Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Hey, Calvin!" Rhett hollered from the fence line. "Need you to run into town—pick up a couple rolls of barbed wire and a sack of staples before the feed store closes."
I gave Rhett a little salute. "You got it! Need anything else?"
"I, uh, wouldn't mind a case of beer." He laughed and smiled—which I returned. Five days on this ranch, and it was already starting to feel like home.
"Only if you're sharing!"
"You got it! Get yourself a fuckin' hat, too. Your face looks like a tomato."
I rolled my eyes and gave him a one-finger salute this time.
I tossed my gloves in the barn before making for my truck, phone in hand.
"Feed store," I muttered to myself as I typed it into the Google Maps app. When the results popped up, I scowled. "Lancaster Feed and Supply. Of course."
I climbed in the driver's seat and set off on my twenty-minute drive into town, unsure of what I'd find. One would assume it was the same Lancasters. Larkspur was a small town. Surely, they were family.
A few songs later, I pulled up in front of a decent-size cinderblock building with a sun-faded sign that read Lancaster Feed & Supply in peeling red paint.
A row of dented aluminum trash cans sat off to one side, lids rattling in the breeze, and a stack of hay bales and salt blocks were shrink-wrapped on pallets out front.
The gravel lot was pitted and dusty, scattered with pickups that had seen better days, most of them with gun racks or mud-splattered tires.
A few hundred yards away sat a well-kept white home with red shutters that matched the paint of the sign.
The bell above the glass front door gave a half-hearted jingle as I stepped inside.
The place smelled like ground corn, molasses, and dust—comforting in its own way.
Rows of stacked fifty-pound feed bags lined one wall, neat as bricks, while shelves sagged under horse wormer, fly spray, and tubs of mineral blocks.
A pegboard behind the counter bristled with tools: fencing pliers, coils of baling twine, lead ropes in every color.
The linoleum floor was worn to a shine where countless boots had tracked across it, and the air was hazy with straw dust caught in the streams of light filtering through narrow windows.
Behind the counter sat a squat coffee pot that had probably been there since the Reagan years, and a corkboard plastered with handwritten notes—used saddles for sale, a babysitter wanted, ranch hands offering day labor, someone's missing border collie.
The whole place buzzed low, steady, like the heartbeat of the county.
It was fucking delightful.
A tall, broad man walked out of a back office, and I did a double take.
A Brody lookalike.
A brother, if I had to guess.
"Ma'am." He nodded my way, and I resisted the urge to cringe.
He was grumpier-looking than Brody—but that wasn't hard to do. When Brody wasn't brooding over the drama of his current life state, he had all the personality of the golden retriever on the front of the bag of dog food at the end of this aisle.
I'd kill for a dog.
"Haven't seen you 'round here before."
"Just started working over at Wild Acre," I said, stepping toward the counter. "Rhett sent me down for some fencing."
The other Lancaster gave me a slow perusal from my feet up. By the time he reached my face, it must have been the arched eyebrow that told him I didn't miss that look. His cheeks brightened and he scrubbed a hand over his mouth.
"You met my brother yet? Brody?"
"Looks just like you? Personality of a boy scout?"
He grunted what I was gonna call a laugh and I grinned. "Yeah, that'd be the one."
"He older or younger?"
"Older. By ten months."
"Ah, Irish twins." I waggled my brows. "Parents must've been busy."
A scowl took up residence on his face—no less handsome than Brody but just less somehow. I wasn't going to pause to examine the reasoning behind that little observation.
"I'm Calvin." I extended a hand across the counter.
He shook off whatever foul mood had momentarily overtaken him and gripped my hand.
"Luke. Nice to meet you, Calvin."
"Well, it's been real great meeting you, Luke. How 'bout you ring me up for a couple rolls of barbed wire and a sack of staples, and I'll be on my way."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Luke," I said. He paused hand-writing Rhett's order that would be added to his tab and peered up at me. "If you know what's good for you, you'll never call me ma'am again."
He smirked and gave his head a small shake. "You're gonna be trouble, aren't ya?"
"Only a little." I pinched my thumb and forefinger together, leaving just a smidge of space between them. "Promise."
"Let me help you load up—"
"Oh, no. I got it, really."
"I insist," Luke said, coming around the counter.
"Alright then, after you."
When the supplies were loaded up, Luke met me at the driver's side door of my truck.
