Chapter 7 Dang Brat
Dang Brat
Sawyer
Watching Wes flail his way around the pens this morning gave me some sort of sick enjoyment.
It was laughable he didn’t think he needed any bit of a warm-up for the roping he would have to do tomorrow.
As far as I know, it's been years since he’s roped anything.
But I wasn’t going to make that suggestion to him.
If he thought he didn’t need to remember how it was done in the privacy of his own backyard, then far be it from me to suggest otherwise.
It might be fun to watch him struggle again.
He might have been frustrated this morning, but he hadn’t quit, and that had shocked the hell out of me. I’d pegged him as the type of person who took the easy way out of things.
His perfectly coiffed hair, designer duds, and the general air of superiority that oozed off him in waves told me everything I needed to know about this grown-up version of Wes Dawson.
He was privileged, and he was selfish. And I couldn’t stand him despite the modicum of charm he'd shown at the bar.
My hair is still damp from my shower and falls down my back in natural waves as I pull the hot cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
Eating cinnamon rolls and chili is a Nebraska staple, a combination as common here as cornbread and chili is in the south.
I drizzle them with icing and hear the rumble of male voices before my screen door creaks open.
My small, untidy kitchen is now filled with three full-grown men, one of which is on my shit list. I frown as I look at Wes in his nice jeans and polo shirt. His hair looks like it’s been positioned with some sort of styling gel, and he reeks of his expensive cologne.
“It smells fantastic in here, Sawyer. I can’t wait to dig in,” Pops says, making me tear my eyes from Wes, who’d been looking at my little farmhouse kitchen like it somehow offended him.
It’s small, outdated, and a little cramped, but it’s passable, especially since I’m the only one who lives here.
I force a smile. “It’s ready when you are.”
Pops kisses the top of my head as he steps around me to get to the food. His face is drawn and tired, but his color is still good, so I let him serve himself without making a fuss over it.
We sit around my table and eat, going over the plan for tomorrow for separating and vaccinating the feeder herd.
Normally, we would wait a couple of weeks before doing this part, but with Wes here, Pops wants to get it all done in the little time he’s willing to grant us the pleasure of his company. It makes for a hectic week.
Pops rises from his seat. “Wes, I’m gonna hit the hay. Why don’t you be a gentleman and help Sawyer with the cleanup since she cooked?”
“Sure thing.” I’m surprised when he agrees without a fight.
Tripp stretches and pats his stomach. “I’m so full I might bust. I’ll see you two bright and early.” I scoff at him, skipping out on the cleanup now that there’s someone else to help me.
“I’ll get the horses ready first thing,” I call to Pops and Tripp as a goodbye.
Wes’ brows raise. “We’re using your horses?”
I begin clearing the dishes. “Mine are the best-trained horses in the panhandle. Whose horses did you think we’d be using?”
Wes jumps in to help with clearing off the table as he chews that over. “I don’t know. I guess I’m used to Pops having his own. I forget his stables are empty now.”
“Some of the horses in my stable were his until he had to cut back. He let me have the handful he had left in return for bringing him dinners every once in a while and letting him use the horses when he needed them.” I twist my hair up so it stays out of my face.
“That was mighty kind of him.” His gaze narrows like he’s trying to solve a difficult equation.
“Pops let me apprentice with him after I graduated with my equine science degree, and when I moved into this place to start my own training facility, he offered me his horses.”
Ranchers would have paid good money for horses that well trained for working cattle, but instead he’d given me the horses I’d spent my early twenties helping him train and spread the word across the county that if you wanted an equine trainer, I was the one to get.
He helped me get my business off the ground.
I’d never be able to fully repay him for the support and encouragement he gave me over those first few years.
I load the dishwasher, and Wes saunters over with the rest of the dishes. “I thought you were just being neighborly by bringing him food and pitching in on the ranch. I didn’t realize you had worked with him, too.” He chews on the inside of his cheek like he’s mulling things over, reassessing.
“He couldn’t afford to keep me on as staff, but he did the best he could for me. He’s like family to me.”
