21. Stetson
TWENTY-ONE
STETSON
April 26th, 2024
I pull up on Winston’s reins, urging him to stop. At this point in the day, his head is hung low from heat and exhaustion. I pat his sweaty neck, similar exhaustion weighing on my own bones.
“We will start earlier tomorrow so that we can be done before it gets this hot.” He snorts, as if agreeing, and I slide off the leather, my feet hitting the ground with a thump. “Sound good, big guy?” I scratch his large, pale cheek, pressing a kiss just below the globe of his glassy eye. White eyelashes the length of my pinky slowly blink down, and I smile at him.
Days like this rank in my top favorite; me and my best guy roaming over our land together. It’s therapeutic, more so than my stupid breathing exercises.
Winston’s long ears perk forward, swiveling as horses do when they are looking around. His large warm eyes move, the iris tracking well behind his haunches, his ears following a similar path—he’s alert and listening. It’s odd because I know how tired he is after a morning spent in the brutal heat.
I scratch him once more and then follow his swiveled ear with my own eyes and ears. I hear the shuffling of feet and the growling of voices growing louder and louder. Throwing his reins over the fence post, I stride toward the noises.
“You need to wait until Stetson gets back. This is her property,” Gus hisses, and I picture his jaw popping as he grinds his teeth.
“I do not need her permission,” comes another voice, this one older sounding.
“You sure as fuck do. You can’t go around taking pictures.”
“I sure can. And watch your mouth around me, boy. My niece,” the word comes out as a sneer, and I skid to a halt, “might tolerate the foul mouth of a dirty cowboy, but I will not. Do not forget your place here and do not get too comfortable. It. Will. Not. Last.”
As the last word tumbles from the stranger’s—my uncle, apparently—mouth, I barrel around the corner of the house. Both men start at my abrupt entrance. First, I note Gus’s heaving chest, his black irises swallowing the flinty-brown around them and sparkling with anger, his scowl somehow deeper than normal, creasing around the corners of his pale lips. Second, I notice my uncle—a tall, wiry-looking man with thin brown hair, a long nose and jaw, and dusty blue eyes—looking down at me. He’s wearing khakis and a white button-down, his chest puffed with a put-on air of importance. And he looks just like Gibson. A little older, a lot thinner, with just as much rage and hate filling his beady eyes.
“Uh, what’s going on?” I am so far out of my fucking element when it comes to confrontations, and I only got the last few bits of this one. Plus, being around family, the family I didn’t even know I had, makes me queasy. Family has only ever fucked me over.
“What’s going on is, this trash was telling me what I can and cannot do.” His eyes narrow at me, lifting his chin to peer down his spindly nose in my direction.
I put my hands on my hips; I already hate his attitude, but I know southern hospitality is a thing around here, and I make a conscious effort to extend it to every person I meet. Once.
“I’m Stetson.” I shoot my hand out toward him, and he looks down at it, an oily sneer taking over his face.
“Yes, I am aware. You look just like your mother, unfortunately.”
I flinch at his hateful words. “And you are?”
“Your father’s brother. Craig Dean Walker.” He continues to look down at my hand, never extending his. Not ‘your uncle’, but ‘your father’s brother’, like any personal connection to me would be a stain on his reputation.
I slowly retract my hand, feeling every bit snubbed.
“Well, can I help you?” I hope he can sense my growing irritation, but he doesn’t look like the kind to care.
“You can vacate my property to start. I have investors interested in the place, and I’m ready to get rid of this stupid plot of dirt once and for all.”
I stare at him. Vacate his property? Investors? His property? What the fuck is he talking about?
“It’s my property.” I square my shoulders, ready to stand my ground. His sneer deepens, hate nearly dripping from his eyes. But I’m used to this look. I saw it every day for the first eighteen years of my life. Only then, I ran from it.
But I’m fucking done running.
He finally breaks his stare down to speak. “Yes, well, we will see about that.” He strides past me, a thick layer of spicy cologne coating my lungs with the movement. I fight the urge to gag. “I got what I needed, anyway. I will be back.”
