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5
AUSTIN
It’s going to be a fucking nightmare of a year.
“Stuck with two city slickers.” Chance, my youngest half brother, grumbles.
He drops his cowboy hat on an end table and goes to the bar—a full-fledged one probably salvaged from a vintage saloon—and grabs a bottle of beer, twists off the top and takes a big swig. He doesn’t offer us one. Only gives Miles and me a cursory glance before swearing under his breath.
“Thank you for joining us,” Shankle says, having popped to his feet when Chance stormed in. He’s holding his briefcase just like in Seattle—as if it’s glued to his hand. I wonder if he sleeps with the thing.
Miles just arrived from the airport, with Shankle as his chauffeur. I’ve spent two days here solo, bored out of my fucking mind. Besides the property being enormous, so is the house. And the stable. And the other outbuildings. Everything is big in Montana, it seems. The housekeeper told me Chance was in Livingston, wherever that is, at a horse auction, and Miles has only just been able to tear himself away from the Big Apple.
Miles leans against the back of a couch, arms crossed over his chest. He’s relaxed, but watchful. Does he feel as out of place as I do?
He and I may have inherited part of this ranch, but this is Chance’s home. He was raised here. He works the land. It’s his job. His life. Now he’s got two strangers he has to share it all with and a lawyer setting the rules from the will of a dead man.
A dead man none of us liked.
“I can’t believe he’s made you two come here. I mean, have either of you ever ridden a horse before?” Chance continues, ignoring Shankle. “Hell, do you know which end’s for eating and which is for shitting?” He takes another deep swig.
For brothers, we look nothing alike. I have dark hair, Miles is fair, and Chance somehow came out a ginger. The only thing we all have in common with our father is size. We’re all over six feet. Miles is the tallest. Chance is barrel-chested and has about twenty pounds of extra muscle, probably from tossing hay bales all day.
It’s not just our looks. Our dress is different too. Chance is clearly a rancher with his sturdy work boots, big cowboy hat and snap shirt. His hair’s short and tidy, his face cleanly shaven. Miles is in dark jeans, motorcycle boots and a black T-shirt with a week’s worth of scruff on his cheeks.
“I’m sure they’ll learn some valuable skills while here over the next year,” Shankle offers, clearly trying to be diplomatic.
“I met a pretty new vet assistant who can help me out,” I reply, thinking of Carly and how she knew her way around a horse. She was skittish, but I couldn’t miss the way she raked her gaze over my body. There was interest there—mutual interest—that might make the time here fun.
“Who?” Chance narrows his eyes.
“Little thing with dark hair. Said her name’s Carly.”
“Not Carly Vance.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah, Carly Vance.”
“Leave that one be.” He shoots me a look that would wither the balls off a weaker man. “Head into town to the Dusty Rose and pick up a willing cowgirl. Any woman in town—single or otherwise—learns your last name is Bridger and you’ll have more pussy than you can handle.”
If Chance thinks he’s steering me away, he’s dead wrong. “Is Carly taken? She yours?”
I don’t poach, but I also don’t want to get shot either. If she is Chance’s woman, she’s out of play. I don’t blame him for his protective stance. If she were mine, I’d shoot first and ask questions later if a guy came sniffing around.
“Taken? You could say that.” He sets his beer down with a clatter. “She’s off limits. For both of you.”
Taken by whom? If she’s not Chance’s, whose is she?
Chance darts his gaze between us. “Hell, I’ve got two brothers and I don’t even know who’s who.”
“Austin,” I say.
“Miles.” He doesn’t look fazed by Chance’s anger. Maybe it’s the New Yorker in him, or maybe he’s just chill. He holds up his hands. “As for this Carly woman, I don’t even know who you’re talking about, but it’s nice to know there’s pretty scenery.”
Miles is clearly single.
“I understand you don’t want us here, Chance, but this wasn’t our first choice either.” He looks to me. “I assume I can speak for you and say we have lives that aren’t here.”
I nod. “Pull out your dick and pee on everything,” I tell Chance. “It’s all yours.”