Wes nods, and then his hand slides over my waist. My pulse spikes at the contact and my body freezes. He’s touching bare skin with hands that are soft from working in an office all day, and something behind my belly button tightens at the contact.
“Scooch over,” he says, his hand nudging my hip. “I’m supposed to be helping you with the dishes, not standing here watching.”
My momentary paralysis breaks, and I shuffle over to let Wes rinse the dishes off while I load. We’re standing hip to hip, our shoulders bumping whenever I turn to grab another dish from him. The close contact makes my skin jump and twitch like a horse trying to rid itself of flies.
“I’m glad Pops has someone close by who checks in on him,” Wes admits.
I grit my teeth and try to bite back my snarky reply, but it’s no use. “Would be nice if some family would come check up on him occasionally, too.”
I’ve grown protective of Pops, especially since his heart attack. He’s been an important figure in my life, and his family should care more for him than they have.
I didn’t know my own grandfather. My mom had grown up with an abusive father and took off with my dad the second she was old enough to get married.
She had me less than a year later. My dad—if he can even be called that—left us when I still had training wheels on my bike.
I don’t remember him much, and he never came looking for me.
Mom moved us out here to give us a fresh start. Housing here was affordable, and it was a safe place to raise your kids. She’s since moved to Arizona with her new husband.
She always said something about the rolling sandhills and prairie called to her. It calls to me the same way. It feels like a place where you can be free. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Doing anything else.
“Anyone ever tell you that you can be a bit prickly?”
I give him an expressionless stare. “Never.”
His lips twitch, but he has the sense not to smile at me. “I know maybe you don’t understand, but I have a job and a life back in the city.”
“At a company your daddy built. I have a feeling he’d give you a couple days off if you asked to go visit your lonely and ailing grandfather.”
He blows out an exasperated breath. But I’m not about to apologize for speaking the truth.
He’s only mad because he knows I’m right.
If he wanted to visit, he could, but he’s been too caught up at his desk job in some fancy office to worry about the man left behind—the father whose son moved to the city, whose wife died, and whose grandkids grew up and moved on without a second thought.
Pops is the best man I know, and he deserves better than what his family has given him these past fifteen years.
He grips a bowl, his knuckles whitening with the strain of keeping his temper in check. “You know, I’m trying really hard not to be offended but—”
“Go ahead and be offended. It’s no skin off my back if what I say doesn’t sit right with you.”
Wes might be trying to keep his cool to be polite, but I have no such qualms. This is my house, and I’m not going to be disingenuous.
“Why are you being so difficult? I’m here helping now, and I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“You’re trying to talk him into selling the ranch that’s been in his family for three generations. Being without that place would kill Pops.”
I have no doubt about that. He’s said as much to me on a number of occasions. The ranch gives him a purpose. He’d waste away in the city without the wide-open spaces and the smell of fresh-cut hay.
“Have you met the man? You can’t talk him into anything he doesn’t already want to do. He’s damn stubborn.”
“Must be a Dawson family trait,” I mutter under my breath.
“Why are you always picking fights with me?” he asks, irritated by my attitude.
“Me?” I gesture toward my chest, feigning innocence.
I can’t help it. This man irks me with his stupid hair and those stupid designer jeans and that idiotic little smirk that’s playing on his lips right now. He looks smug, and I can’t stand it.
His hands go to his hips and his head tips up to the ceiling like he’s saying a prayer for patience. “Yes, you. You’re being a dang brat. I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”
Maybe I am being a brat, but it’s easier to argue with Wes than anything else. He can pretend he knows what’s best, but the truth is, he’s clueless. About Pops and about the state of the ranch.
It takes every ounce of strength I have left not to keep taking tiny bites out of him. Instead, I shoot him an icy look. “Maybe it’d be better if you just went back to the ranch. I’m sure you’re sore from today, and a full day in the saddle tomorrow isn’t likely to do you any favors.”
“Suit yourself,” he grumbles and wipes his wet hands on the dish towel before he stalks off.
The door swings shut, and I’m left alone in my kitchen with half a sink full of dishes and a bad taste in my mouth.