He speeds off in his shiny silver Audi, and I slump back onto the front porch steps, my head falling into dirty hands. I want to scream, cry, or both. But nothing comes, nothing but the icy realization that I will probably lose my home. Again.
The steps groan next to me, and I don’t have to look up to know Gus is staring at me; I can feel his eyes searing into my skin.
I can always feel his eyes searing into my skin.
He remains quiet for a few moments, but then must decide I look too pathetic because he speaks, surprising me. “You want to talk about it?”
Yes, I do. But not to him. Speaking to him will feel too much like confiding in a lover, to a close friend, to someone I can rely on . But I know better; I can’t rely on anyone, especially Gus. I don’t know much about his past, but I know he was always moving forward, always moving on. And I don’t think I could survive when he leaves if I were to start confiding in him now.
I’m used to operating alone, solving problems alone. But I know I have Dale now, and I believe she won’t leave me; somewhere along the way, Dale proved to me she would remain a constant in my life, no matter how fucked up I am. With her, there’s no going back. But I can still protect myself from Gus.
So, I shake my head, saying the only thing I can think of to protect my fragile heart. “Not with you.”
He doesn’t move or say anything else, and I instantly regret the words. But I’m still a coward, and it feels easier to run than apologize.
So, that’s what I do.
Standing, I brush the dust from my jeans and head to where Winston is still tied up.
“Where are you going?” Gus asks, his voice hoarse from holding back a scolding no doubt.
“To talk to someone.” I don’t turn around. I don’t need to see the stricken, bordering sad, look on his face. The tiny glimpse I got is enough for me to know I fucked up.
And to wonder what the fuck it means.
Driving to Nathan’s house feels like a punishment, like pouring salt in an already festering wound. I have less interest in talking to him than I do Gus, but for very different reasons.
Obviously.
Dale spent all afternoon reassuring me this was a good idea. But being here, moments away from begging a man I basically hate, feels like the farthest thing from a good idea. It feels like a stupid fucking idea.
And my only option.
I park my truck, a rusty wagon in comparison to the other cars lining the street, and lean over the steering wheel, silently berating myself for this beyond-stupid plan. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…
A knock on the window makes me yelp, and I jolt upward in the seat, bonking my head on the roof. Nathan stands outside the window, a look of confusion and concern written across his annoyingly clean features. I roll down my window to ask if he’d like to meet at a restaurant or just go into his house, when he stops me, his finger making a shushing motion over his lips.
“I would prefer we take separate trucks, if that’s alright? I will just meet you at your place.” His smile seems kind, like what he just said didn’t come off rude as fuck. He’s either delusional or the most oblivious person in the world. I’m guessing a mixture of both, and that only makes me hate him more.
He doesn’t wait for a response as he darts over to his pristine pickup and fires it up. I stare after him, dumbfounded by his audacity. My foot twitches, and I have the overwhelming urge to ram my truck into the back of his. It would destroy him, and something about that seems like a good idea; a really good idea.
Focus, Stetson. You’re here to ask for help, not take him on a date. You can hate him and still take his money.
As we drive back toward my house, I can’t help but fume, no matter how badly I need his help. He made me drive all the way to his house, to refuse to get into my truck or even be seen talking to me, and now he wants to go back to my house. He surely knows this isn’t a hookup, right? He’s not that fucking out of touch.
We park, his truck blocking my normal spot in the driveway, and I suck in a sharp breath. I did not want to come back here; I do not want to face Gus. Especially because I didn’t tell him where I was going and who I was talking to. And the way we left it?
He’ll get over it. This is a professional, semi-friendly relationship that means little to nothing to him. Just like it does me.
Fuuuuck.
I groan. If he’s still around—which, based on the fact his truck is still parked in the driveway, he will be—and he sees Nathan, I don’t know what will happen. But I don’t expect it to be good.
