Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
CASH
T here was tension in the air when Cash stepped into what they called the living room of the bunkhouse. The room itself was open, with a kitchen on the left and the living area on the right. A long dining table was the only thing separating the two, and a handful of ranch hands were already seated, tucking into eggs and biscuits and sausage. Among them, sitting at the end of the table apart from everyone, was Wilder.
Cash had woken that morning to a text from Lain.
Lain
He arrived. Take him to get a wardrobe in the AM. Whatever he needs. Put it on the ranch card. Then show him whatever needs doing.
So that was the plan. Over text wasn’t the ideal way to ask after Lain’s emotional state, but he’d check in with him later and see how the first meeting went. He’d planned to be there for it, but a bull had run through a part of the fence yesterday, and he’d worked late stringing it with fresh barbed wire with two of the other hands. Ranch life meant not keeping to a regular schedule. Anything could happen.
At first glance, Wilder looked exactly like Lain. Cash appreciated the warning that they were not just brothers but twins . There were as many differences as there were similarities, though, once he started looking. Wilder’s hair was shorter. There was a gauntness to his face that Lain didn’t have. Lain spent hours out in the sun, ate hearty home-cooked meals, and got plenty of varied exercise. Wilder was pale, his dark blue eyes shadowed. He was muscular but lean, lacking the healthy layer of fat Lain had. He looked like a man who’d been through the wringer.
He was also tattooed, which was the easiest way to tell them apart. A dagger was tattooed on the left side of his neck, angled down and forward, with the handle stretching toward his hairline behind his ear. There were letters on his knuckles, but Cash wasn’t close enough to make out what they said.
The other hands seemed to be giving him a wide berth, likely taken off-guard by the new presence that favored the boss so much. Right, he hadn’t told them who exactly their new coworker was going to be.
With a sigh, he went to the coffee pot on the counter first. Coffee, then responsibilities.
“Morning, boss,” Clyde said, pushing some scrambled eggs around the pan. Nearing fifty, he was the oldest hand they had. His black hair was peppered with silver. “Hungry?”
“You know it.” Dipping his voice low as he filled his mug with coffee, he asked, “How’s he been?”
“The doppelg?nger?” Clyde shot him an arch look. “Quiet. Got some coffee and some food and put his back to the wall. What’s his story?”
“Estranged brother, been in prison eight years.” He dreaded having to tell them why he was put away, but it was a matter of time until someone got curious and asked—if they didn’t already know. Roselake was small enough that gossip traveled fast. Half the hands here had grown up in town. Many of them probably already knew, and it was a matter of time before word spread. Clyde wasn’t one of them, having come to town just a year ago.
Clyde clicked his tongue at the news but didn’t pry. Cash always knew he liked him.
Billy, a couple of years younger than Lain—and Wilder, Cash supposed—sidled up to them and said, “Murder, right?”
Cash sighed. Billy grew up in Roselake. Of course he’d heard the story.
Clyde’s brows rose. “No shit?”
“He got out for good behavior, it’s fine,” Cash said quickly. “He’s no danger.”
“He’s plenty dangerous, boss,” Clyde said. “I got a cousin who did time. I know what those tattoos mean.”
That threw Cash for a loop. “What do they mean?”
“The ones on his knuckles look like gibberish,” Billy said. “EWMN?”
Cash frowned, but Clyde said, “Evil, wicked, mean, nasty. It’s basically a billboard that says ‘don’t fuck with me.’”
They shouldn’t be having this conversation so close to the man himself, but Cash was too curious not to ask. “And the knife on his neck?”
Clyde met his eyes seriously. “Killer for hire. Willing to commit murder within the prison for the right price.”
Cash scowled. That didn’t sound right. They wouldn’t have let Wilder out for good behavior if he’d been going around shivving people. “Are you sure?”
Clyde picked up a plate and plopped some fresh eggs down on it. “Absolutely. Here you go. Best of luck with him. I’ll be keeping my distance.”
Billy shook his head, his gaze dark. “He’s got no business here.”
“That’s not up to any of us. Just keep your head down and do the work. The boss wouldn’t do anything to endanger the ranch. You know that.”
“The boss might have a blind spot where family’s concerned,” Billy remarked.
“Enough,” Cash said sternly.
He grabbed a sausage and biscuit and carried his plate and coffee over to the table. Before he could second guess his decision, he set his plate down beside Wilder and held out his hand.
“Hey. Cash Arden. Boss asked me to take you into town today for some work clothes. You up for it?”
Wilder, who’d frozen with his mug halfway to his lips, eyed Cash’s hand for a moment before he set his mug down and shook it. Cash caught a flash of another tattoo on his right hand. Five dots, between thumb and forefinger, like the four points of a square with a single dot in the middle.
