3
T he vein in my temple throbs in annoyance as the waitress slams a round of ice-cold beers down on our table. The jukebox cranks out outlaw country amid the booming rabble of the Choir Boys, a law enforcement motorcycle club pounding shots in the corner.
Coming to Nowhere was a bad decision. By now, everyone in our small town has seen the video. Lucky for us, they’re on our side. Unlucky for me, everyone wants to offer their opinion and sage advice.
Scoot, our resident prepper, leans in like he’s got all the secrets of the universe.
“I tell ya, I tell ya, I tell ya what, Charlie, man, you gotta screen these people. They’re looking to cause trouble, so you gotta prepare.
Take their phones at check-in. Institute curfew. I’m telling you, man, panic rooms.”
“That so?” Davis grins, an ice-cold beer at his lips. “Tell Charlie some more. I don’t think he gets it.”
I shoot my older brother a glare, and before I can tell him to come up with his own fucking solutions, Wyatt drops back to the table with a round of shots.
Beef, a burly bartender with a shaved head and a long black beard, leans across the bar.
He waves a bottle of vodka around like a mallet.
“Wyatt, you see this sign?” He gestures at the chalkboard hanging on the wall next to a signed photo of Clint Eastwood.
Scrawled across it in threatening red chalk is DAYS WITHOUT A FIGHT—50.
The exact amount of time Wyatt’s been on the rodeo circuit.
“I’m warning you, you ruin my streak and I’ll kick your ass myself. ”
It’s the law of the land every weekend. Riotous and violent living. We drink. We fight. We do it all over again. We’ll be doing this till the day we die.
Here, in Resurrection, the Wild West still lives.
Rowdy and rough and situated at the end of Main Street in an old building that used to be a pharmacy, Nowhere is the local’s bar. The last stop before you raise hell. You want to drink someplace safe and secure, you hit up the Spur which is located in the historic Butterworth hotel.
Outsiders are unwelcome.
A fact I know from experience. My brothers and I were met with resistance when we moved here. Now, ten years later, we’ve paid our dues and we’re as local as can be.
“No fights tonight.” Settling in to play town bouncer, Davis points a finger at Wyatt before swinging it to me. “That means you, too.”
Wyatt and I exchange a smirk. While Wyatt’s the first one to start a fight, I always back up my little brother. Which gives Ford and Davis no choice but to join in. Not that Davis puts much heart into it. His grumpy ass usually looks bored swinging a fist.
“We’re in enough trouble with that video anyway,” Ford adds.
Wyatt arches a brow. “Sounds like a you problem, Ford.”
Ford scowls at the reminder. It’s the last thing my older brother needs. More bad press. Another video to haunt him.
“We’re all in the shit with the fucking ranch.” Davis scrapes a hand over his dark hair before rubbing his shoulder, where he took a bullet in the Marines. An injury that left him unfit to serve and sent him straight to Resurrection to babysit my sorry ass.
“You hurting?” I ask in a low voice.
“Not too bad.” Davis crosses his arms, refusing to let even an ounce of emotion slide across his face.
“I’ll say it once, I’ll say it again,” Wyatt says. “What’s good getting shot, if you can’t talk about it?”
Davis scowls at Wyatt’s never-ending curiosity of his injury. Our brother never told us what he went through in combat. Not that Davis would open up to any of us.
“Drink this,” Ford insists, brown eyes clocking his twin. He slides a shot of tequila Davis’s way. “Best kind of medicine.”
Davis grunts and accepts the shot.
I can feel them communicating in their secret twin language.
Wyatt knocks back a shot. “I was good for two damn months,” he grouses. He may be a party animal, but when it comes to the rodeo, he doesn’t fuck around. It’s the only thing in his life that gets him to heel.
“Now I’m not saying I’ll be a saint. Because if the Wolfington brothers show their ugly faces, I’m gonna knock their loud mouths out.” Anger flashes in Wyatt’s eyes. “I know my horse is on their goddamn property.”
Davis and I let out the same long-suffering sigh.
The Wolfington brothers have been the bane of our existence since we moved to Resurrection.
They’re pissed Stede McGraw sold his land to a boy from South Georgia when the locals were chomping at the bit to get it.
In retaliation, they stole a roan of Wyatt’s worth more than a small fortune and never returned it.
