Hard to Hold (The Walkers of Coyote Ridge: Caine Cousins #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Wolfe Caine

What was the saying? Hell in a hand basket?

Yep. That was exactly where this night was going.

And fast.

I had felt the prickling at the back of my neck as soon as I stepped into my favorite watering hole half an hour ago. That itchy feeling got worse when my cousin joined me a few minutes later.

Never failed that when the pair of us got together, the shit tended to hit the fan. What it was about us that made stupid cowboys want to throw down, I didn’t know, but it seemed I couldn’t spend a Friday night out without getting my knuckles scraped a little.

But I wasn’t bitching about it. Sometimes, after busting my ass all damn week, a little scuffle was just what my inner redneck needed.

“Y’all wanna do this?” Lynx growled, his intimidating glare causing the two smartasses to puff out their chests.

Yep. And that was my cousin for you. Lynx had never met a ranch hand he didn’t want to punch.

“Son of a bitch,” one of the old men sitting near the back grumbled. “Why the hell do you dumb fuckers wanna start shit all the goddamn time? You ain’t learned your lesson yet?”

That was the question of the hour.

I knew the old man wasn’t talking to my cousin and me. Shit. Just a few minutes ago, I had been shooting the shit with him. Minding my own damn business, at that.

“Hear that, fuckers?” Lynx growled.

“You talk a lotta shit, you know that?” Dumb Ass Number One goaded, his words aimed at Lynx.

With a resigned sigh, I set my beer down on the scarred table and moved to stand beside my cousin.

A couple of the patrons opted to move to the far side of the room.

I could admit we were an intimidating pair.

Always had been. At six foot three, the two of us tended to draw attention whenever we walked into a room.

Add to that the tattoos Lynx had decorating a large portion of his body and we could usually part a crowd right down the middle.

Didn’t help that we took the bait every damn time.

“I’m gettin’ too damn old for this shit,” I muttered under my breath.

With the big three-oh looming in the very near future, I was starting to wonder if it was getting close to time to retire my weekly bar brawl action. And Lynx was no spring chicken at twenty-eight.

“You wanna do this? Let’s take this shit outside,” Lynx suggested. “I’ll lead the way.”

Of course he would.

“Anyone feel like we’re in a zoo?” Dumb Ass Number One questioned.

Funny guy.

The dumb ass even chuckled at his own failed attempt at a joke. No one else did.

I had heard plenty of that shit growing up.

Our fathers—brothers with less than two years between them—thought that it would be amusing to make a bet that each of them could not convince their wives to name their firstborn son after some sort of wildlife.

Their sister Iris had insisted they were out of their minds, but, of course, being as competitive as they were, it was on at that point.

Thanks to that drunken wager, Lynx and I had gotten used to the teasing during our childhood.

Granted, as we grew up, that hadn’t happened as much.

However, there was still one dumb ass in every bunch.

“No new material?” I asked.

“Takes brains to come up with somethin’ new,” Lynx noted. “I think it’s safe to say they’re fresh outta smart.”

“You’re just as fucked up as your old man,” Dumb Ass Number Two grumbled, his bushy eyebrows darting down.

I grinned, chuckling. “Who you talkin’ to?”

I assumed the smart-mouthed cowboy was probably talking to both of us. The Caines had laid down roots in Embers Ridge nearly a hundred years ago, and we’d been starting shit for just as many. And our fathers—Cooter and Calvin—were some of the wildest in Caine history.

“Pick one.” Dumb Ass Number One cackled like a fucking girl, peering over at my buddy. “They’re all fucking crazy.”

Lynx glanced over at me. I was tempted to roll my eyes. These boys weren’t in any hurry, obviously. And their stand-up comedy routine was seriously lacking.

“Since my old man ain’t here to defend himself, why don’t you take this up with me?” Lynx taunted. “I’ll rip your ass a new one just as fast as he would, you dumb fuck.”

Everyone in town knew that ol’ Cooter Caine was as crazy as they came.

After all, he had barricaded himself up in his compound on the outskirts of town and hadn’t left the place in ten years.

Not once since Lynx’s mother died in a car wreck on her way home from work.

Sure, Cooter was a little out of touch with reality; however, ask anyone and they’d tell you that Lynx’s old man wouldn’t hurt a damn soul.

As for Lynx, that was a different story altogether.

As for my old man … Calvin Caine was probably the sanest in the long line of Caines before me, although that was debatable at times.

The man lived in a small apartment above our furniture store, just a few blocks south of downtown Embers Ridge.

