to be something totally different.
Warm numbness flowed through his veins, and for the first time since he’d woken up,
his fingers ceased tingling with cold.
His pocket buzzed again. Sick of his phone bouncing around next to the ring box, he
pulled it out and slammed it on the bar. Ten missed calls and four voice mails.
Christ, couldn’t a man get drunk in peace?
The face on his phone lit up, indicating another incoming call. The caller ID flashed
Lupe’s name. Against his better judgment, Cole answered with a grunt.
“Dr. Harris just left.”
Cole gritted his teeth and reached to refill his glass at the mention of James.
“He confirmed that a few of the mares are in heat. I called to make sure you wanted
them turned out with the stallion. He’s a mean SOB, not sure if it’s safe.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Cole said, trying to wrap his fuzzy brain around what
Lupe was asking. And not sure if he cared.
Lupe paused. “Sweet Thing’s in heat also.”
Like a rubber band recoiling after being pulled taut, Cole’s insides constricted with
a snap. His glass froze midair. He set it down and pushed the waiting shot away.
He’d kept with his delusion that he didn’t know what to say to Katie. That he didn’t
know how to make her go, make her leave him.
But he knew Katie, knew her fears, the ones that would cut the deepest. Even with
the tequila swimming in his blood, reality broke through. There’d be no next time,
no second chance.
“Cole, you still there?” The silence had stretched so long Lupe thought they’d been
disconnected.
Funny how some things you had to work for, and others just fell into your lap.
Cole swallowed . . . then swallowed again. “Get’er out.”
“What?”
“Sweet Thing . . . get her ready.”
Katie would leave. And she’d leave hating him.
Cole’s legs were a bit unsteady as he stepped out of Randy’s truck. With a nod, in
lieu of a thanks for the lift, Cole made his way to the pen out back. Even before
he rounded the barn he heard the screams. Sharp ear-piercing sounds of terror, and
he’d never been more grateful for the tequila swimming in his veins. No matter what
people said, morning was the perfect time to be drunk.
The kicked-up dust colored the air a hazy brown as three of the ranch hands struggled
with an enraged—and to all eyes engorged—stallion. Black as night and meaner than
a two-headed snake, Majesty held true to his name, royalty without a lick of manners.
And then there was Sweet Thing.
Guilt settled on Cole like a noose, but he’d bet his whole ranch the mare was feeling
far worse. No less than four ropes held Sweet Thing in place. Two around her powerful
neck, tied to opposite fence posts and one for each front leg preventing her from
moving forward or back. Tied, splayed, defenseless.
Break a horse. Break a girl.
Sweet Thing strained against the rough ropes, torquing her body at odd angles, not
caring as the restraints abraded her flesh. Her back legs, the only thing left to
her control, quivered with power. The men led Majesty up behind her, and with deadly
accuracy Sweet Thing kicked out, striking the stallion in his chest. The black staggered
and threw a kick of his own, barely missing the head of a cowboy.
Stallions were not known for their tolerance, and Majesty tossed his head back in
an angry call. The scent of a mare in heat had teased Majesty into a rage. The black
had had enough. He reared and pulled himself away from his handlers. Hosea tried to
regain control, but stumbled, and only quick reflexes saved the ranch hand from a
crushing blow to the head.
Cole’s heart sped as he remembered a different man with a different horse. He wouldn’t
have another death on his conscience just to protect a mare too pissed off to know
what was good for her. Cole gave the order. “Let him go.”
Relieved, the men released the ropes, and Majesty lost no time. He did what was natural
to him, what he would’ve done in the wild. Except, in the wild the mare wouldn’t be
tied up, and Majesty would’ve had to prove himself. Here, the conquest was a bit too
easy.
The stallion mounted. The mare kicked. And the big black sank his teeth deep into
her neck.
In one of the magazines Katie was always pushing on him, there was an article about
animal testing. Humans could more easily dismiss the animal’s pain if they couldn’t
hear the screams. That was why most labs were equipped with soundproof glass. And
why being struck deaf was too much to hope for.
