Page 2 of The Wounded Warrior

It was necessary, though, and Matt was a psycho about taking care of things—horses, and broken soldiers, and Dad, and everything.

He did love Matt for it—he really did. Luke grinned. Loved Matt, but wanted to beat him.

Like, with a hammer.

He chuckled when the foal lipped at his shirt because he’d stopped.

“You greedy girl, pushing me.”

She snorted hard, blowing his pocket open. Yeah, she was hunting treats.

“So smart!” He rubbed her ears, giving praise. He could hear Matt in the pasture, whistling up a storm, the sound as familiar as his very bones, sunk deep into Luke’s skin. His chest tightened, because he loved his brother, damn it, and that was what kept him going right now.

The whistles stopped for a half-second and he knew Matt was wondering if he was okay, if Matt should come check on him. Luke held his breath, willing Matt to just go back to work. Fine. He was fine.

Sometimes being a twin sucked. When he’d learned all he wanted to know about shrapnel, Matt had been in the ER with a migraine bad enough that he’d been convulsing. There was a thing between them, whether or not they wanted it.

The whistling started up again, and if it sounded strained, well, who was gonna mention it.

Not him, sure as shit. He just wanted to play with the foals and pretend he wasn’t broke-dick.

The foal’s head lifted, the sound of a pickup truck that wasn’t Matt’s humming in his ears.

“Oh, goddamn motherfucker.” Matt’s words floated in, carried by pure rage.

Interesting.

He eased out of the stall after giving a piece of apple to the foal and rolled to the barn door to peek out. A shiny black GMC king cab sat out there, and a man stood next to it, his pressed Wranglers and suit coat speaking money.

Now, who the hell was this and why did Matt look like he was fixin’ to open a can of class A certified whup ass?

The guy was young enough, maybe early thirties. He had pretty smile lines and a flat belly under a big silver buckle, and he was giving Matt a wry grin. “Now, don’t be sore, Matt,” he began. “You’re still having trouble making payments and you know it.”

“Go to hell, McConnell. Shit, go to fucking Arkansas. I don’t care but get off my land.”

“They’re going to drive you off, Matt. It’s inevitable. I’m trying to get you a fair deal in the process.”

“No, you want that acreage, and that’s all you give a shit about.” Matt slapped his hand against the hood of the pickup. “Off.”

“You are one stubborn, stupid asshole, Matt LeBlanc.”

Oh, now. That was getting personal. Luke wheeled out into the yard, following the path he knew Matt had graded for him. “Who the hell are you to call my brother an asshole?”

“You must be the soldier come home from the war. Thank you for your service.”

“I was a sailor.”

“Right.” The guy chuckled. “Rory McConnell. I went to school with your brother John.”

He tilted his head. John was the baby, a good five years younger than them, eight years younger than Mark. “You’re just an infant then.”

“It’s not the age, it’s the experience.” Rory winked at him, blue eyes merry. The expression made Luke want to smile back, except that this guy had called Matt an asshole.

“Get off my land, McConnell. I mean it.” Matt sounded about as mean as a snake. Luke glanced at him, noticing the narrowed eyes and pressed-together lips.

“I’m going. I’m not trying to be a dick, Matt. I’m really not. Better to sell now than to get your ass foreclosed on, you know? Just think about selling me that back fifty acres, if nothing else.” McConnell slapped the hood of his truck before walking back to the driver’s side door and hopping in.

“Sell? Foreclosed? What the fuck, Matt?”

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