Operation 20 Healing Ground #2
Syn stared at Nimbus, who stood patiently, blinking at him as if saying, ‘you gonna brush me or what?’
Fox handed him a brush. “Start at the neck and follow the muscle. Be firm but not like you’re scrubbing grill grates.”
Syn followed the instructions, mimicking Fox’s movements.
At first, he felt stupid. Too aware of the small brush in his hand and the size of the animal. But he soon found a rhythm Nimbus seemed to enjoy.
Stroke, lift, stroke.
The ache that’d been persistent in his chest became gentler with each repetitive movement of his hand along Nimbus’s smooth coat.
After a while, Fox walked to a mini fridge tucked in the corner and pulled out a Ziploc bag. He came back and pushed several apple slices into Syn’s hand.
“Here. Feed him some of these.”
Syn jerked his hand slightly. “Damn, they’re cold.”
“I know. Colder the better.” Fox fed one to Diablo. “It’s hot out. These are like sweet, healthy horse popsicles.”
Syn looked at the apple slices, then at Nimbus. “Makes sense.”
Nimbus took the first slice delicately, his warm lips brushing his palm in a strange, ticklish way. Then searched for another like a greedy burglar.
Syn was smiling again.
By the time they finished, something in Syn’s shoulders had dropped half an inch and his thoughts were quieter than they’d been in days.
They put the horses up, washed their hands at the stable sink, then walked back to the main house in comfortable silence.
Fox helped him grab his duffle from the truck and carried it inside and upstairs. He led him to a guest room with a big iron bed, a worn quilt, a view of the side pasture, and a bathroom stocked with towels and toiletries.
“You can stay as long as you need,” Fox said from the doorway.
Syn set his bag on the bench at the foot of the bed. “Appreciate it.”
“You hungry?”
“I can eat,” he admitted.
The house was cool when they walked back downstairs, rustic and well-lived-in.
It had big, exposed beams, wide plank floors, a stone fireplace, built-in shelves full of books, framed photographs, and several random trophies and awards.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, huge and warm, with two refrigerators, an oversized range, a long breakfast bar and windows overlooking the pastures.
The delicious aromas made his stomach growl.
Bull’s father sat at the breakfast bar reading an actual newspaper, glasses low on his nose, one hand wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. He had Bull’s jaw, his intelligent eyes, and the same calm, weathered authority.
At the counter, Amelia—Bull’s cook, housekeeper, and self-designated mother— chopped cucumbers while grumbling at a talk show playing on her little television on the island.
She was petite, with a cute, round faced, sun-kissed skin, and eyes that missed nothing. She wore her thick gray hair in a neat bun sitting high on top her head, but by the end of the day, more than a few tendrils had fallen loose.
“Hey, you guys remember my brother, Corbin Sydney? He’s gonna hang out here and let this good ranch living heal his wounded soul,” Fox said, reaching toward a basket of hot rolls sitting in a warmer.
The wooden spoon Amelia yanked from her apron flew through the air and cracked Fox in the back of his head so fast Syn barely saw it.
“Ow!” Fox yelled.
“Get outta my kitchen when you haven’t washed your hands,” Amelia snapped. “You know better. Don’t try to show off because you have a friend here.”
Syn laughed…again.
Fox his head. “I did wash my hands.”
“In the stable sink. That don’t count in my kitchen.”
Bull’s father turned one page of his newspaper without glancing up. “Hard head makes a soft ass, boy. Don’t know why you still ain’t learned this lesson.”
Fox wrapped his arm around Amelia’s shoulders. “Don’t let her mean right arm fool you, Syn. She’s sweet on me.”
He pulled her in and kissed her long and hard on the cheek.
Amelia squealed, swatting at him while trying not to laugh. “Boy, if you don’t get off me…”
Fox dodged the next blow, kissing her other cheek.
Amelia smiled at him. “You’re more than welcome, Corbin, for as long as you want. Now, Fox, go on and grab you two a couple cold beers and get on the porch with all that silliness. And since we have such handsome company, tell Bull be on time for dinner or else.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fox said as he scrubbed his hands at the sink.
He grabbed two beers from the smaller fridge and led Syn outside to the shaded back porch.
It was almost six, the hard heat of the day beginning to ease into something more manageable.
The deep porch wrapped around the side of the house, with ceiling fans turning overhead and a comforting view of the endless fields.
They sat in two heavy wooden chairs near the railing, boots propped up, beers sweating in their hands.
For a while, they didn’t talk. It was as if the ranch had respect for his need of silence.
Syn finished his beer and Fox got up without a word and brought back two more.
When he sat back down, Syn stared at the label for a long moment, then sighed.
“So we gonna address the elephant in the room?”
