Page 36 of Wrangled Up

He wasn’t gay.

But hell, he wasn’t exactly straight either, was he, if he got off on seeing his friend gain pleasure?

“You likin’ that beer, cowboy?” Jones asked.

“Sure. Nice and cold, ain’t it?”

Jones grunted and heaved a case of whiskey onto the counter. As he began to unpack it, he talked. “I know a truck driver from Reedy. Passes through here and stops for a drink every time.”

“Yeah?” Tucker asked out of politeness.

Jones gave him his back. “By the name of Mickelson. Jake.”

The dark brew hitched in Tucker’s throat, and he nearly choked. Convulsively, he swallowed twice. Jones, with his back still to Tucker, hadn’t noticed. He set bottle after bottle of liquor on the bar top with precise clinks.

“Yeah, there’s a wanderer for ya. Last I heard, Mickelson hadn’t been home for more than an overnighter in ten years.”

Tucker firmed his jaw. For ten years he’d neglected Claire. When she’d related this information to Tucker, he’d wanted to punch the man’s teeth down his throat. Now the urge was stronger.

A protective cloud rose in his skull that had nothing to do with three beers in half an hour.

“Not right when a man doesn’t have a home. Or has one and runs from it.”

Tucker’s gut clenched, threatening to hurl all the beer he’d drunk from it. He jammed a boot heel into the floor. “Restroom?”

“That-a-way.” Jones pointed to a blackened corner of the bar without turning.

Tucker made his way into the bathroom, which smelled just like a bar facility. The wooden walls of the single stall were carved from top to bottom with initials and dirty words. Above the urinal, someone had written “Piss Ripples” in permanent marker.

And below that, was a tiny C someone had painstakingly nicked out of the drywall, probably with a pocket knife.

Tucker squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he couldn’t even relieve himself without them haunting him. Christian and Claire. He’d left them. Didn’t they at least deserve word from him?

What would he say if he called them though?I’m in a Podunk town that’s not at all like Reedy yet exactly like Reedy, and I can’t get you two out of my fucking mind.

No, better to let them heal some from the pain he’d more than likely inflicted. Tucker would stay away for a while longer. But how long would it take to get his head on straight? It had already been two years since Heather had been buried, and he felt as much turmoil now as he had then. Lost. Confused.

Or maybe that was the beer talking, after all. His head had gained a pleasant fog. He zipped up, washed his hands and strode straight for the bar where he polished off the last of his longneck and asked for another.

Jones eyed him. “Better pace yourself there, son. I like you. I don’t want to kick you out of the bar by noon.”

“Another,” Tucker grated out.

With a sigh, Jones reluctantly placed a beer before him. “This’ll be your last until that big hand moves around the twelve there.”

Tucker gave a huff of laughter. “Yessir.”

The corner of Jones’s mouth twitched with a smile.

Clearing his throat, Tucker plunged through the opening he’d been waiting for. The only way to assuage his guilt was to remind himself of what he’d walked away from—Claire deserved so much better than a wounded man.

“Now back to this Mickelson fella,” Tucker said. He knew the man—had run into him a few times in town and disliked him even before he knew what a horrible parent he’d been to Claire. While he’d never spoken of it with her, Tucker knew she’d been hurt by her father.

And anyone who hurt Claire had it coming, as far as Tucker was concerned.

“Says he’s got a daughter, a pretty little thing, who lives in Reedy,” Jones said.

Pretty little thing isn’t the half of it.He brought the bottle to his lips but didn’t drink. Instead, he drowned in memories of Claire’s arms around his neck, swaying to the jukebox. The first time she’d met him here for a date, Tucker had stumbled. Actually tripped over the threshold coming into The Hellion. All he saw were blue cowgirl boots and legs and curls.

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