Now we’ve entered some petty rivalry that, if Wyatt has his way, will last longer than the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s.
Ford groans in exasperation. “Let the horse go, Wy.”
Wyatt ignores him and rubs his hands together in wild glee. “This is gonna be my twentieth bar fight, man.”
“Didn’t you hear?” a husky, familiar voice drawls. “These days, Wyatt has a new setting called Neanderthal.”
An irritated expression overtakes Wyatt’s face as Fallon McGraw approaches the table. Feisty and venomous, Fallon’s the wild child daughter of ex pro bull rider, Stede McGraw.
“Better than your setting.” He ticks off a checklist on his fingers. “Unbridled mayhem. Hell on wheels. Shit stirrer to the nth degree. Category five bi—”
Davis pounds on the table with his fist, ever the moral barometer. “Knock it off, dipshit.”
Looking pleased at Wyatt’s compliment, Fallon grins. “Trying to romance me with sweet talk, Wyatt? This soon?” The corner of her mouth lifts. “Keep to the skills you excel at.”
Wyatt manages a dry laugh, but I notice the clench of his jaw.
Though Fallon and Wyatt are in separate divisions on the rodeo circuit, for years, they’ve had an idiotic competitive rivalry for who can take top prize every year.
Most days, they’re at each other’s throat, but Wyatt needs to get his head checked if he thinks he’s fooling anyone with his I can’t stand her act.
Ford grins, finger-gunning Fallon a salute. Having known her for ten years now, she’s the little sister we love to annoy. “Ballbuster’s back in town.”
“Got in today, along with Wyatt.” She holds up her middle finger wrapped in white gauze. “Only broke a finger.”
“Best finger to break,” I add.
“Next time, I’ll give that horse a carrot so you break your neck,” Wyatt says, crossing his arms and slinking down in his seat.
“Still got four more lives, baby,” Fallon quips.
Ford arches a brow. “What happened to the first five?”
“Mind your goddamn business.”
“Ask one simple question and cowgirl gets pissy,” Ford mutters.
Fallon sidles around the table like she’s taking inventory on which one of us to stab with a fork, and then she settles at my side. I can feel Wyatt’s gaze blazing a trail to her. “Daddy wants to talk to you tomorrow, Charlie.”
I blow out a breath through my nostrils, wishing I could be anywhere but here. The day keeps getting better and better.
Fallon chuckles and rests a tattooed hand on my shoulder. Her sleeve of bright tattoos could light up the bar. “Relax. It’s not about that video. Although ...” She narrows her eyes and swivels her gaze. “Ford, you could deal with learning some manners.”
Ford grunts and makes a jerk-off gesture.
“Where’s Stede at tomorrow?” I ask. “Corner Store or hospital?”
A cloud enters Fallon’s hazel eyes. “Hospital.” She lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers the best she can and takes off toward the jukebox. “See ya, assholes.”
“Christ.” Wyatt shudders, his stare on Fallon as she joins a circle of girls pounding on the jukebox. I snort at the hangdog look in his eyes. “She’s like the female reincarnation of George Jones.”
“What do you think Stede wants?” Ford lifts a hand to signal for more shots.
I grunt. “Not sure. Find out tomorrow.”
“Want me to go with you?” Davis asks.
“Nah,” I say, not wanting him to worry. My brothers have done enough. “I got it.”
My job. My ranch. I handle it.
“So, who is Charlie goin’ for tonight?” Wyatt’s jovial drawl pulls me away from my thoughts.
I look up from my beer to see my brother wiggling his brows as he scans the sea of women.
“No one,” I grunt, swerving a wry eye around the bar. It’s all local girls you couldn’t pay me to touch. Too much drama, too much work.
Even though it’s been too damn long since I’ve been laid. Two years at least.
These days, after long hours spent working on the ranch, all I have the energy for is a hand job and a cold shower.
For a long time, losing Maggie was like chronic pain. Over the years, it’s become a numb feeling I’ve accepted. A routine. I’ve never thought about moving on, not because I can’t, because I don’t want to.
My heart’s never been in it since Maggie died. My dick, sure, but love? I’m not looking.
Because fuck loving another person I could lose.
Fuck falling apart all over again.
I have my brothers to worry about.
Family is all that matters.