After my mother passed away two years ago from pneumonia, Calvin took to spending all his time in the store.

While Lynx and I were responsible for making the furniture, Calvin had taken it upon himself to sell it.

Of course, Lynx and I were often pulling double duty to help out with the heavy lifting.

“Both of ’em are nuts,” Dumb Ass Number Two said.

Yep, this was going nowhere fast.

“Come on,” Lynx growled. “You wanna knuckle up, let’s take this shit outside.”

Lynx took one step toward the door, but the two dumb asses didn’t move.

“We can do this right here,” Dumb Ass Number One noted, obviously opposed to a little fresh air, maybe a broken nose.

“The hell we can,” I grumbled. “You see that girl behind the bar? She’s got a shotgun back there. You throw down in here, that first bullet’ll have your name on it.”

Granted, I knew that Reagan had yet to fire that bad boy up in here. She was a little on the defensive side, but so far, she hadn’t proven to be crazy. However, that could change at any time.

Lynx chuckled, but there was no real humor in it. “I don’t know ’bout you boys, but I’d like to live my life without any bullet holes.”

I leaned toward Lynx. “You’ve already had one.”

Lynx glared back at me, then rolled his eyes. “Without any more bullet holes,” he amended, then lowered his voice. “And that didn’t count. It was squirrel shot.”

“Still hurt, didn’t it?” I mumbled back.

Lynx’s answer was in the form of a one-shoulder shrug.

Regardless, the statement got the two dumb asses glancing behind the bar.

I didn’t need to turn around to know that Reagan Trevino—the sweet girl who owned this beer bar—was standing there, one hand on her hip, the other twitching at her side.

There was a shotgun behind that bar, and the woman wasn’t scared to use it.

“Reagan,” Lynx called out as he started toward the door. “Corral these fools outside, would ya, doll?”

The sound of a shotgun being racked echoed in the otherwise silent space.

I nodded toward the door. “Let’s go, boys. My beer’s gettin’ warm.”

It was a gamble turning your back on a couple of drunk good ol’ boys, but what the fuck. I didn’t have nothing else to do tonight. Nothing more than relaxing with a beer and chilling with my cousin, anyway.

But this would work, too.

Once we were outside, the balmy July breeze slapped me right in the face.

“This is bullshit,” Lynx groused. “I just wanna drink my beer, chill for a bit. Maybe play some pool.” He shook out his hands. “Shit. My hands still hurt from the last damn fight.”

Seconds later, the two cowboys came barreling out of the bar. Likely having dealt with Reagan calling them a couple of pussies. She’d been known to taunt the fools who wanted to act like idiots.

“Come on, boys,” Lynx goaded. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

“Crazy, I tell you,” Dumb Ass Number Two mumbled, stumbling down the steps to the gravel lot. “Why can’t you Caine boys just—”

Obviously tired of chatting, Lynx launched himself at the dumb ass, landing a solid right hook to the fucker’s jaw.

Another swing came, then the two were tangled together, their boots scrambling for purchase on the gravel.

When it looked as though the other dumb ass was going to come to his friend’s rescue, I shot a look heavenward. There was no getting out of this one.

I figured the fastest way to get back inside to my beer was to offer my assistance.

So I did.

Amy Manning

I stood stone still when the two cowboys headed toward the door, following the Caine cousins. When they stepped outside, I glanced over at Reagan, watching as the woman wielded that shotgun like she was on a first-name basis with the thing.

Shit.

This place got stranger and stranger the longer I stayed.

Not so surprisingly, everyone piled out of the bar and into the parking lot. Seemed Friday night’s entertainment was being held out there. Again.

When there were no more patrons to wait on, I went to the bar and peered over at my boss. “What do we do now? Wait?” That was what we’d done the last couple of times this had happened.

Reagan smiled and the move made her even prettier than she already was.

She was short, like me, with dark brown eyes, also like me.

Our similarities pretty much ran out at that point.

Reagan had a cute little nose, perfect breasts, and her hair was long and looked like dark chocolate silk—similar to mine before circumstances had made me become a bottle blonde.

I missed my dark hair, wishing I'd never been dumb enough to hit up the drugstore during one of my panic attacks.

However, I had to admit, it did help to alter my appearance. Some.

“Yep. They’ll be back. Won’t take long.”

Having been in this tiny town of Embers Ridge for all of three months and working in this small bar for only a third of that time, I clearly didn’t understand the dynamics. Seemed there were a few consistencies, though.