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"The part where you call me some derogatory name, I call you a bitter cripple and we each feel vi
ndicated. "
Rory backed the chair and altered direction. "I would," he flung over his shoulder,
"but if Thomas is willing to be your bitch for a meal ticket, I can keep my mouth shut.
As long as you don't decide we all have to whore for you. " Thomas stepped forward. He was going to knock him out of that chair, seize his brother in a headlock and pound him. The way he should have done a long time ago. . .
"Rory. "
Rory wheeled his chair around just as Marcus hefted the fifty pound sack of grain at him. Celeste gasped, but the boy reflexively caught it in the air, even as it knocked his chair back a yard, into Thomas' quick hands to bring him to a halt.
Before anyone could say anything, Marcus nodded. "If you can lift that, catch it the way you just did, you can run this place as well as anyone. And the difference between you and your brother is you want to do it. "
"I can't walk. I have to be able to load a truck. "
"You have to be able to run a business. A high-school kid earning money for college can load a truck. If you were my brother and you'd just spouted out that bullshit, I would have wrestled you to the floor and sat on you until you screamed like a little girl. " He lifted his gaze back to Thomas' troubled expression. "Of course, all you'd have to do is elbow him in the gut and you could break the lock. He's weak there. "
"Son of a bitch. " Rory thrust the sack off his lap. "You think I wouldn't do it if I could?"
"Yeah. That's exactly what I think. " Marcus stepped forward until he was toe-to-toe with the boy. The green in his eyes was ice. "I knew this kid once. We called him Lassiter. He was in a wheelchair. Great scam artist, but not as a panhandler. He was a pickpocket. Got into a fight one night with two guys in an alley. They killed him in the end, but he beat the hell out of both of them first with nothing but guts and the slugger baseball bat he carried. "
There were only a few feet and Rory between them, but he didn't look at Thomas.
Marcus wasn't being polite, he wasn't being sarcastic. He was holding all three of them riveted, the alpha male who'd had enough and was more than capable of snapping the pack back into line.
"The only thing that ever scared him was finding out there was something he couldn't do, so he damn well made sure there wasn't anything he couldn't. You've got it all here. He had nothing. So stop being such a little prick and prove to us you shouldn't have died under that tractor's wheels. Because if this is all you want to be, then that's what should have happened. "
Marcus shifted his attention to Thomas, nodding to a speechless Les. "I'd like to see those paintings now. "
* * * * *
They walked across the paddock, Kate plodding patiently behind them.
"You think I was too hard on him?" Marcus broke the silence first.
"No. " Thomas shook his head. "I should be doing exactly what you just did. "
"You know how to handle him, pet. " Marcus gave him a glance. "It's all tied up with everything. "
Thomas curled his hands loosely at his sides, feeling the sudden hard need to reach out and touch. The shed would be empty, could be locked from the inside. Despite himself, his step quickened. Marcus' heavy-lidded expression told him he knew exactly where his thoughts were going.
"Think scratching your itch is what I came down here to do?" The anger was immediate, given a shove by aching lust and loneliness that was underscored by Marcus' presence. "You didn't come to look at my paintings," Thomas retorted. "You could have done that in New York. So maybe you came down to scratch yours. "
"Now why would I do that when I have all that fine ass available to me within walking distance of a Starbuck's?"
Thomas stiffened and Marcus raised a brow. "You're the one who thinks all I need is an excuse to move on to fairer game. I'm just reminding you of that. "
"Stop it. " Thomas came to a halt, his hands now clenched. "Whatever stupid, fucking, bored urbanite game you're playing, just stop it. I told you I love you, damn it. "
"And what do I get with that, Thomas? What's the prize in that Cracker Jack box other than those three words?"
He couldn't match him on these grounds. Marcus was at his verbal best when he was pissed, whereas Thomas couldn't think of the right retort, could think of nothing but walking away before he smashed his fists into the offender's face.
"You're right," he said at last, quietly. He stared across the field, not at Marcus. "It's everything, but it's nothing. The nothing-everything I've got to give, that I only want to give to you and no one else. You're right. "
Turning, he walked away toward the shed. He wanted Marcus to see the paintings.