I groan as Wyatt continues his get-Charlie-laid tirade. “Don’t worry. I already picked few out for you, Charlie.”
I take a sip of my beer even if I don’t want it. “I’m too old to drink like that.”
Ford sits back in his chair and laughs his ass off. “You mean, you’re too grumpy.”
“Aren’t you off tomorrow?” Davis points out.
Wanting to shut them all up, I give Wyatt a menacing glare to enforce big brother status. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you seeing Sheena Wolfington?”
Wyatt twists a hand through his shaggy light brown hair, his gaze snapping to Fallon, who’s so far across the room she isn’t even breathing the same oxygen. “Dude. Shut the fuck up .”
“Dickhead,” I mutter.
The cacophony of the bar increases. The Choir Boys bellow obscenities and battle it out in shuffleboard. Through the window, I watch the sky turn dusky as the sun dips below the horizon.
That’s when three things happen at once.
Number one. The jukebox sticks. Merle Haggard croons a wobbly refrain. Fallon swears and pounds on it with her fist.
Number two. Lionel and Clyde Wolfington saunter into the bar.
Wyatt gets out of his chair. From behind the bar, Beef yells out a warning, jabbing his finger at the sign which doesn’t stand a fat fucking chance.
Number three. The front door swings open again, and sunshine spills into the room.
I blink. Not sunshine. A girl.
She’s delicate and small in a bright yellow sundress that hits high on her slim thighs.
Big blue doe-eyes. Bee-stung lips. Slight, elfin features.
Thick, silky hair the color of rose gold hangs down to her shoulders.
In her hands, she holds the cardboard “HELP WANTED” sign Beef put up ages ago after his chef attacked him with a can opener.
On a dime, the mood of the bar turns. Though it doesn’t slow its pace or stop its conversation, all eyes are on the girl. An offender, a stranger in Resurrection.
It’s like someone dropped a wildflower onto a gravel road.
“Immediately no,” Ford announces, leaning low on the table as if to track her.
His concerned eyes sweep to Davis, who’s suddenly on alert. Wyatt, oblivious, banters with Lionel.
I shove a hand through my hair, then scrape it down over my beard. My mouth goes dry. Fuck. Be lost. Turn around.
But she doesn’t.
All I can do is watch the girl cross the room, elbowing her way through the crowd, only a faint trace of apprehension in her eyes. She looks calm and composed—shoulders back, expression even—as if she’s walked through hell every day of her life and doesn’t give two shits.
“Ballsy.” Davis sounds impressed.
Ford lifts a brow. “Ballsy is right.”
Wyatt, realizing he’s alone in his Wolfington pile-on, glances up and over. His eyes lock on the girl, and he whistles. “Who’s the Disney Princess smokeshow?”
I scowl, already annoyed.
This girl’s got no damn business being here. In our town. In our bar. Especially when she could get hurt.
Still, I can’t help but stare, my eyes drawn to her long tan legs, the pink pout of a rosebud mouth, the gentle curve of her hip. Plain and simple, she’s fucking stunning.
She practically skips by our table. That’s when I catch a whiff of her perfume. Christ, is that how she smells? Like strawberries? And how small is she? If I held her in my arms, she’d what? Barely come up to my shoulder?
Jesus. Regroup Charlie.
Even Davis, gentleman that he is, manages an exorcist head spin. I grip the table. It’s all I can do not to adjust the position of his head on his neck.
What the fuck is the matter with me? I need to get laid, because I’m turning into some horny, territorial teenager all over again.
Now the girl’s at the bar, trying to get Beef’s attention.
He barks at her, fixing her with a look as mean as a rattlesnake, but she holds her ground, her pink mouth moving.
Her hands flutter as she raises the sign.
What’s she doing here? Clearly, in need of a job, but why the hell is she in Resurrection?
As she tries to push her way through the bar, following Beef, she keeps getting manhandled by the rowdy crowd. I try to avert my eyes, try not to see the wince flitter across her face, the way she rubs at her chest, the flush of her cheeks.
Scared. Now, she’s scared.
Cowboy code says help her out.
Help her out and then get her gone.
“Fuck.”
Beating Davis, I shove my chair back. Hard.
Someone has to rescue this doe-eyed Disney Princess before the entire bar eats her alive.