44. Cole
COLE
The feed truck rattles, throwing up dust that hangs in the dry air. I stand in the bed, pitching piles of hay over the side, while a sea of black cattle crowds the fence line, bawling and shoving for prime position.
Normally this kind of work clears my head, but today it ain’t doing a damn thing as I sling another bale down and watch the cows surge toward it.
My mind isn’t here today. It’s with Clara where it’s been every minute of every hour for the last few days.
Since the night on the porch, we haven’t spoken much more than a few amicable words to one another.
I’m still at the farrier’s cabin with her and the kids, but I’ve been spending more time working longer than I should, doing shit that don’t need doing, practicing more than I ever have, staying away as much as I can.
Clara and I are like ships in the night.
It’s my fault. I said the wrong fuckin’ thing.
But it was instinct. The second she told me I need to quit, I was immediately on the defense because although I get it, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch.
But she doesn’t understand. No one does.
Bull riding is the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing I’ve even known.
The thought of losing it? Hell, I’d almost rather be dead.
Without it I’ve got nothing; I’m nothing.
And I fucking hate that no one else can see that.
“Cole!”
Wyatt’s voice snaps me back to the present and I look over to see him standing by the fence, eyebrows raised. “This ain’t a damn buffet. Cows ain’t gonna help ’emselves.”
Brady laughs from the driver’s seat.
“Our boy’s in love, Wyatt,” Brady shouts through the open back window. “Cut him some slack.”
“Shut your pie hole,” I mutter but that only makes him laugh even harder.
I grab another bale, heaving it over the side.
Wyatt smirks. “Seriously though. You’ve been somewhere else all mornin’. You good, brother?”
He’s not wrong. I’ve been completely checked out. Not just this morning, all week. I take my hat off and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Just… got a lot on my mind.”
The truth is, despite everything else, I can’t shake the feeling that’s been bugging me ever since Clara told me she thought she saw Cain at the festival. She tried to play it off and I let her, but the truth is, maybe she did see him. He could’ve been there. Watching her, the kids, me.
I feel like something’s coming and whatever it is, it ain’t bound to be good. It’s like balancing on the sharp end of a knife blade. One wrong move and you’re fuckin’ done.
My phone starts to vibrate in my pocket and I tug it out, the screen lighting up with an ID that sends a shiver surging through me. Cruz. He doesn’t call unless he has to, and every muscle in my body tightens.
“What is it?” Wyatt asks, noticing immediately.
I don’t acknowledge him, instead swiping to accept the call. “Yeah?”
The line crackles because cell service out in the pastures is sketchy at best.
“Where you at?” Cruz practically grunts.
“Fuckin’ work.” I scoff. “Where the hell you think I am?”
“You need to get to the slaughterhouse,” is all he says.
My stomach drops. “What happened?”
“Butch’s fellas picked up some asshole.”
Everything around me seems to go quiet. The whir of the truck. The breeze. The cattle lowing. All of it fades into the background. I jump down from the bed, my boots hitting the dirt hard, and I step away, pulse hammering.
“What asshole?” I ask, gripping the phone tighter.
There’s a long pause.
“An asshole with a Brothers of Mayhem tattoo covering his back.”
The words hit me like a punch and my heart slams violently against my ribs. I don’t even realize I’m moving until I hear Wyatt’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Cole?”
“I’m on my fuckin’ way,” I grit out, ending the call.
Turning, I find Wyatt and Brady staring at me, their brows bunched with matching looks of concern.
“Everythin’ okay?” Brady asks, hoping out of the truck.
I shove my phone into my pocket. “I gotta go.”
Wyatt steps forward. “Go where?”
Shaking my head, I dismiss his question. He doesn’t need to know. He can’t know. I ain’t about to let anyone else get involved in this fuckin’ mess.
“Let me take Colonel back.” I nod my head to Wyatt’s horse.
Wyatt cocks his head to the side, frustration masking his face. “Cole, what the fuck is goin’ on?”
“Nothin’, I just—” I remove my hat, shoving a hand through my hair with a huff. “I gotta go!”
Wyatt’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods to his horse.
Without a second thought, I run for Colonel, heaving myself up into the saddle and grabbing the reins. And with a curt squeeze of his belly, the horse kicks into gear, the ranch flying by in a blur as I make it back to the yard in record time.
