CHAPTER SEVEN #2
When John Walker’s file came through Mars’s desk as the potential candidate for the program, he asked me if I’d be okay with recruiting him.
Told him I would be. No, I didn’t think I’d ever come across the motherfucker, but I know how to do my job.
I know how to keep my emotions out of something.
Fuck, I do this to keep my emotions out of things in the first place.
By this, I mean be the one to handle the initiation period.
I’m the one who beats them up, tortures them, makes them repent for their crimes, baptizes them almost, until they’re ready to rejoin the world as responsible citizens.
Or rather, loyal ranch hands at Rawhide.
I’m the enforcer.
It lets the people around me believe I’m not a monster, filled with anger and violence.
That I’m just a man, albeit quiet and damaged, a loner, but still part of their little world with their little rules.
But most of all, it lets me keep my promise.
A promise I made that I wouldn’t go on a rampage and destroy the family that destroyed mine.
“You know I’m the only one who can handle this,” I tell him. “Who knows how to handle it.”
Not a lot of people know about the existence of Rawhide Redemption, for obvious reasons.
It’s only me, the other two Grayson brothers, and a very select few necessary to run the operation.
While some people don’t mind its existence, like the ones higher up in the government that have a stake in this program, Arsen isn’t too happy that such a thing exists.
It’s a secret that, if it fell into the wrong hands, could destroy everything the Graysons have built.
Their ranch, their land, their legacy. While I agree it’s dangerous to run an illegal prison program on the very land the Graysons have been fighting to protect for decades, I go along with it because it gives me an outlet for my violence and because I owe Mars everything.
“Taught you everythin’ you know,” Mars rumbles. “So you ain’t the only one who knows how to do this.”
I grit my jaw.
“And I did think you could handle it, but that was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before she came along.”
I growl like the monster I am, instantly and instinctively, as if protecting my territory. And my body tightens. Heats up, becomes hard and hungry. Ready to attack.
It doesn’t go unnoticed to Mars as he prods, “Again, you wanna tell me somethin’?”
Yeah, stop talking about her.
But I know if I attempted to speak, only a growl would come out again, so I keep silent.
“You know, I don’t agree with what Arsen’s doing,” he continues, studying me carefully.
“With his revenge plan. I don’t agree with draggin’ two innocent girls into whatever fuckery he’s come up with.
But what I don’t agree with more is him draggin’ you into this.
Gettin’ you tangled up in the whole Turner bullshit after everything. ”
Eight years ago, Arsen’s life exploded, and the reason for it was the same man who upended my life when I was fifteen: Hank Turner.
In anger, Arsen took it upon himself to end Hank Turner’s life.
I remember finding out about it. Finding out what Arsen did after the fact, and my very first reaction was anger.
It pissed me off, made me furious that it wasn’t me.
That I didn’t get to lay my hands on that bastard.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t go after him.
That my hands were—are—tied, roped by a promise I’d made a long time ago, I still wanted to be the one to take his life.
To look him in the eyes and know he died because of what he had done to my family.
Arsen got put away and now that he’s back, he wants to pick up where he left off.
He wants revenge, and he’s willing to go to any lengths to get it, including involving two innocent girls, as Mars put it.
Not sure if I should let Mars know that he doesn’t really need to worry about it.
Not about one of the girls, at least. Reverie.
Ever since Arsen came home with her, he hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off her.
I’m not privy to all his thoughts, but from the looks of it, he’s going to have a very hard time trying to hurt the girl he took in the name of revenge.
“I’m fine,” I say at last, my voice still more a growl than anything else.
“All right then.” He nods. “It’s just that if you want me or anyone else to believe that, I’d advise lookin’ at somethin’ else other than her from time to time when she’s in the room.”
I fist my hands at my sides, my knuckles throbbing with the anticipation of more. More violence. More bone splitting bone. “Fuck you.”
He hums. “Don’t blame you. She’s a pretty little thing, but—”
“I’d shut my mouth if I were you.”
His mouth twitches slightly. “That’s what I thought.”
I growl again.
