2 #2
I shake off the worry threading through me, focusing on what’s got me stuck inside when I could be out on the land. Since Maggie’s death, I’ve fought against being an overprotective bastard about my family. That feeling of whatever can go wrong will, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“Nah. Soon as Wy and Ford get here, we’ll get into it.” A vein pulses in his temple. “Security system is down. Been trying to get it back up all day. Got a new one on the way.” He pushes back from the desk and looks at me. “Bigger and better.”
I sigh. It’s not a surprise. The ranch’s security has been shit ever since we got here.
But we all decided together—only cameras on the lodge, the barn, and the gates.
Spooking the guests or invading their privacy by having cameras aimed at the cabins didn’t feel right.
And boxing us in with electrified fences strikes me as bullshit.
My back molars grind together as I sit on the edge of a desk and scan the space.
The office looks like a bomb’s gone off.
Unpaid bills scattered across the desks.
Illegible chicken scratch scrawled on purchase orders that’ll make them a bitch to file.
A box of ammo sits too close to a space heater.
On one side of the small room hangs a dartboard used to settle arguments and divvy up chores no one wants to do.
“Who’s in trouble?” I ask, keeping a close watch on Davis. My play-by-the-rules brother is the definition of calm. But I’ve been around him my entire life, and I know when he’s pissed off. He’s got that Montgomery tick in his jaw that gives everything away. “Ford or Wyatt?”
“Who’s saying it’s not you?” he demands.
Before I can respond with words and not the middle finger I’m giving him, Wyatt lopes through the open door. “Hey, cocksuckers,” he drawls, greeting us cheerfully. He’s covered from head to toe in dust, having landed back in town today fresh off the Calgary rodeo circuit.
Wyatt, at thirty-two, is two years younger than me.
While all the Montgomery men share the same tall height and broad shoulders, Wyatt and I resemble each other more than the twins do.
Same crooked grin, same blue eyes. A two-time world-champion saddle bronc rider, Wyatt works at the ranch part-time training cowboys during the off season.
Davis runs a careful eye over Wyatt. “Anything broken?”
I snort. If broken bones or gored body parts bothered Wyatt, he would have stopped riding a long time ago.
“Just my last record.”
I roll my eyes. Cocky motherfucker.
Wyatt glances at me and whistles. “Good lord, Charlie, you look like a busted mule. Ain’t you took a break since I left?”
Defensively, I cross my arms and grunt. “I don’t need a break.” I fight the urge to remember the last time I left the ranch for fun and not going into town for supplies.
Wyatt drops into a chair and kicks his dirty boots up on the desk. “Can we get this over with so we can start drinking?”
My little brother hates any business talk.
He’d much rather be out riding, or starting fistfights, but for me, that’s where I excelled.
Despite the cowboy in me, during my time off from the rodeo circuit, I earned my business degree.
Between negotiating vendor contracts and managing expenses, it’s come in handy more times than I can count.
“Get your fuckin’ boots off the desk,” I snap at Wyatt as I push a mound of papers his way. “And clean this shit up.”
“Charlie’s right,” Davis barks.
“Assholes. The both of you.” With a grumble, Wyatt yanks his boots to the ground with a heavy thud and half-heartedly stacks the papers in a neat pile.
A second later, Ford strides in, automotive grease all over his hands.
He grabs a chair, spins it around and plops down next to the desk. “You summoned?” he says to Davis.
Davis looks annoyed, and I hide a smirk. Pissing off Davis is always satisfying, and the one who can push Davis’s buttons the best is Ford, his fraternal twin.
Ford, a retired professional baseball pitcher for the Phoenix Renegades, has the same lean, ropy build as Wyatt.
The same adrenaline junkie attitude. There aren't very many people in the world who love their job, but Ford’s it.
When we give him a weekend off from fishing or riding, he’s mad about it.
The only brother missing from the ranch is Grady, the youngest and the baby of the family. Six years younger than me, he took off for Nashville last summer to try to make it in the music industry with a little help from our brother-in-law and Brothers Kincaid bassist Jace Taylor.
“Good,” Davis says with a curt nod. “You’re all here.”
They sure fucking are.
Ten long years now and I’ve never been able to get ‘em gone.
If it weren’t for my brothers, I’d still be losing my damn mind.
One by one, they came to put my sorry ass back together. And goddamn, I have my guilt.
They gave up their lives to rebuild mine. Now they’re stuck here.
Sometimes I feel like I made a mess of everything.
Sometimes I wonder if we’d be better off without the ranch so they can all get back to their own fucking lives.
“You ready for this?” Davis’s sharp drawl reverberates around the Bullshit Box as he pulls up YouTube. “Hang onto your hats.”
With a powerful punch, he hits play. A few seconds later, the video begins, and I step closer to the monitor.
Recorded by an unseen guest, the video shows Ford, who runs our outdoor activities and excursions, with a group of guests on one of his daily rides.
His languid instructions cut the morning air as he shows how to mount his gelding, Eephus.
“Oh, shit.” Ford perks up. “That was yesterday.”
Davis gives his twin a dry look. “And there’s nothing wrong with it?”
Ford’s expression is the definition of confused.
My stomach twists. Shit. It’s bad.
