Page 95 of Barbed Wire Hearts

Pa looks up at me, his eyes hollow. “I saw,” he finally replies before he takes a swig straight from the crystal decanter he keeps in here. I don’t know why he even keeps it. Probably only so he can miserably guzzle it when no one is looking.

“Well?” I spit. “What are you gonna do about it then?” I glance down at the letter on top. “It’s saying we gotta pay a hundred and fifty thousand dollars within thirty days.”

“I ain’t got it,” he laughs, but it lacks the usual confidence pa exudes. “I ain’t got it.”

“But the cattle?—”

“Ain’t brought in shit this year,” he grunts before taking another swig. “This ranch is a shithole. Let it die.”

I scowl. “Steele Mountain has been in our family for five generations!”

“And it’ll die with mine,” Pa says, taking another long swig.

He’s wasted. Even if I couldn’t tell from his face, the smell in the room would reveal it. The man is literally sweating whiskey right now. I don’t think he’s even changed his clothes from a few days ago. Christ. I go away for one of Levi’s rodeos for a few days and this is what I come back to?

“It ain’t dying,” I growl. “Not if I can do something about it.”

Pa laughs again. “You think you’ve got what it takes, Dakota?” He shakes his head. “As dense as your mama. Bless her heart, but the woman could see hope in every situation.”

Fury fills me. Mama wasn’t dumb, not by a long shot. The only mistake she’d ever made was in marrying this sack of shit when he’d managed to convince her she’d have a good life out here. He’d barely stuck around when she’d gotten sick. Hell, he started cheating on her before she even went to the first round of chemo. Bastard doesn’t deserve the opportunity to even speak about my mama, let alone insult her.

I’ve read through the letters. I’ve seen the state of things. And I know the only way to save this ranch is if Pa gets out of the way.

“It seems, there’s only one thing to do then,” I muse, hatred filling me at the man who laughs. He sees my expression and thinks it hilarious, just as he always has. Fuck, what bullshit that so many of us get shit father’s out here. I have it better than most. Mine mostly leaves me alone, but I can’t just sit by any longer while he fucks our legacy into the ground. If I’m going to save this ranch, he can’t be here to ruin all my good work.

And Pa has always been so easy to manipulate when he’s drunk.

“Yeah?” he asks. “And what’s that?” He takes another long pull of the decanter, drinking far too much too quickly. He’ll try to sleep it off all day tomorrow, but there’s no need for that.

I come around the desk and lean over his chair. He tips back and the smell of stale whiskey and body odor makes me wrinkle my nose. With my eyes on his, I reach for the .45 Long Colt revolver at his hip, the one that’s been passed down through my family for the last five generations. There’s pretty gold inlays and beautiful engraved filigree designs along the entire gun. It sports the ranch brand carved into the ivory hand grip, and every man who has taken over the mantel sports it. I’ve eyed that gun since I was old enough to know the significance of it. It’s my turn. But first, it has to be passed on.

I pull it from his holster and wrap his hand around the trigger. Slowly, I raise the barrel to his head. My eyes never leave his.

“Pull the trigger,” I rasp.

* * *

I come to with a grunt curled around Kate, my mind a mix of anger and memories. I haven’t dreamed of that memory in years. Leave it to Kate to bring it out of me.

I look down at her sleeping form and sigh.

Fuck, I need a drink.

ChapterFifty-Seven

Kate

The sun hasn’t risen yet when I stir and realize Dakota isn’t in bed with me. His side of the bed cold now so he hasn’t been in bed for a while. Strange. I didn’t expect him to leave.

I’m not in my room. This one is tidy and neat, every item in its place, so I know I must be in Dakota’s. I stretch my arms over my head and yawn, before shrugging on a t-shirt I find handing on the post and padding out of the room. When I look around, I spy light coming from a doorway down the hall and tiptoe toward it. Peeking through the door, I find Dakota sitting at a large desk, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, his revolver on the desk before him.

“You okay?” I whisper, making my presence known.

He glances up at my words, his eyes tracing down my body to take in my legs exposed beneath the hem of his shirt. “You come lookin’ for trouble?” he asks.

“I came looking for you,” I clarify, tilting my head. “The bed grew cold.”

He hums under his breath and takes another small sip. When he crooks his fingers at me, I come inside the room without hesitation and step around the desk. He’s sitting in a large cowhide chair, leaning back in it, his legs spread as he sets the whiskey bottle on his knee. I lean back against the desk, my eyes on his.

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