The sight of Sweet Thing foaming at the mouth or her wide, white-filled eyes wasn’t
what turned his stomach, but the deep-throated wail of her cry. A scream loud and
angry, then a whimper of agony that sounded so
human
it chilled his bones.
As soon as he began, Majesty was done. The horse released his hold. Slacked and spent,
the stallion with bloodlines that could be traced back to the time of kings showed
no more grace than a drunk rolling off a whore.
Blood pooled brown against the red of Sweet Thing’s coat. Her sides were heaving and
lathered with sweat. Then a collective sigh among the men because the mare was silent.
“No. No!” The scream shattered the small reprieve, and Cole’s stomach tightened with
the burn of leftover liquor. He turned and watched Katie as she ran down the low hill
toward the pen. Her hair streamed chaotic and unkempt from under her hat, her face
pale, eyes wide.
Break this horse. Break this girl.
“What are you doing?” Katie screamed as she headed straight toward Sweet Thing. Didn’t
she see the pawing of hooves, the bared teeth? Or, hell, even the feral look in the
horse’s eyes. Cole reacted. He grabbed her from behind so quick her feet left the
ground. She fought like a woman possessed, kicking and screaming. He carried her to
the side of the barn, not wanting to do this in front of an audience. He tightened
his hold to restrain and pull her close. “It’s over. It’s done.”
“She’s scared. She doesn’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. Katie struggled, and he wasn’t even sure if she could
hear him. She kicked back with the hard heel of her boot, connecting with his shin.
“It matters to me,” she screamed, then threw an elbow at his stomach. Kicking, twisting,
she would’ve bitten him if she could’ve reached. Her hat knocked into his chin and
fell to the ground.
He shook her, easily bearing her weight and whipped his face from out of her hair.
“Enough.”
“Let me go! Let me go!”
And he knew what she fought against. Sweet Thing belonged to Katie. And he’d abused
them both.
“I’m not letting you go. Grown men won’t go near that mare right now. She’s snapped.
She’s not right in the head.” He’d seen it before, high-strung horses pushed beyond
what they could handle. He just never thought he’d be capable of breaking a horse’s
mind. Or spirit.
Broke the horse.
The fight went out of Katie. Her body slackened, head bowed as if too weakened to
hold it high. He could feel her labored breath against his forearms, the pounding
of a heart that matched his own.
Her breasts brushed his arms—and God he was never going to drink again; alcohol made
it too dangerous, too hard to maintain control. He let himself close his eyes, and
for one breath took in the scent of her hair as it curled around his throat, the smallness
of her waist, the way her backside fitted against his groin like an interlocking puzzle
piece.
“Why?”
The ragged whisper of her voice cut deep, and he had to inhale slow sips of air before
he could speak. Before he could remember the words he’d practiced to say. “This is
my ranch. I’m the boss. We do it my way here. Sweet Thing had to learn . . . and you
do, too.”
She raised her head with a slight tilt, and her hair parted, showing off the angle
of her jaw. The bone was so delicate and yet, it defined her whole face, adding strength
to a profile that humbled him. The need to brush his lips along that line, to whisper
nonsense—but no, he’d crushed any claim he’d ever had to her.
“She was my horse. You had no right.”
“I haven’t had the right to do a lot of things.” The right to touch, to kiss . . .
to love.
“I was so close,” she whispered. “So close to getting her to trust again. I could’ve
made her whole.”
“Nothing would’ve fixed her. Some things can’t be fixed, Katie. Just broken.”
She stiffened beneath him, and then turned in his arms. He hadn’t meant to hold her,
but there she stood, too damn near. Bloody fearless.
“I believe there’s hope. I’m willing to try.”
What was wrong with her? He’d just thrown a blow that should’ve destroyed her, and
she looked at him with eyes wet and trusting. And she was close. If he lowered his
head, just an inch, he knew she would meet him halfway. If his lips brushed hers it
would be over, all this would go away. He shook his head instead. “No, there’s no
hope.”
Her fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t lie to me. You owe me the truth.” Her breath
fluttered warm against his lips. Her eyes were wide like liquid pools of amber, and
if he wasn’t careful he’d drown. “Just say it. You’re scared, but you’ve never been
a coward. Trust me . . . trust us.”