Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
JENSEN
PRESENT DAY
The sky is overcast.
I stand on the crest of the hill. Today, I’m up at Ryder Ranch, working on cleanup after a fire on a neighboring farm.
Deacon Ryder, the owner and namesake of the place, a close friend, always has endless jobs for my crew.
This time, it’s tearing down the scorched remains now that the warm weather is here and we can finally get equipment over the hill.
It took us about all week. Now, the last truck has hauled everything out. The ashes still need to be raked and taken away, but overall, we’re done.
The wind picks up. It smells hot, like a storm.
I’m bored, and a little depressed. There are three months left until my fortieth birthday.
The last few years, all my friends out in Montana have been settling down, coupling up and having kids.
It’s hard being the odd one out, but it’s how I prefer it.
There’s always the possibility, even after nineteen years, that I might have to disappear in the dead of night.
I turn and walk down the hill to the ranch house. Deacon’s woman, Freya, is on the porch, her dog panting at her side. My useless hound, Chicken, is passed out in the dirt on the walkway. He barely opens an eye as I ride up and dismount.
“You hungry?” Freya asks.
I shake my head.
“I’ve got to head out,” I say. “But thanks.”
The barn door slides back, and Deacon appears.
He takes off his dusty hat and strides across the lawn, reaching into his pocket for the check.
I take it, and click my fingers for Chicken, who doesn’t even turn his head.
Deacon sinks down on the steps and takes his handkerchief out to wipe his forehead.
“You staying for dinner?” he asks.
“He’s got someplace to be,” Freya says, sitting on the top step.
They’re an odd couple. Deacon is about my age, roughed up from years of hard living.
He’s bullish and hardheaded, used to swaggering through life and getting what he wants.
Freya is twenty-three, I think, and sweet with some fire to her.
She comes from the mountains, same as me, but I don’t talk about that with her—or anybody else.
The last thing I want is to dig up the past. Deacon knows I don’t like discussing it, so I doubt he’s brought it up to her either.
“Where you off to?” Deacon asks.
I shrug. “Stockyards.”
“Maybe you should consider going on a date or something,” Freya drawls. “Like a real one.”
Deacon laughs. “I don’t think Jensen’s the settling down type, sweetheart.”
I shrug, slapping my thigh for Chicken. He stares vacantly before finally pulling himself upright, bones creaking, but that’s as far as he gets.
“Oh, just leave him here,” says Freya. “He’s not hurting anything.”
“Fine. I’ll pick him up next time I drop by,” I say, putting on my hat. Freya likes my dog, and that’s alright by me. My dog probably likes Freya better than he likes me. “I’ll see y’all around.”
They sit on the porch and wave me off. Then, it’s just me in the silent truck, eating up highway as I head towards South Platte.
Just beyond lies West Lancaster, a little rougher of a place but with a better nightlife.
Being out at Ryder Ranch, seeing Deacon so happy with Freya, has me feeling a bit hollow.
But there’s a cure for that.
The stockyards are humming when I arrive.
There was an auction just hours earlier, and the first people I run into are Westin and Sovereign, two friends who run one of the biggest ranches in the state.
Westin is a tall, lankier fellow with a penchant for minding his business or getting into colossal trouble, depending on how he’s feeling that night.
Sovereign is a behemoth—not only in stature, but when it comes to the cattle business.
We met a few years after I arrived in Montana and have been fast friends since.
Sovereign is counting bills, then pushing his wallet into his pocket. Westin leans on the makeshift bar, hat over his eyes.
“Y’all staying tonight?” I ask, pulling up beside them.
Sovereign glances up. “No can do. Got family stuff.”
“Made out like bandits at the auction today, though,” Westin says. “You’re fighting again?”
I nod, leaning across the bar to tap the chalkboard so the bartender knows to add me to the list. He catches sight of me and nods.
“You should try actually dating instead of fighting,” says Westin. “The end result might keep you a little warmer than winning a couple hundred bucks tonight.”
I shake my head. “I can get laid if I want.”
His forehead creases, and I know what he’s thinking.
Westin, Sovereign, and Deacon all settled down in the last few years.
Now, they’ve got kids, and they come around the bars and stockyards less and less.
That leaves me, the last person still knocking around my ranch alone. Unless, of course, I count—
“Jack Russell, goddamn it,” murmurs Sovereign.