“Wilder,” he said. “And yeah. I’d rather not have to keep wearing these.” He gestured to his sweatpants and white T-shirt. “Lain said whatever it costs could come out of my next couple of paychecks, right?”
“That’s right. We’ll get whatever you need today, and I’ll charge it to the ranch. Don’t worry about the cost for now.” He sat, keeping his body loose and relaxed the way he would around any other hand. The last thing he wanted was to put Wilder on edge.
Wilder nodded, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “That’s fine. I just don’t want any handouts. I can make my own way.”
Cash inclined his head. He couldn’t, actually, because without the advance he wouldn’t be able to buy what he needed. But that was semantics and not worth mentioning. Cash understood the drive to be independent. It was one of the reasons he’d cut out on his own with a secondhand camper at eighteen years old, after all.
“We’ll get you sorted,” he said. “Eat up. After we get your stuff, we’ll come back and I’ll show you the ropes. How are you on a horse? Can you ride?”
A couple of the other guys drifted closer, sitting around Cash and trying not-so-subtly to listen in. Cash resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They gossiped as much as a bunch of old ladies. There wasn’t much else to do out in the fields all day but talk to each other while they worked.
One of Wilder’s cheeks twitched. It might’ve been a grimace; it certainly wasn’t anything resembling a smile. His eyes were too bitter for that.
“I used to. Haven’t been on one since I was… seventeen maybe.” Under his breath, he added, “Think that’s when he sold the last one.”
“Were you any good?” Cash asked lightly. That might’ve been a question better suited for Lain, who would be able to give a more objective answer.
To his surprise, Wilder’s gaze softened with remembered fondness. He shrugged one shoulder. “I got by.”
No defensiveness, no boasting. Cash was quietly impressed. Wilder obviously enjoyed riding, back when he could. He’d try to make a point of putting Wilder in a saddle sooner rather than later. Anything to help drain the tension from the man’s shoulders.
There were quite a few stores in Roselake that would have clothes for Wilder, but fewer had the kind of hats and boots he’d need for long days on horseback and out under the unforgiving sun. Wilder was quiet in the truck, watching the world pass by outside the window. The knife tattoo on his neck was easily visible from this angle, and Cash wanted to ask him if what Clyde said about it was true.
But it wasn’t his business.
When they pulled into McKenzie’s, he ushered Wilder out of the truck and led him inside. The scent of leather hit him as they stepped through the glass doors. There were boots along the back wall, clothes racks in the middle of the room, belts and hats over on the right. Cash gestured for him to go ahead.
“Jeans and shirts first. Two belts. Get some long sleeves and flannels, and we’ll find you a good coat for winter, too.”
Wilder’s dark brows were in his hairline, staring around at the store with tension pulsing in his jaw.
“Wilder,” he said softly, and ocean blue eyes found his, searching. “It’s okay. Don’t stress. One thing at a time. How about jeans?”
Wilder nodded, taking a fortifying breath as Cash led him into the middle of the room where jeans were folded on tables and shirts hung on circular racks. He sent Wilder into a changing room with two different sizes in both jeans and T-shirts. He looked a little thinner than Lain, who was in turn a bit thinner than Cash, but sometimes looks could be deceiving.
“Hey there,” a perky voice said while he waited, and he turned to see McKenzie herself, gray-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a high bun. “Can I help y’all with anything?”
The dressing room door opened, and anything Cash might’ve said fell right out of his head. In a T-shirt that actually fit and jeans that hugged his lean legs, Wilder looked less like an ex-con and more like a rugged bad boy. His eyes were still shadowed, his expression uncertain, but Cash’s mouth went dry nonetheless.
Don’t go there , he told himself.
“Yes,” he told McKenzie. “We could use some help. Can he just wear those out of the store?”
“Certainly. Just let me get the handheld scanner so I can ring them up for you.”
“We also need…” Cash paused, stroking his jaw in thought, “five more of the jeans and the shirts in those sizes.”
McKenzie took down the sizes Wilder told her and wandered away to gather everything.
“How do they feel?” Cash asked. How long had it been since Wilder wore a nice fitting pair of jeans? A shirt he picked out himself?
Wilder passed a hand down his abdomen, glancing down at himself. “It’s good. Never thought it was possible to miss jeans.” He rocked back on his heels, lifting the toes of his navy slip-on canvas shoes. “It’ll be nice to get out of these shoes, too. Arch support is a bitch.”
Cash chuckled. “Come on, then. Boots are over here.”
Because Wilder didn’t actually know his own shoe size anymore, they used one of the metal foot measurers to get an idea. Then Cash let Wilder peruse the boots on display until he found some square-toed, brown roper boots.
The minute he stood up, he groaned. “Oh God, that’s good.”
The sound rolled down Cash’s spine. He cleared his throat. “Good. You want to look in the mirror? Walk around in them a bit?”
