Chapter 19
Thou Shalt Not Fuck Thy Bro's Sister
Tripp
Iwas an idiot. How did I ever think I could have just a little bit of Quinn—that I’d be able to do this just once? I should've known once I had a piece of her, I’d want it all.
It was always going to be all or nothing. And after what went down in my hot tub, nothing wasn’t an option anymore.
I had come in my pants with some over-the-clothes grinding like a goddamn teenager. Last night, it had felt so good. Her soft, wet skin pressed against mine. I had wanted to offer myself up to Quinn on a silver platter.
But this morning?
The guilt is eating me alive.
What kind of son breaks the last promise he made to his dying father? It feels like the only thing I have left of him, and I’d clung to it these last five years.
Until Quinn.
All my self-control shattered when it came to her.
Now every minute feels heavier, like I’m carrying the weight of that broken promise on my back—a cross of shame for me to bear. I didn’t know how the hell I was going to work beside Wes all day with this gnawing at me.
That’s why I’m pulling into the driveway of my childhood home at four-thirty in the morning. Thirty-four years old and still desperate for my mom to tell me I’m not a disappointment.
Thankfully, the light is on, and I can see her shadowed figure moving in the kitchen through the fog that’s settled around Cottonwood Creek. I kill the ignition and march up to the porch, feeling like I’m walking toward my execution as cold mist spits at me.
Mom spots me through the window and gives me a soft smile, despite concern etching into her brows.
She greets me at the door. “Tripp, what in the world are you doing here at this hour?”
Whatever frayed piece of string was holding me together completely disintegrates, and the dam breaks. My jaw trembles, and I can’t hold back the flood of guilty tears, and Mom, bless her, doesn’t hesitate to wrap me in a hug. I inhale her cinnamon-and-clove scent, letting it ground me.
“Is it Vern?” she asks, worry creasing her forehead.
I shake my head, and she guides me into the kitchen, sitting me in a chair before she slides her mug of coffee to me. I crack a tear-filled smile when she tops it with some bourbon.
“What happened?”
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, wiping at the tears staining my cheeks. “I didn’t think I was gonna break down like this.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t apologize to me for having emotions, Tripp. Sit and drink. I’ll cook us up some breakfast, and maybe with some bacon and eggs in your belly, you’ll be ready to talk.”
She immediately gets to work at the stove, still in her flannel pajamas, and I do as she asks and drink. It warms me from the inside out. Perfect for the chill that’s in the air this morning.
Once my cup is half empty and the smell of bacon fills the kitchen, I draw in a shaky breath. My chest constricts. For a second, I think I can hear Dad’s laugh in the back of my mind—low and rough, filling this same kitchen.
The phantom sound guts me, leaving me feeling hollow. I stare down at my mug, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat, but it’s no use.
“I miss Dad,” I admit, my voice cracking.
Mom glances up from the pan, her face softening. She wipes her hands on a towel and crosses the kitchen, her hand landing on the back of my neck.
“I miss him too,” she says, voice gentle. “It’s not as hard now as it was at first, but some days are just plain brutal still.”
I nod, jaw tightening as I stare into my coffee. My throat burns, and I blink hard, but a few tears slip free anyway.
“I think he’d be disappointed in me if he were still alive,” I manage after a long moment.
Mom clicks her tongue. “Nonsense. Why on earth do you think that?”
The weight of that broken promise presses down again. I swallow hard, shame and grief tangling in my throat. “I made him a promise when he was sick… and I think I broke it last night.”
Her eyebrow flicks upward, but she doesn’t speak. Just waits.
I rake my hands through my hair. “He told me to stop screwing around with women who didn’t mean anything to me. Said I was wasting time I coudn’t get back. He wanted me to take things more seriously.”
Mom’s lips press into a thin line. “Is that why you haven’t been dating like you used to?”
I shrug. “I kept that promise, Mom. For five years, I did. But last night...” I drag my hand down my face. “I don’t know.”
Mom slides a plate of bacon and eggs onto the table in front of me and sits down.
“That’s why you think he’d be disappointed in you?”
I nod, not sure if my voice will hold out if I use it right now.
Mom reaches out, her fingers brushing my arm. “Sweetheart, just because he was dying doesn’t mean he had all the answers. Don’t give his words more weight than they deserve.”
My brow furrows. “What are you saying?”
“Do you really think your father didn’t have a time in his life when he was screwing around just as much as you were?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. That’s exactly what I thought.”
She smirks. “He was just as wild as you were in his early twenties. I know because I’m the one who had to wrangle him and tie him down.” She winks. “Make your own path in life, Tripp. You always have before, and you’ve been happier for it.”
The weight on my chest eases, and I take a bite of my bacon.