The uncomfortable fifth wheel of our group appears behind the bar.
“Did you miss me?” he says.
“No, I see you too much now,” Sovereign says, taking his hat off the bar and fitting it on. “Come on, let’s clear out.”
He leaves, and Westin waves as he follows him, walking backwards until they’re out of sight.
Jack sighs, leaning his elbows on the counter.
The only person who has comes close to the mystique of Brothers Boyd is Jack Russell, cowboy assassin extraordinaire and professional manipulator.
He was the first person I met in Montana, coming right up to me for my freshman fight in the stockyards.
He gave me a business card for his bar and told me if I ever needed help, to call him. It took me a while to figure it all out, but Jack Russell is what Brothers could have been if he wasn’t the devil.
He’s a talented killer for hire. Everyone knows when Jack Russell took some politician or businessman out, but nobody can prove it. The death is always so discreet, so clean, but so obvious that it was a paid hit.
Everyone knows, but they can’t prove it.
He kills and collects, making him one of the richest, most influential men this side of the country.
The other thing that helps with that is his face.
We all make fun of him for it, and he doesn’t mind because it’s his greatest asset when it comes to getting himself laid.
He’s too damn pretty—dark hair, green eyes, a serpentine smile—but it gets him whatever he can’t get with a bullet.
“I’m heartbroken,” Jack murmurs.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “Pass me the tape under the bar.”
Jack flips it over his back, catches it, and tosses it at me. The bartender appears, glancing sideways at him.
“What are you doing in my bar, Jack?” he rumbles.
“Can I bartend tonight?” he asks, flashing his Cheshire cat grin.
He shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
“Cool, thanks,” Jack says, pleased. “I won’t let you down, bud.”
Jack Russell is loaded, beyond the rest of us. He doesn’t need to own a bar or take on random bartending gigs. He’s just chronically bored. I can relate to that. I own a construction company and a ranch, but I’m constantly plagued by the feeling of standing still.
“They’re worried about you because you’re single and sad,” Jack says, watching me tape my hand.
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I say. “You are too.”
“I’m single, not sad.”
“I’m single by choice. You’re single because you make people uncomfortable.”
“Only because I’m gorgeous.”
“I’m about to deck you in the face and fix that for you.”
He laughs, taking a giant bucket of peanuts from under the bar, and starts cracking them. I think that’s for the customers, but nobody here is about to tell him off.
“I’m not the one hiding from my problems with this macho shit,” he drawls.
I give him a sharp look. Other than Deacon, Jack Russell is the only person in Montana who knows about my past. Despite his many flaws and the way he delights in annoying me, he’s been there like a watchdog.
He’s got my back, checking to make sure no one from Kentucky tries to find me, keeping me hidden.
Why? I don’t know. Jack just decides he likes certain people and forces them to be his friend. I’m one of those people.
“Okay,” Jack says, holding up a hand.
“What are you doing here tonight anyway?” I ask, pulling off my shirt and mopping my already sweaty face.
“Bored,” he says, eyes sweeping the room. “No clients right now. If you’re fighting, I might bet.”
He leans forward to flick a peanut shell away.
The silver dog necklace around his neck catches the light.
To get ahead of the inevitable questions about his name, he branded himself and his businesses with a little silver terrier.
His calling cards for clients are printed with a silver terrier, his bar is called The Brass Terrier, and he wears that damn necklace all the time.
At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a dog tattooed on his ass.
“Do you want to see a card trick?” he drawls.
“No,” I say. “And no for next time you ask.”
He rolls his eyes. “Alright, you better win, because I might put some real money down.”
“I’ll do what I do best.”
The bartender appears again. “You want the first fight, Jensen?”
I shake out my arms. “Yeah, why not?”
Jack slides a shot over the bar, and I empty it, flipping it on the counter and leaving the bar.
The crowd is thick, already gathered around the partitioned off area laid with plywood boards.
There’s a fighter warming up—my opponent, I presume.
He’s maybe a decade younger but about my weight class.
Stepping over the tape, I glance him up and down as we shake hands. This shouldn’t be too hard.
