11. Cole
COLE
“Billie’s daddy the one who gave you them bruises?”
Clara sits upright, her spine stiffening in the wake of my question.
She doesn’t look at me, just stares down at her beer can, her fingers skating over her skin where those bruises have since faded.
I can almost see her fight or flight starting to kick in.
Thing is, she ain’t got nowhere to run. Sure, she can cuss me out, tell me to fuck off, but somehow, I don’t think she will.
Long moments stretch between us, but I don’t push her. I wait. I don’t gotta be up at the crack of dawn come morning, so I’ll wait all night if I have to. Hell, there’s another six pack of beers in the fridge to keep me company while I do.
“How…” Her voice is so soft, so broken, it’s almost lost to the breeze.
I say nothing and she finally glances at me, her eyes glassy and reflecting the muted light of the stars overhead when they meet mine.
“Tom?”
I nod once.
Clara releases a shuddering breath, the kind I can tell she’s been holding onto. She looks away, her hand trembling a touch as she lifts her beer to her lips and takes what appears to be a few forced gulps.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
Scrubbing a hand down over my face, I consider my words carefully.
On the one hand, I want to press her, have her open up to me, because I know it helps to talk about it.
But on the other hand, the last thing I want is to push her too far.
I wouldn’t put it past her to pack her shit through the night and leave again.
The last thing she or them kids need is to keep on runnin’ right now.
You can only run so far on fumes before the tank hits empty.
“My mama’s dead,” I say, throat thick, voice gruff.
Feeling Clara’s eyes on me, I don’t look at her, just continue staring straight ahead at nothing in the darkness.
“She died when I was sixteen. My daddy beat her so damn bad, he put her in a coma and she never woke up.”
“Oh my god,” Clara whispers, and then out of nowhere, her hand comes into view. I track it with my eyes, watching as she tentatively places it on my arm, her soft creamy skin in stark contrast to the dark ink of my tattoos.
“He beat her every chance he got.” I shake my head at the memory.
“When I was a kid, he beat me too. Then I got big, and he realized he couldn’t touch me without startin’ a fight he knew he wouldn’t win.
But when I was gone, she copped it.” I look down at the now empty can in my hand, tossing it onto the lawn for me to take to the recycling when I leave. “The more he drank, the meaner he got.”
“Cole…” Clara says after a beat, her voice shaky.
I look at her then, seeing the unshed tears brimming in her eyes.
“I… I’m so sorry.” She sniffles, quickly swiping at a wayward tear as it rolls down her cheek.
“You did the right thing by leavin’,” I reassure her in case she’s doubting her decision. “I can only imagine how different my life would be right now if my mama left… took me and ran…” I trail off, shrugging a shoulder and turning back to stare ahead.
“Where is he now?” Clara asks. “Your… him?”
“He was in prison,” I tell her. “Got fifteen years. But then he got his throat slashed on the yard a few months back, bled out and died before the guards could get to him.”
Clara removes her hand from my arm, and I feel the loss of her touch unexpectedly, in a way that don’t make a lick of sense.
I look down at my skin that feels cold in a way I’ve never felt it before, and as a heavy silence falls between us, I feel Clara shrink a little, glancing sideways at her to find her cower in on herself.
“You’re safe here,” I say. I feel like she needs the reminder. Hell, she don’t know it yet, but this is probably the safest place for her.
She sniffs a humorless laugh. “You don’t know Cain.”
My brows knit. “That his name?”
She nods and I see her look at me from the corner of her eye, rolling her full lips together and biting them between her teeth like she’s scared she’s said too much.
“You can trust me.” I touch her arm gently, the way she touched mine moments ago.
“I don’t even know you…”
I huff a laugh. “Hell, darlin’, you know more about me after the last few minutes than most people in this damn town know about me after twenty-six years.”
Clara looks at me, a smile ghosting her lips that doesn’t match the harrowing look of fear in her pretty blue eyes. “He’s not going to stop until he finds us. And when he does, I—”
“He ain’t.” I shake my head, cutting her off.
