Page 17 of Ashes of the Past
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring straight ahead, her hands tight on the wheel, her profile illuminated by the golden glow of the setting sun. She looks as wound up as I feel, her lips pressed into a thin line, her shoulders tense. I wonder if she’s thinking about the kiss, too. If it shook her as much as it did me.
I shake my head, forcing my gaze back to the road. I can’t let myself go there. Not again. I’ve already learned the hard way what happens when you let someone in, when you let yourself believe in something that’s destined to fall apart. I’m not going to make that mistake twice.
When we pull up to the main house, Brynn kills the engine and sits there for a moment, her fingers still gripping the wheel. The silence between us is heavy, charged with everything we’re not saying. Finally, she exhales and moves to get out.
“I’ll take care of unloading everything,” I say, my voice gruffer than I intend.
She pauses, her hand on the door handle. For a second, her eyes meet mine, and she nods quickly, her cheeks flushing, and then she’s out of the truck, hurrying toward the house without another word.
I watch her go, my chest tight, my head spinning.
Damn it, Jack. Get a grip.
Shaking off the lingering haze of that moment, I climb out of the truck and start unloading the boards that we didn’t use. I head to the barn with them. Laughter is coming from the barn, and the sound grates on my nerves.
Inside, the ranch hands are gathered near the tack room, laughing and joking like they don’t have a care in the world. Lane’s smirking and leaning against a post, while the others chuckle at something he’s said. The sight makes my blood boil.
I drop the boards on the ground with a loud thud, and the laughter stops instantly. All eyes turn to me, their expressions shifting from amusement to unease.
“What the hell are you all doing in here?” I demand, my voice is cold and sharp.
“We’re just taking a break, boss,” says Harvey, a dark-haired ranch hand. He’s an older man, starting to go gray at the temples, but his sun-worn face says that he’s been doing this for a while.
“Have the horses been fed? Have the cattle been fed or moved? Have the horse stalls been mucked?”
“We’re getting around to that,” Lane chuckles.
I pull in a very slow breath, my fists clenching at my sides. I have a feeling these men have gotten away with slacking off and being little assholes for a while now, and it stops right this second.
“It’s ten in the morning; it all should have been done by now.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“And your point is? I don’t see any of you in church clothes, so if you’re not going to pay your respects, don’t be using the excuse that it’s the Lord’s day,” I hiss.
Paulo, a younger ranch hand, nods as he pushes himself off the wall. “Chaz and I will get the horses, sir.”
“Calm down, Paulo,” Lane says with a dry chuckle as he holds his hand out to start. “You’re not going to make the rest of us look bad while we’re on a break.”
“Sitting around, goofing off, while the fence out there looks like it’s been through a damn war? Is that more important than ensuring that the cattle stay on the property?”
The men exchange uneasy glances, but no one speaks. Finally, Lane steps forward, his arms crossed over his chest. “Brynn said she’d take care of it,” he says, his tone casual, almost dismissive.
Something inside me snaps. I close the distance between us in two strides, getting right up in his face. “What kind of man lets a woman take care of it?” I growl dangerously. “You’re paid to make sure this ranch is operational. You’re paid to handle problems like that fence before they turn into disasters. And instead, you’re letting the boss’s daughter do your damn job for you? You’re pathetic.”
His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t say anything. The other ranch hands shift uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze.
“She doesn’t like the way we do things,” Lane says. “She always does it before we get around to it.”
“Before you get around to it?” I ask with a low chuckle. “Maybe she’s tired of asking and things not getting handled. Do I need to schedule and monitor your breaks?”
“We’re not children,” Lane snaps.
He walks over to one of the stalls where a horse is, opens it, and grabs a pitchfork. He makes a gesture to me as if to say,You happy?
“You could have fooled me.”
I put my arms across my chest, eyeing all of them. “If those horses get sick because they’re standing around in their own filth, well, the vet bill will be coming out of your paycheck.”