Jagger and Levi are standing by the stables, heads turned my way as Colonel thunders toward them. The horse has barely come to a stop before I’m jumping down from the saddle.
“Get him watered, will ya?” I jut my chin at Levi.
“You good?” he throws back, brows knitted together.
I wave a hand, hurrying for my truck which is when I notice fucking Wyatt’s Dodge parked right behind me, blocking me in.
“Fuck!” I shout, looking around for what, I don’t know.
“Cole?”
I turn to find Jagger approach tentatively, almost like he’s approaching a cagey, unpredictable mustang.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Can I use your truck?”
Jagger looks me up and down, brow furrowing.
“I need to get… somewhere,” I mutter.
“Where you need to go?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
Jagger nods slowly, eyes narrowing a touch.
“Well, I ain’t lettin’ you drive my truck when you’re shakin’ the way you are, so you can either let me take you where you gotta go, or you can call a fuckin’ Uber.
” He makes a point of looking around, meeting me again with a shrug of his shoulder. “Uber might take a while.”
Teeth gritted, I glare at him for a beat before huffing a hard breath. “Fine, whatever. Let’s fuckin’ go.”
I race for my truck, grabbing my pistol from its holder under the seat. Jagger’s mouth forms a harsh line when he sees me tuck the weapon into the waist of my jeans, but thankfully he doesn’t say nothin’ as we move toward his truck parked at the end of the line.
Jagger pulls up outside the back of the slaughterhouse, and I glance at him to find him checking out the nondescript building with obvious caution.
“Thanks,” I mutter, quickly hopping out of the truck. But when I hear another door close, I turn to find him hopping out too.
I shake my head. “You can’t—”
My words are stopped by the unexpected sight of the pistol in his hand, his gaze set firm on me as he racks the slide before tucking it into the back of his waistband and, I know fuck all about this fella, but that move alone proves he’s the kind of guy I can trust to act first, and ask questions later.
So, turning, I head toward the entrance and lift my chin at the hulking security guard standing by the door as he lets us pass.
Jagger follows closely as I navigate the corridor, the air turning thick and cold the deeper we weave through the bowels of the slaughterhouse.
Stopping by the door I know opens to the same cold room we were in just last week, I knock once before letting myself through, pushing aside the plastic flaps and stopping the second my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space.
In the center of the room, hanging from a meat hook by bound wrists, is a shirtless asshole dressed only in black jeans, his upper body covered in streaked blood, face unrecognizable to whoever might know him.
As I get a good look at him, I size him up.
I imagined him to be bigger. More threatening.
This guy couldn’t be no more than one-seventy, soaking wet. Fuckin’ small-man syndrome.
Butch sits in a chair in the far corner, watching on silently, while two of his guys take turns, punching, whipping, cutting.
Cruz stands toward the back with a couple of other men, watching on as the guy groans, muttering incoherent words.
I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, checking on Jagger, but thankfully he looks unperturbed by the scene, his face void of any emotion.
I meet Butch’s gaze and he juts his chin at me, his unspoken approval, and I step forward, shouldering the two men out of the way to get a better look at the guy. His bloodshot, almost entirely swollen-shut eyes find me, dazed and confused before dropping to the concrete below.
Grabbing his chin, I force his face back up to look at me. “Cain.”
He groans, and I don’t know if he’s not making any sense because he’s been beat to shit already, or he can’t form words on account of the teeth that have been knocked clean outta his mouth.
Balling my hands into fists, I crack my knuckles, giving him no more than three seconds before I connect with his jaw, his head swinging to the side with a grunt accompanying the sound of bone cracking.
My hand stings with the kind of pain that lights a fire in my belly, and suddenly I’m swinging punches left and right, his face, his gut, wherever I can land a blow, every single emotion that’s been warring inside of me the last few days—hell, the last few weeks—coming out of me in wave after wave of unbridled rage.
“Look at me you pussy-ass motherfucker,” I spit out again, fisting a handful of his matted hair to hold his head up for me to land another jaw-shattering blow.
He groans, but it’s mixed with a gurgle; the kind of sound that’ll stay with a man and haunt him for the rest of his life.
“You think you can come here, to my fuckin’ town and try take what’s mine?” I yell right in his face, shaking his limp body in the hope it might rattle a response out of him.
“You think you can put your filthy fuckin’ hands on a lady and get away with it?” I seethe.
He makes a sound, and I pull back, getting a better look at him, my heart in the back of my throat.