The platinum blonde woman in the video, dressed primly in black shorts and a white polo, yanks on the bit in the horse’s mouth as she goes in for a mount and fails. Whoever is filming the video laughs.
Ford, flashing his usual charming grin and a mouthful of white teeth, swaggers over to her. “Listen, ma’am, seeing as you’re having some trouble, if you’ll let me help you out—”
“I know how to do it, sir.” Her tone bleeds with arrogance. “I’ve ridden my whole life.”
A muscle ticks in Ford’s jaw, but he keeps an easy posture, watching as she gets one foot in the stirrup. That’s when Eephus trots away.
For a long second, the woman hangs there, screeching as she tries to get a grip on the saddle horn. Then, in what’s a really fucking stupid idea, she whips the horse with the reins. Hard.
Wyatt hisses a shocked breath.
I’m not far behind him. Anyone who knows horses and loves them like we do knows it’s a fucking cardinal sin. She’s not helping the horse focus his attention, she’s hurting him.
The woman tries to pull herself up on Eephus, fails miserably, and falls to the ground with a splat. Eephus trots off.
And then the Ford in the video laughs.
The Ford in the Bullshit Box laughs too. He and Wyatt break into wild cackles.
“Goddamn,” Ford crows, slapping his knee. “It’s even better the second time around.”
I’m about to ask Davis what the fuck he’s so worked up about, when the Ford in the video looks down at the woman in the mud puddle and barks, “C’mon, lady. Get your spoiled fucking ass up and let’s ride.”
Gasps sound from the guests. The woman cries. Ford stands there, arms crossed, staring at her with impatience and amusement.
Davis pauses the video.
I swear under my breath before I slowly turn my face to look at Ford. “You told her to get her spoiled fucking ass up ?”
“This is a working ranch, little brother.” Ford stares me down, daring me to argue with him.
We’re only a year apart, but he and Davis pull rank when they want to piss me off.
“It ain’t glamping. Our guests aren’t getting sunshine and rainbows.
They’re getting cowboys and dirt and dust and if they don’t like it, they can go back to New York or L.A. or wherever the hell they’re from.”
“She didn’t get hurt,” Wyatt says, worried eyes flicking to mine. “They all sign a contract. They can’t sue us.”
“They can’t,” Davis interjects. “But this is all over TikTok. It’s going viral on social media.”
I scowl. “What the fuck is tick tack?”
Wyatt snickers. “Tik Tok . Social media, man. Way of the future.”
After a few clicks on the computer, Davis has a new browser up.
TikTok.
“Here ...” He shows us the original poster’s account. Lassomamav76. “Read the goddamn comments.”
All 2,483 of them.
We all lean in.
#boycottRunawayRanch
Your downfall is imminent.
Thanks for showing us your true colors. GROSSS.
#cancelcowboys
Absolutely disgusting thinking you can treat human beings like this!!!
Anger surges through me as I read the flood of backlash.
It’s all foreign as fuck to me. Technology isn’t worth my damn time, not when I have a ranch to run and animals to take care of.
I couldn’t give two shits about the type of people who run wild at the mouth without caring who they hurt or have no interest in getting both sides of the story.
Gossip is all they care about. Revenge. Keyboard warriors with fucking sticks up their asses.
Ford drags a hand through his dirty blond hair that curls behind his ears and along the nape of his neck. “Cantankerous fucking Karens,” he mutters.
“Shit.” Wyatt rears back from the comments like they’ve reached through the computer screen and slapped him across the face. “They want people to boycott the ranch. Those fuckers.”
Davis jerks his chin at the social media posts. “ We should’ve been doing this social media shit from the beginning.”
I rub my temple at the harsh admonishment. My older brother is always the semi-frustrated voice of reason.
“I talked to Tina.” Davis’s gruff voice is sober. “We’ve already had four cancellations.”
My ears ring at the sudden seriousness of his words, and I lift my eyes heavenward.
Fuck, this is the last thing we need.
It’s our first week of the season. We’re not a success, but we’re surviving. Every year, we put our blood, sweat and money into our land and our animals, and now one trigger-happy woman is ready to burn it all down.
The idea of losing guests, respect, money, already has me tired.
I give one last look at the video and then shut off the monitor.
Fucking social media.
Davis narrows his eyes at Ford. “I’m not thrilled with you right now, asshole.”
Ford snaps open his mouth, but Wyatt shoves up out of his chair, no doubt ready to fend off an argument. While my younger brother’s always ready to start trouble, he also finishes it. “C’mon, y’all. Let’s get a drink.”
I rub a hand over my beard, a list of problems to tackle already running through my head.
Wyatt raises a finger. “I know that look. You ain’t gettin’ out of it. It’s Friday night, man.” He jerks his chin at Ford and scoffs. “Would you believe this guy? Only hangs out with his horses when he has three perfectly good brothers.”
I let out a resigned sigh when Ford claps my shoulder and propels me outside. Keena follows, trotting loyally beside Davis. My brothers won’t back off, so I guess I gotta give the fuck in.
I meet Wyatt’s eager face and give a nod. “We going to Nowhere?”
Wyatt hoots. “We’re going to Nowhere.”