“Now, tell me,” she says lightly. “Does this have anything to do with Quinn Dawson?”
I freeze mid-chew and my gaze snaps to hers. “Why would you ask that?”
She laughs at whatever expression I’m making. “Well, I heard something about you carrying her out of Herds the other night.”
Shit.
This town’s a rumor mill, and if Mom’s already hearing whispers, it’s only a matter of time before Wes does too.
“I was just making sure she got home safe, that’s all. She had too much to drink.”
“How chivalrous.” She gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push it—she’s good like that.
I finish the rest of my breakfast in silence, letting Mom’s words roll around in my head.
She’s right. I’ve been living in the shadow of that promise for so long, I forgot what it felt like to allow myself to want someone.
And God help me, I want Quinn.
But wanting her and actually having her aren’t the same thing. Not when it’s Wes’ little sister.
By the time I leave the house, the guilt’s shifted. It’s not just about Dad’s promise anymore—it’s about Wes. About crossing a line we’d both always known was there.
I would be a complete idiot not to take Quinn up on her offer. But as Wes rides toward me on Luci, I can’t ignore the obvious. This would, without a doubt, be breaking bro code.
Thou shalt not fuck thy bro’s sister.
I hate the idea of lying to Wes, but I definitely hate the idea of telling him I'm sleeping with his sister even more.
Though, I haven’t slept with her. Yet.
I scrub my hand over my face, trying to rid myself of all the images suddenly being conjured up in my imagination.
Quinn naked and bent over my couch.
Quinn spread out on the kitchen island with my head buried between her thighs.
Quinn in my shower, breathlessly panting my name.
Jesus Christ.
I shift in the saddle, adjusting as discreetly as I can as Wes rides up beside me.
“We’ve got a cow over there that’s been straining since we got here—going on thirty minutes now,” he says, nodding toward the east side of the pasture. “She’s getting agitated.”
“You think there’s something wrong?”
He squints at the sun trying to break through the clouds that have remained since this morning. “Not sure, but since we’ve got a vet on the premises...”
I nod, already pulling out my phone. “I’ll call her.”
Quinn promises she’ll hurry, and I press my heels into June’s sides to ride out with Wes.
We need to get a head halter on her before Quinn gets here. We’ll have to go slow—doing an exam in the pasture during labor’s risky. But if she’s been straining too long, we might not have a lot of time.
Quinn comes galloping up nearly twenty minutes later. She slows when she spots us, dismounts, and lets Cash graze beside the other two horses.
I jog over and grab her vet kit for her.
“Any progress?” she asks, already scanning the cow.
I shake my head. “Nothin’. I tried to examine her, but I can’t feel the calf at all. Something’s not right.”
She gives me a nod, face impassive as she approaches the laboring cow.
“Has she calved before?” she asks, slipping the stethoscope into her ears. Her brow pinches slightly, and I can practically see her brain turning over possibilities.
“Yeah. This is her third. She’s never had issues before.”
Thank God I have the memory for this stuff. Some ranchers have to dig through logs or check a computer. But I know this herd like the back of my damn hand.
I hold my breath while Quinn presses the stethoscope to the left side of the cow’s chest and listens.
“She’s tachycardic.”
Wes frowns.
“Layman’s terms, please?” I say.
“Her heart’s beating faster than it should be—could be pain, stress, or something more serious. Glove?”
I step forward and help her pull on the long-sleeved glove, tugging it all the way to her shoulder. She holds out her hand, and I squeeze a big glob of lube onto it.
“Thanks.”
I wink at her and step back to give her space.
She inserts her hand, brow furrowing as she concentrates on what she’s feeling.
The cow shifts, grunting in discomfort, but Quinn shadows the movement, murmuring soft reassurances.
This isn't just skill. It’s instinct. The way she moves with the animal, steady and sure. It makes something in my chest warm.
Watching her do her job—calm, focused, and in control—it’s hard not to stare. I love watching her mind work.
Finally, after what feels like several long minutes, she slowly pulls her arm free.
“It’s a uterine torsion. Her uterus twisted and the calf can’t get through the birth canal.”
“Shit,” Wes mutters. “What do we do?”
“We need rope. We’ll have to tie her, roll her, and hope it untwists the uterus.”
“I’ll grab it,” Wes says, already turning away.
“That actually works?” I ask.
“Sometimes.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “Call Dr. Dillard. Tell him we’ve got a dam with a 200-degree counterclockwise uterine torsion. We’re attempting correction by rolling. But he should prep for an on-site cesarean in case it doesn’t work.”
“Got it,” I mutter, pulling my phone from my pocket.
I shouldn’t be turned on right now. But watching Quinn in the middle of a crisis, calm and capable and commanding, is a goddamn sight to behold. I am in absolute awe of her.