Cash picked up the box, expecting they’d be getting these. When he raised his gaze, Wilder had his back to him, looking at himself in the mirror with his head tilted like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Cash’s gaze trailed down the long length of his body. The boots had just enough of a heel to lift him up, accentuating his thighs and the curve of his ass. He looked good , and Cash couldn’t explain why he was thinking that about Wilder when he’d never had a passing thought about Lain. They were twins , after all. Lain was like a little brother to him, but somehow Wilder ticked boxes he didn’t even know he had .
He shook himself. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“They’re good.”
“Great. Let’s find you some good work boots, too. Something with laces you can tie up, and heavy soles.”
They worked their way through the whole store. A pair of brown, waterproof work boots joined the roper boots’ empty box at the cash register. Some nice snap button shirts joined the T-shirts, along with three warm flannels and a Carhartt coat for when the weather dropped off cold. Two belts joined the pile, and finally, they went to the hat wall.
“You grew up around here, so I assume you had one of these at some point, right?” Cash asked, picking one up at random and checking the size.
“Yeah, I did,” he said softly. He plucked a pale cream, straw hat off the display, checked the size, and put it on, adjusting it slightly and checking the mirror with a sharp eye. “Little big,” he remarked.
“Hm.” Cash stepped closer, lifting the hat off Wilder’s head and checking the size. The one in his other hand might work, so he set it on Wilder’s head, realizing as their eyes met that he’d pressed his way right into Wilder’s space, their bodies inches apart. He swallowed hard, refusing to shy away now. “How’s that?”
Their hands brushed as Wilder reached up to adjust it. “Good, yeah. This fits better.”
“Good.” He smiled faintly. “You look like a real cowboy now.”
Wilder chuckled weakly. “Anything else?”
“You could probably use more socks and boxers, yes? There are packs of those over there. I trust you can pick them out on your own.” He smiled cheekily, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say Wilder blushed.
“I think I can handle it. Ankle socks?” he teased as he drifted away.
“Well hell, here I come after you, if that’s how you want to play it,” Cash said, trailing after him to make sure he didn’t try to wear ankle socks with boots.
Wilder barked out a raspy laugh. “Christ, I’m kidding. I’ve worn boots before.”
He grabbed a pack of boot socks and a pack of dark-colored boxer briefs, casting Cash a look as though to say ‘ see? ’ After a moment’s thought, Cash grabbed him a pack of wool socks for winter and a second pack of boxer briefs.
“Better to have too many,” he said, pressing both into Wilder’s arms.
“Hope y’all have a laundry facility in the bunkhouse,” Wilder commented as he carried it all to the cash register.
“We do. I’ll show you where it is when we get back. If you’re up for it, we’ll saddle a couple of the horses and I’ll take you for a tour of the whole property. It’s probably changed quite a bit since—” He stopped, uncertain how to finish.
“Since I did a no good, very bad thing?” Wilder said, low and conspiratorial, and when his deep blue eyes cut toward Cash, they were swimming with dark mirth.
A shocked snort escaped Cash. It had seemed like such a big deal when Lain told him. How did Wilder manage to make it sound so inconsequential? It should be horrifying, but he supposed Wilder had to make light of it. There was no changing what he’d done, after all, and burying himself in guilt didn’t seem to be his style.
When he paid, he insisted that McKenzie not tell them the total, because he didn’t want Wilder worrying about it. She accepted the ranch’s card and charged it, then handed him the receipt folded so Wilder couldn’t get a glimpse of it.
“I’m paying it back, though,” Wilder said as they carried the bags out to the truck. “Shouldn’t I know how much it is?”
“Nope. Lain said it’ll come out in increments, so don’t worry about it.”
“How many increments?” Wilder asked as they tucked the bags in the backseat. “Over how many paychecks?”
Cash leveled a warning look at him from across the truck, leaning into the backseat to make sure the bags were secure. “Would you stop?”
“No,” Wilder replied matter-of-factly.
Cash shook his head, closing the door and climbing into the front. As he stuck the key in the ignition and Wilder climbed into the passenger seat, it occurred to him that Wilder probably hadn’t driven a car in a very long time, either.
“Do you have a valid driver’s license?” he asked.
Wilder blinked in surprise, then shook his head. “I got one when I was sixteen, but it expired years ago. They gave it back to me when I got out, but it’s out of date.”
“Hm. I’ll add that to the docket, then. Never know when you might need to drive a work truck around. I assume you’ll have to go to meetings with your parole officer, too, right?”
He turned to look out the window. “Once a month, yeah. And regular phone calls.”
“We’ll get you set up with a prepaid cell phone this week, too, then.”
Wilder’s gaze fell to his lap, his thumb brushing the new denim. There was a curve to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t like accepting help. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to rely on them for long. Independence was important to him, and Cash hoped, for Wilder’s sake, that he was able to find his footing soon.