“He—” She stops herself, looking up to the night sky as if to find the right words to say. “He’s got… connections.”
“So do I.” I arch a wagering brow when she looks at me again. “My daddy didn’t slit his own throat.”
Her eyes flare a touch at that admission, but before she can say any more than she wants to, and before I can tell her any more than I damn well should, I push up with a grunt, standing and walking down the porch steps.
Tugging my ball cap from the back pocket of my jeans, I meet her curious eyes from where she remains seated on the step, watching me.
“Trust me, darlin’,” I begin, sliding my hat on and flipping it backwards. “He steps one foot in this town, he’s leavin’ in a fuckin’ body bag.”
The sun burns high from the midday sky, heat bouncing off the ground in waves, the wire burning even through the hide of my gloves.
“Hell, Cole,” Brady calls from down the line, one boot braced against a post while he leans his weight into the stretcher. “You plannin’ on fixin’ that there fence, or makin’ love to it?”
“I like to take my time,” I shoot back, squinting through the unrelenting glare of the sun as I thread barbed wire through the staple. “Build anticipation.” I flash my trademark smirk. “Edge her a little.”
Wyatt barks out a laugh, swinging his hammer in an easy rhythm. “Fence ain’t the only thing he’s slow with,” he jibes. “Heard you fumbled Cassidy Baker. Twice, now.”
“Keep yappin’,” I mutter, not wanting to get into that, that’s for damn sure. “See if I don’t leave your section of fence lookin’ like it was put up by a drunk armadillo.”
One of the drifters—Levi, I think—lets out a low whistle. “Damn, y’all always like this? Bickering like a bunch of old bingo ladies?”
“Worse,” Brady says quickly. “You caught us on a good day.”
We’re spread out along a busted stretch of fence in the east pasture—storm rolled in yesterday and hit hard, causing three posts to snap, wire sagging low enough that a couple of coyotes got through and snatched up a calf last night.
I set my boot against the base of the new post and grab the dig bar, driving it down into the hard-packed earth to widen the hole. The metal rings, dull and heavy with each hit, and red dust clouds up, sticking to the sweat on my skin.
“Deeper,” Wyatt calls without looking up. “You don’t set it right, it’ll be leanin’ again by next week.”
“I know how to set a damn fence post,” I bite back, driving the bar down another few inches.
“Just checkin’,” he says. “You seem… distracted.”
There it is.
I pause just long enough to shove the bar in and twist it, loosening the dirt. “Ain’t distracted just… hot as fuck.” Half a lie.
“We’re all hot. It’s a hundred-and-three goddamn degrees out here.” Brady snorts. “Ain’t all tryin’ to wrestle the same damn hole for the last ten minutes, though.”
Levi chuckles under his breath which only pisses me off. Traveling fucking cowboy ain’t got no right to be laughing, he don’t know me.
Tamping down my anger as best as I can, I ignore them, crouching to scoop out the loose dirt with my gloved hands. It’s dry near the top, but a little cooler underneath. Still not enough. I lift the post, settle it into place, then step back to eyeball it.
Crooked.
“Damn it.”
I yank it back out, knock some dirt loose, and set it again.
Still crooked.
“Need a hand?” Levi offers.
“I got it,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
I exhale slow and steady through my nose, forcing my grip to loosen on the wood. Adjusting it a touch, I set it and step back again. Not perfect but it’ll do.
I grab the tamping bar and start driving dirt back in around the base, each hit solid and controlled.
This is the kind of work that usually keeps my mind off shit I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Simple. Physical. No room for anything else.
Except today it ain’t working because my damn head’s somewhere else entirely.
It’s Thursday. I ain’t heard from Clara since our exchange on the porch on Saturday night. Five days. Five days of looking at my phone like I might see something that ain’t there if I stare at it long enough.
Five days and nothing. Hell, as far I know she and the kids could be long gone by now.
I told her too much. That’s the problem. Told her about my mama… my old man. How I know—firsthand—what she’s going through. Maybe I scared her off. Maybe—
“Easy, brother,” Brady says with a laugh.
