Page 37 of Brands

After the room full of laughter subsides, the shock begins to set in.

He’s serious.

Chapter Thirteen

Blue

I still haven’t figuredout the connection between all of the places that the drone footage was found on.

Some are so damn random they don’t make any sense.

Why in the hell is Hilltop Bar on there?

Or the trailer park halfway to Campton?

They aren’t ranches, or even agriculture at all.

Oddly, I’ve been antsy to make it back to Clay’s place. Seeing Libby’s picture has kept the little hairs on the back of my neck up for the last week.

It’s frustrating that my job keeps me away for so long, when all I really want to do is stay close to keep an eye on her.

I shouldn’t.

She’s off limits.

But she’s a burr under my saddle that is getting harder to ignore.

I had to go up to the Benoit place yesterday to check out a batch of steers they were selling. Usually I look forward toflirting with Patty Benoit, since her husband passed last year.

Yet this time, all I could think about was Libby.

Maybe I should just give in. Fuck her a few times, have some fun, get her out of my system.

The more I get to know her, the more it worries me that I might not be able to just walk away.

That’s the best reason to hold her off.

I’ve been careful for a long time not to get tied down. I love my job, and the road.

Well, shit. There are some days where it’d sure be nice to have a warm bed to crawl into, without having to play the same ol’ games at the bars to find someone.

One day.

Yea, but.

I ain’t getting any younger.

And after seeing Dixon settle down, seeing how ridiculously happy he is, it makes me start to question my convictions.

We were like the three amigos. Dixon, Wade, and me.

At least Wade is still single. He lost his heart a long time ago to a woman he could never have, so I know he’ll be there.

But sitting here at this worn desk piled with old receipts, on a chair I barely trust with my weight…my pulse races in my ears at the thought of her walking through that door at any moment.

When the handle clicks, blood rushes to my crotch like some sort of twisted Pavlovian response.

“Blue?” Clay’s voice kills a hard-on faster than a douse of cold water.

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