When I worked for Brothers, the rich fucks used to host illegal fighting rings in Red River Gorge. That’s where I learned to fight for cash. Back then, I didn’t need the pay out, but I did when I first got here, before I started construction. For the first five years, I lived off that money.
Now, it’s just for fun.
To feel something.
The crowd is tensing up. The man who referees most nights climbs over the tape. My opponent is shaking his arms, pacing. He’s got a smaller wingspan than I do, which can be bad or good, but I know how to play it to make it work in my favor. I circle, matching him, loosening my muscles up.
The crowd fades out. Excitement rises.
Finally, I feel something. It’s a small challenge, but it’s real, tangible.
Despite all my years here, there’s a big part of me that went numb after what happened in Kentucky.
Now, there’s always this strange feeling I’m watching someone else live their life, like I’m too self-aware, too careful.
I can’t live in the moment. It’s like I’m a little action figure, moving myself around my life.
But being in the ring puts me firmly back into my own body.
The whistle goes off. Right away, my opponent swings, which I didn’t expect. I duck, battering him back. He’s got strength, coiled up in his shorter arms. But he doesn’t have the reach to go on the defense the way I can, and he’s tiring himself out fast.
This is my specialty—letting them wear themselves down. Then wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and they’re down in a couple punches.
This guy is walking right into it. We spar back and forth across the ring. I’m enjoying myself, getting a little blood on my hands when he catches me below the eye and when I get him in the nose. It adds an edge to the energy in the room, and we’re both here to put on a show.
I let it go on, watching him get more frustrated. My betting box has a lot of cash on it; I see it from the corner of my vision. It might be time to clean this up and move on—the next fight might be with someone who challenges me a little more.
He comes in swinging. I dip back and catch him with a right hook that sends him flat on his back. Bam—he hits the ground like a sack of bricks. He doesn’t get up. He just lies there twitching. The referee squats, says something to him, then raises a hand. The fight is over.
I could go for another.
“We got the next round booked,” the referee says as he walks past.
“I’ll take the next open slot.”
“That’s fourth.”
I shake his hand. “Good for me. Thanks.”
Leaving the ring, I’m feeling good, loose, with just enough adrenaline to make me forget.
At the bar, somebody hands me my shirt, and I pull it on.
The bartender gives me a rag and a bottle of water.
I have some, then dump the rest on my head and towel off.
My drinks will be on the house tonight, so I order another shot of whiskey.
“Do you feel something yet?” Jack appears like a specter over my shoulder.
“Fuck off,” I say.
His lids flicker, eyes focusing past me. “You’re being watched.”
There’s something in his voice that has a chill going up my spine.
“What?”
He leans on the counter, jerking his head.
I follow his gaze, and my eyes fall on a slender figure through the crowd.
I open my mouth, then shut it. She’s looking at me sideways through thick lashes.
There’s a little smile on her face, a come-on-over-here-and-find-out smile, one that tells me she knows how pretty she is, standing there surrounded by the chaos of the stockyards.
I can’t move.
Hell, I can’t speak.
Jack’s saying something. I’m not fucking listening.
I’ve never seen eyes like those—big, deep brown, shaded by lashes heavy with glittering makeup. They’re warm and a hundred miles deep. There’s a little twinkle in them, like she can hold her own. I could trip and fall right in those eyes and be happy to drown.
Slowly, she lifts her hand, nails long and buffed beige, and blows a kiss, barely touching the tips of her fingers to her full mouth.
My jaw is slack. I clench it.
She shakes her hair out, a cascade of gold and brown falling down her back. I tear my eyes from her face and give her a glance over. Then, I go in again, because there’s something here to appreciate.
Goddamn, she is pretty. She’s all the things I shouldn’t want but do anyway. Too young for me, several leagues ahead. Her body, beneath a tight, short, fringed dress that barely reaches the middle of her thigh, is lean with some curves. Enough ass to overflow my hand, enough tits to fill it.
But it isn’t that that has me captivated. It’s whatever is overflowing those eyes, that smile, like life is just spilling out of her, glittering, glowing, warm as the first day of spring.
She could stand in the middle of the universe, and it would revolve around her, drawn to the light.
The room is a dull roar in the background.
I have no idea where Jack went, but I swear I felt him slip something into my pocket. I don’t care right now.
My boots start moving, and she’s getting closer. The world is distant, and I’m looking directly into the sun.