“Down, boy. You’ve got nothin’ to worry about from me.”
To emphasize, he holds up his left hand, showing me his wedding ring. Not sure what he thinks this proves. Married men fuck around all the time. Not that Mars would. He’d kill a man without blinking an eye, but he would never cheat on Haven, despite their unusual marriage.
“We done?” I grunt.
He studies me one last time. “We’re done. If you give me your word you won’t kill this motherfucker.”
I inhale sharply but jerk my chin up at him, agreeing to curb my enthusiasm.
“Go on, then. Get,” Mars orders. “Gotta wrap up here and hit the sack. Got that meetin’ with the Andersons tomorrow.”
“You want me there?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t want you wastin’ your time on a bunch of city folk who think they can ride in and buy our land. To build a fuckin’ casino or condos. Or whatever it is folks from California do.”
The Andersons are businessmen from California who are looking to invest in real estate out here in Montana.
Apparently, it’s all about the profit margin, and the Graysons have the most beautiful land there is.
They’ve been trying to make a play for it since last year, but Mars isn’t budging.
As he shouldn’t. This land has been in the Grayson family for generations. It isn’t up for sale.
Saying my goodbye to Mars, I stride out the door of the cabin and bound down the stairs, heading to Milly, my horse.
She’s an American Albino, and I’ve had her for over sixteen years now.
While still good for riding around the ranch, I know she’s getting old, and I should probably try to give her up.
But she was a present from my parents for my fifteenth birthday.
Because American Albinos come from a white Arabian stallion also known as the “Old King,” and they wanted to gift a king to a King.
Well, at least that’s what my ma told me with a big smile while she took me to the stable blindfolded.
Only she thought of shit like that; my daddy, however, just went along with her because he liked to make her happy.
I climb up into the saddle, fish out a black bandanna from my pocket to cover my face, and press my heels to Milly’s flank to let her know I’m ready.
Like the loyal companion she’s been for years, she takes off at a gallop.
The wind whips against my body, cooling down the sweat and drying the splattered blood on my skin.
Apart from violence, riding is another thing that helps me calm down.
The nights I can’t sleep because either words are too loud in my head or the anger is too hot, I go on a ride around the ranch.
I spend hours just riding, nothing but wind beating against my body and the night at my back. It’s relaxing.
I spend the next hour or so checking on things, talking to the hands on the night shift about the work on the fence on the northern side of the property; the power line that came down last week due to a freed bull running into the pole; the security camera that got busted a couple of days ago.
I also stop by the security building. It’s located in the middle of the property and is manned by a rotating shift of two ranch hands at all times of the day.
I check through the feeds, make sure everything is as it should be, all perimeters clear, before calling it a night.
The work of a cowboy never stops, though.
At least that’s what my daddy used to say.
Everything I know about ranching, the land, how to take care of it, how to respect it and the animals that land nurtures, comes from my father.
He had a passion for it that he tried to instill in me.
He didn’t fail, not really. I do have the passion for land, for working with my hands, or I did.
Now I mostly do it because this is all I know.
Any passion or love I had for it, for anything, died the day my parents did.
I can’t sleep.
So I find myself riding to the main house.
I guide Milly around the corner and pull the reins to stop her at the farthest window on the south wing.
Standing shadowed behind the tree line, I look into the room that belongs to me.
Or it would if I lived here instead of in the barn.
But Haven insists on keeping it ready and stocked for me in case I ever need it. And I finally did. Today.
The room is spacious with a custom-made bed, a sitting nook with leather couches and a bookcase, a large walk-in closet, and an en suite bathroom.
The walls used to be off-white, just some generic color that’s not too hard on the eyes.
But I recently had it painted: light blue.
Haven was over the moon about it; thought I’d finally given up on the crazy idea of “hiding out in my cave.” Why she would think that when I’ve lived out there for the last decade is beyond me, but I didn’t burst her bubble.
Anyway, I also fitted the room with anything and everything blue: from covers, sheets, blankets, and fucking drapes to motherfucking pillows.
There’s so much blue in this room that it hurts my damaged brain.