Fox took a slow drink. “We got Clydesdales, cows, and some pretty oversized alpacas, but no elephants, brother.”
Syn barked a startled laugh…he’d already done that several times today.
He’d forgotten Fox’s sly humor. He didn’t grin after he’d said it either. He just sat there gazing out at his ranch.
Before Syn could speak, the sound of boots and male voices came from the side path.
Bull walked up first, and the sight of him helped Syn understand why Fox had traded gunfire and tactical calls for this man, this land, this life.
He was massive, broad as a door and twice as solid, with weathered, suntanned skin, black-rimmed aviator sunglasses, a thick beard, dusty jeans, and a midnight cowboy hat pulled low on his forehead.
Bull stepped onto the porch and pulled one glove off with his teeth before offering Syn his hand. His grip was firm and callused.
“Syn,” Bull said, in his deep, southern-tinged voice. “Glad you made it out. Any friend of Fox has a place here long as he needs it.”
“I appreciate that, Bull.” Syn shook his hand. “This place is amazing, and I think I’ve only seen a quarter of it.”
“You make sure he gets the full tour tomorrow, hmm.” Bull jerked Fox up from his seat and slammed him into his chest.
Their kiss was so hot Syn had to look away.
The two men who’d walked up with Bull were arguing heatedly about a lazy ranch hand.
“You told me to give your friend a shot, Ridby, and I did. I hired him, and he’s fucked up too many times. Now you fire him.”
The first guy was only slightly smaller than Bull, which meant he was built like a brick shithouse. He was maybe in his early forties, with a stern face, mossy green eyes, a square jaw covered with stubble and roped forearms.
His dark hat was battered, and his shirt sweat-stained, as he towered over the younger guy he was fussing with.
Bull tipped his chin toward them. “You remember Dale Garrett, my business partner and foreman, and Rid, my stable manager.”
“Good to see you.” Dale stopped and shook Syn’s hand with a grip that could probably bend steel. “Where’s that self-righteous boss of yours?”
Syn smirked. “He’s on assignment. But, I’m sure he misses you too.”
The second man removed his baseball cap, letting out his messy blond hair, as he slid under Dale’s arm and gazed up at him with a set of baby blue eyes that had the big man folding like a cheap lawn chair.
Rid was younger, handsome in a wild, country-bred kind of way. Ranch shirt stretched across his lithe chest, worn dusty jeans and an easy, manipulative smile.
Rid offered his free hand. “Sorry you have to witness this spectacle. Dale sometimes needs convincing that people are human and make mistakes. And that grace and forgiveness are very attractive virtues.”
That casual mention of forgiveness made Syn swallow hard as he accepted Rid’s hand.
Dale stared down at Rid, caving just as Syn thought he would.
“Fine. One more shot.”
Rid pushed up and placed a lingering kiss on Dale lips.
“I’ll pay closer attention to him, handsome. There’ll be no more fuckups.”
Dale and Rid seemed to slip into their own world, wrapped in each other’s arms, while Fox and Bull shook their heads as if they were used to this.
“I’m gonna get cleaned up for dinner,” Bull said against Fox’s mouth.
Fox caught the brim of Bull’s hat and tugged it lower. “Amelia said be on time or else.”
Dale grunted. “We better move.”
Rid nodded toward Syn. “Good meeting you.”
They went inside through the mudroom, Bull’s hand landing briefly on the back of Fox’s neck as he passed.
Syn watched them go, then turned back to Fox. “Damn. Domesticated looks good on you, Bro.”
Fondness moved across his face as he watched the doorway where Bull had disappeared.
“Yeah,” he said. “Feels pretty damn good, too.”
Syn took another drink. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Me either.”
Fox leaned forward, elbows on his knees, beer bottle hanging loosely between both hands.
“It wasn’t always easy,” he said.
Syn looked at him.
Fox kept his eyes on the pasture.
“Me and Bull did our damage. Said things. Did things.” His lips lifted without much humor. “I kicked that stubborn jackass out of our bed more than he’ll ever admit, and I don’t mean for one night. Sometimes a week. One time it was so long that Amelia stepped in and begged for him.”
Syn had a weird image of Bull sleeping in one of the horse stalls.
“But I always let him back in,” Fox said. “Not because what he did no longer hurt or pissed me off...”
Syn looked down.
“I let him back in because at some point I had to decide what was worth protecting – my pride, or what we’d built. There were times when I needed space so I didn’t say something I couldn’t take back, and times I needed him to sit in the hurt he caused.”
Syn’s throat worked.
“But space can turn into a weapon if you hold it too long,” Fox said.
Syn didn’t speak. He couldn’t trust what might come out.