Nathan jumps from his truck, a stupid grin consuming his face, and saunters over to the deck. I watch him go, then freeze. There’s Gus, leaning back in the porch swing, swaying back and forth, his hair ruffling in the breeze. The half-empty bottle of whiskey from the other night is gripped tightly between his fingers. Which may not seem like a big deal to most, but the other night, when Dale and I were raging drunk, Gus refused to consume even a drop.
I wondered then if it was because he had an addiction problem, but I see it now for what it is. Gus has an anger problem, one alcohol releases .
Nathan stomps up the stairs toward the front door, not even looking back at me. He either is more oblivious than I thought moments ago or has a death wish. And as much as I’d like to see him get his ass beat, I need his help. Well, his daddy’s help.
I slam the truck door behind me, drawing the attention of both men. Their eyes sear into me, one roaming over my skin with the same heat as a small lighter, the other scorching into my flesh like a house fire. I shiver and bolt toward the deck, attempting to step between them.
I face Nathan, and motion toward the house. Gus’s eyes bore into my back, goosebumps erupting unwantedly over my skin.
“Can I get you a drink?” My attempt at southern hospitality and ass-kissing while pissed isn’t the best, especially when tested twice in one day. But Nathan is oblivious. He nods, a small smile on his lips as he looks past my shoulder.
“Sure. Uh, why is he here?”
I roll my eyes, blowing out a breath.
“I live here, you fucking twat. Why are you here?”
I should scold Gus, tell him off, defend my house guest. But I do not fucking care enough. And Gus in a full-on rage? Hot. It’s fucked up, I know. But I want him worse when he’s like this than any other time.
“You fucking what? I am here because she asked me to come,” Nathan sputters. Actually, I asked him to meet me in town to discuss a business opportunity. But I know if I attempt to utter that now, it will fall on deaf ears.
“Nathan, please go on in. I will be right there.” Nathan doesn’t argue, stomping into the house like an annoyed child. I turn to face Gus and instantly regret it.
His face is dark, eyes so black they look like rounded onyx stones. His lips are so tightly pressed together, even the skin around them is turning white, and his jaw pops so rapidly I can only fathom how badly it will hurt in the morning. He stands up, the bottle swinging in his hand, and I put up a finger between us.
“Relax. This isn’t a big deal.”
“Isn’t a big deal? You think I’m not good enough to talk to, so you invite that—” he growls, prowling a step closer “—that boy here. Are you that much of a coward?”
My spine snaps straighter, irritation spearing through me.
“I will not talk to you while you’re drinking. I’ve dealt with my fair share of mean drunks, and I refuse to add you to that list. You’re the coward for burying your problems at the bottom of a bottle, using that as your strength instead of growing a backbone of your own.” My chest heaves, the words pouring from me.
I should be scared of him. Mean drunks are the basis for every single one of my nightmares. But I’m not the kind of woman to shy away from the things that once scared me; I lean into them, let them wrap their hands around my throat and squeeze. Because I’m stronger, stronger than any of them.
His eyes rake over my face, and then he laughs. Fucking laughs—the sound full of venom. I step back, now slightly afraid. He notes the movement and steps toward me again, and again, and again, until my back is pressed against the door. His body is flush with my own, his breath fanning across my face.
His minty, non-alcoholic tinged breath.
“I don’t drink, Stetson. I stopped ten years ago, when I found something worth living for. Sometimes, I just hold the bottle to remind myself why I don’t, why I refuse to fall victim to the demon at the bottom of the bottle.” He leans even closer, his hips pushing into my own, and I gasp, holding my breath. “You are right, I am a nasty drunk, but I don’t need alcohol to be mean. And I’m not the coward here.”
He pushes off the wall, dropping the bottle at my feet. It lands with a thud, rolling around my boots, the harsh scent of spilt whiskey hitting my nostrils. He storms off toward the barn, his back quivering, and I watch him go. I cling to the wall of the house, hoping it will hold me and give me strength.
But not the strength to see this stupid idea with Nathan through, the strength to not chase after Gus and beg him to forgive me.