Page 2 of Drifter’s Heart

Rand scrapes his fingers in the dirt, tattering the nails I manicured so he could continue the online calls he needs to manage his other businesses. This Montana ranch with its cute pokerwork sign depicting the coyotes he’s so damned attached to is a dream he doesn’t seem able to let go of, the stubborn ass.

“Stop that.” I slap irritably at his hand. Dirt tumbles from his palm.

He scoops it up again. Lets the grains trickle through his fingers.

“Stop,” I snap.

Rands ignores me, as per fucking usual. He looks up at me with a dopey grin. Christ, is he going to pass out on me? He is. Dammit, I knew being out here in the sun was too much.

Everything has been too much. We’ve both been out here too long. Why I haven’t packed us up and driven him back to the city, back to the boardroom he once loved where he made his millions, I’ll never know. Rand seems to want to be out here, so here we stay.

It’s not like I’ve ever been good at keeping my feet in one place for long anyway. Maybe I can tick off the days on a dirt calendar while I’m here. See how long I last.

“Pick it up,” Rand says softly, catching my hand and lacing dirt in the deep lines etched there that match the ones in my face.

“What?”

“Touch the dirt,” he says, a little louder. “We’re staying here, West. Get used to the feel of it.”

Reluctantly, I play along with his madness. God knows I’ve had my fill of his princess shit over the last months, even when I love him for it. This man is a brother to me and I’ll do anything for him. Fuck, I have done everything for him from digging post holes to attending legal proceedings and business meetings. The last is far from my forte. We both agree on that. I trained as an architect while he mastered business at college. Afterward, I was there when Rand built his empire, and then his ranch. Hell, I even stayed on as foreman, and now handyman-slash-babysitter. Other people progress their careers in the opposite direction. Not us.

The soil I know so well suddenly feels foreign in my hand, the grits too big, too hard.

“All right. We’re playing in the dirt now.” I rub the grains between my fingers. “Are you happy?”

“Pick us out a plot. Something side by side.”

I stand, my shadow long as it looms across his sprawled figure. “I’m not dying today. Neither are you, rich boy.”

“Not today. Not this decade.” Rand offers his hand, holding my gaze. “We aren’t going anywhere, West. Coyote Falls is home. This place is everything.”

My heart clenches as I grip his hand and nod, making a promise that my drifter’s heart wants to deny on sight.

But for him, I make it all the same.

ONE

WEST

Dusky Nights and Neon Lights

The bar’s heartbeat slams through my dusty bones. Music from several decades ago serenades every patron. At least, the ones paying attention to the crooner on the stage, who spends more time staring at his reflection in the glass behind the bartender than at the crowd enamored by his performance.

I grip my water and watch the curly head sway with the rest of the mob on the dance floor in the pit below. She’s the only reason I’m here. No other.

Wilder West, rave king.

Yeah, that wouldn’t be written on my headstone. Not this year, not fucking ever. I’m only here for one woman, and she’s trouble.

Hell, seeing more of her is the reason I left Coyote Falls almost a year ago in the first place. One of.

Four black-painted walls offer little relief from the sweaty crowd that pulses with chatter no one can hear anyway. I can’t stand closed-in rooms like this one. It’s beyond poorly designed from my point of view. Every exit is nailed shut to keep the ever-present line that weaves its way around the block from inadvertently entering through a fire escape that no longer functions the way it should.

The longer I stay in the firetrap, the stickier my skin grows on several levels. Not only because the air is thick with sweat, last night’s body fluids, and a distinct lack of innocence.

The curly head I’m stalking—ahem, watching—dips as she shouts something to her friend on the stage. The singer smiles as he unbuttons his shirt and flings it down at the crowd. Nope, not the crowd. Just to the girl I’m watching.

She crushes the sweaty, ripped flannel shirt to her chest like it’s a deity’s gift while I’m left staring at a pasty chest with no muscle definition whatsoever. Nothing—from either a gym or hard work. I know that’s not exactly a healthy masculine view, but I appreciate a worker who puts in the hours and gets a little dirt under his fingernails.