I drive the bar harder.
“You’re packin’ dirt, not killin’ nobody.”
“Not fuckin’ yet,” I mutter under my breath, thinking about that son of a bitch that has Clara so scared she ran away with nothing much more than the shirt on her back just to save herself and her kids.
From my periphery, I see Wyatt glance over, looking at me long and hard. “Alright, what’s crawled up your—”
“Nothin’,” I cut in, quick and flat. “Just wanna get this shit done.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not long, but long enough. Brady and Wyatt exchange a look. But they don’t push. They never do.
“Fine,” Brady finally says. “Then quit draggin’ your ass and help me stretch this line.”
I’m grateful for the change of conversation, even if I don’t say it. Grabbing the wire spool, I walk it down the line while Brady holds the stretcher. We work it together. Him ratcheting tension into the wire, me keeping it lined up along the posts.
“Watch your spacin’,” he says. “You’re crowdin’ that last one.”
“I ain’t—” I glance, then adjust it an inch. “Alright, maybe a little.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The wire tightens with a creak, groaning low as it pulls straight.
“There you go,” Brady says. “Now it looks like a motherfuckin’ fence.”
I start stapling it in place, careful now, measured. My hammer hits clean, driving each staple just enough to hold without pinching the wire too tight.
Behind me, the traveling boys are setting another post, talking low about sinking beers after the working day’s done.
Normal, easy talk. I try to let it pull me in.
Try not to think about Clara and the fact that I haven’t heard from her since that night.
Try not to think whether she and the kids left without saying a word. Whether or not I gave her a reason to.
“Fuck—” The wire snaps against my glove as I lose tension for half a second.
Brady looks over sharp. “Alright, that’s three mistakes too many. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on or am I gonna tell Webber how you’re fuckin’ up the fence more than the damn storm did?”
I huff out a frustrated breath, shaking my head. “Ain’t nothin’. Just didn’t sleep good.”
“Uh-huh.”
Wyatt walks up, resting his hammer on his shoulder. “You start seein’ double, you let me know.”
I narrow my eyes, looking at him hard. What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Does he know? That’s the second damn time he’s mentioned something like that. Fuck, I swear if Bailey’s said something to Darcy, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ pissed. Before I can question him, Brady yells.
“Let’s get it done!”
Turning from Wyatt, I set another staple, then another, focusing on the rhythm until it smooths out again. Finally, the fence starts to look right. Straight lines. Tight wire. Solid posts. Reliable. If only everything was that simple.
A breeze rolls across the pasture, kicking up dust and carrying the smell of shit and sunbaked grass. I straighten, stretching my back, and that’s when I see it from the corner of my eye. Horse coming in from the south end.
“That your boss?” Levi calls out, shading his eyes.
I don’t need to look twice. Austin rides like a man on a mission—steady, direct, with pissed off determination.
Brady mutters under his breath, “Well, there goes the peace and quiet…”
Wyatt exhales. “Place your bets. What’d Cole do this time?”
“Why’s it always me?” I ask, but there’s no heat in it.
“Because it’s always you,” they chorus.
And they’re right. It is always me. But not for the reasons they think.
Austin pulls up near the fence, his horse sidestepping once before settling. His gaze sweeps over the whole line—posts, wire, all of us—taking it in quick. Then it lands on me.
“Cole.” He turns his horse to face the opposite direction, nodding for me to follow.
And just my name. That’s all it takes. I set the hammer down on a post, nodding my chin.
“What’d I tell ya.” Brady snickers.
Wyatt shifts his weight. “You want us too, Boss?”
Austin doesn’t even glance his way. “No.”
The one word drops heavy. Not for them. Just for me.
“Be back,” I throw over my shoulder, like it’s nothing.
I dust my hands off on my jeans as I head to my horse, Soldier, ignoring the way Brady’s watching now, the way Wyatt’s jaw tightens just a little.
They know better than to ask—but they know enough to know it ain’t ranch work.
Because whatever Austin needs—it’s the kind of thing you don’t say out loud.