"Listen," he palmed the back of his neck in a movement that was so like one I'd seen Brody do a dozen times already. "I was wonderin' if you might like to go out for a drink sometime. We only got the one bar in town, but could always head down to Bozeman if that's more up your alley."
Fuck. My brain ping-ponged between ways to answer this genuinely kind and not-unattractive-at-all man.
On the one hand, havin' a drink with Luke sounded like a good time.
On the other, I'd seen his brother's dick up close and personal—and even though I said we'd best stick to being just friends, I'd really like to see it again.
I didn't wanna give Luke the wrong idea. And I didn't want to hurt Brody by bouncing from him to his brother.
"Well, Luke. I'd love to have a drink with you, but maybe just a friendly drink, yeah? I'm not really in the market for much more right now."
Not a lie. Not the whole truth.
Six o'clock on a hot June night and the sun was still showing off.
Still glowing bright like it was just starting off its day while the rest of us were beat to hell from a long day's work.
It lounged over the Bitterroots, flirting with the jagged peaks, daring them to try and swallow it whole—but it'd be hours yet.
I clomped my Docs up the three wide steps to the wraparound porch of the main house with a case of Pbr tucked under my arm, the cardboard already damp and soft where condensation had soaked through.
The porch stretched wide on either side of the door, shaded but still holding the day's heat in the floorboards.
I shifted the case to my hip and rapped my knuckles on the screen door, then turned around and rocked back on my heels while I waited.
I gave the mountaintops in the distance another long, lingering look.
It was a sight I could get used to.
And that was exactly the problem.
The best part about leavin' was nobody got to keep their hooks in you. You didn't stick around long enough to be used.
Or controlled.
Or anything.
"Calvin, hey."
I turned around to see Sassy opening the door. As she did, shouts rang out from the inside of the house, followed by the telltale sign of a glass shattering. Her eyes went wide and she scurried out onto the porch with me, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.
"Jesus, he is in rare form today."
Didn't miss the disdain in her voice or in her expression as she walked to one end of the porch toward a cozy set of outdoor furniture.
Color me confused.
"Who, Rhett?"
Other than some words of lethal warning, I hadn't seen the man so much as raise his voice all week.
Sassy snorted as she dropped onto one end of a cushioned wicker sofa, tucking her bare feet under her. "No way. Have you met him? Not much ruffles his feathers."
We'd have to agree to disagree on that one. I'd say the Brody-Sassy drama had given his feathers a big ol' fluffing.
"That'd be Mr. Calloway." She made a little air-quote motion before jerking her chin toward the door. "I take it you haven't met yet?"
We hadn't, and I'd been curious. It wasn't Rhett's name on this ranch. I knew it had been purchased by his father a couple decades ago.
But I wouldn't pry. Didn't need any cause for suspicion.
"Nope," I said, taking a chair across from her and setting the beer on the table in between us. "Sounds like I might not wanna, either."
"Understatement of the century. Just know, if you do, it's always Mr. Calloway or sir. I've known that man since I was barely nine years old and I'm still not allowed to call him anything else."
I barked out a laugh. "Well, steer clear of the shitstorm if and when we do. Authority figures and I tend not to get along too well."
I'd made it my mission in life to bring men with egos bigger than the state of Montana—the ones who liked to exert control over everyone in their orbit—down a couple pegs.
"I'm shocked," Sassy deadpanned.
I peeled back the cardboard flap and reached into the case, handing her a can before popping the tab on mine. The metallic snap cut through the lingering noise from inside.
She took one look at the label and raised a brow.
"Pbr? Really?"
I lifted my shoulders, cracking a grin as I leaned back in my chair. "He didn't specify."
Sassy popped the tab on her beer and tipped the can back, taking a long drink like she needed it. When she came up for air, both hands gripping her drink, she eyed me.
"So," Sassy said, casual but not really. "You and Brody."
"There is no me and Brody."
She tipped her beer toward me. "There's definitely somethin'."
Heat crept up my neck. Annoying.
I narrowed my eyes at her. "You always this nosy?"
"Only when it's someone I care about."
If I was the Grinch, my heart would have grown three sizes.
She wasn't staking a claim.
She was protective.
Of him.
Not territorial. Not possessive. Protective.
I had a lotta questions, but I was keepin' 'em behind my teeth. For now.
Sassy leaned her head back against the wicker cushion and stared up at the porch ceiling fan lazily spinning above us.