Page 30 of At the Rancher's Pleasure

Do not wipe the floor with him, Harston. As much as you want to rearrange his face, justifying an assault to a judge would be tricky.But Rusty calling Sarabeth a bitch had Brett wanting to break his jaw. Or his nose. Or both.

“Be very careful, Edmond.”

“She’s a gold digger, a useless mother and as thick as a plank,” Rusty said, enmity oozing from every pore. “I don’t care what she does.”

“Really? Strange then because that’s the only reason I can think of as to why you no longer want me on the festival’s board.” Brett downed the rest of his soda and banged his glass on the counter of the bar.

“And you are only sleeping with her because you have mommy issues,” Rusty drawled. “I don’t like you, Harston, but despite my antipathy, I feel honor-bound to warn you that Sarabeth is a liar, a drain on a man’s bank account and she was a crap wife. And she was terrible in the—”

Okay, he was done.

Before Rusty could finish his sentence, Brett’s fist flew through the space separating them and he connected with Rusty’s jaw, the power of the punch ricocheting up his arm. The old man stumbled backward, turned ashen, but didn’t crumple to the floor.

Pity.

Rusty held his jaw and his eyes glinted with embarrassment and fury. “You’re going to pay for that,boy. You’d better watch your back.”

Brett rolled his eyes. “I’m so scared.” He turned to Clint. “Can I hit him again? You know, just for fun?”

“I think the sheriff would understand one punch, since he provoked you but a second could be considered assault. So...no.”

Brett frowned at Clint. “Damn.”

His friend placed his big hand in the middle of Brett’s back and urged him to walk away. “Walk, dude. Because I’m sure as hell not bailing you out of jail.”

Spending a night, or three or four in the pen would be worth it to see Rusty bloodied and blue.

Eight

By the time Brett got back to Heritage Ranch, about an hour later, the knuckles on his hand had swollen and he was in a sour mood. After parking his truck in his six-car garage, he exited the vehicle and tried to flex his hand, wincing when dots of blood appeared on his bruised knuckles.

Yeah, it stung like a bitch but decking Rusty had been worth it.

He didn’t care about being kicked off the advisory board; they’d begged him to join and he had enough work of his own to do without looking for more. But he did care about what Rusty said about his mother and Sarabeth.

You’re only sleeping with her because you have mommy issues.

How the hell did a ten-year age difference suddenly equate to Sarabeth being his mommy? He found it hard to believe that in the twenty-first century people could still be so ignorant and intolerant. And, really, Sarabeth and his mom couldn’t be more different. Yeah, okay, they’d both been raised to believe that the only worth they had was in their ability to be a wife, to raise kids and in Sarabeth’s case, to look good while she put up with Rusty’s crap.

And when she realized their marriage wasn’t working, Rusty’s response wasn’t to help or support her, but to take revenge and create a chasm between her and her kids. Fortunately, Sarabeth had risen above her circumstances and made a hell of a success of her life. He desperately wanted to tell Rusty about her business and her wealth, to rub her success in his face, but that wasn’t his story to tell.

His mom and Sarabeth were nothing alike. Sarabeth had refused to be a victim and had taken responsibility for her life and choices—she moved away and had forged a new beginning. Yes, she’d left her kids, which he knew had not been an easy decision. But even so, Rusty still tried to control her movements and her life and, from what he understood, took great delight in thwarting her plans. On leaving Texas, she’d established a successful business in California, which she’d grown and operated for fifteen years before cashing it in.

She was interesting, independent and, frankly, incredible.

On the other hand, his mom had stayed in her double-wide, the only place she felt safe. She’d sued the driver who injured her and won a modest settlement, enough, if she was very careful and if she found some employment, to last the rest of her life. But working caused her back to ache and later on, a job interrupted her drinking time. As the money ran out and times got harder, she sank deeper into the bottle, drink and oblivion being all she craved. From the age of fifteen and up, until he found steady work with Tweed Huggins, he’d worked every job he could on every ranch in a ten-mile radius to pay the utilities, to keep his old truck running and to put food on the table, not that she ate much at all.

And to buy her booze...

Brett hated the fact that his most vivid memories were of him taking a half-full vodka bottle from her hand after she’d passed out and dumping it down the sink. He quickly learned to lie, telling her she’d finished it all, knowing she wouldn’t remember in the morning.

For most of his childhood, he’d had two mothers, a drunk one and a sober one. When she was sober, she asked about school, his job, made him cookies, promised to be better. When she drank, she cursed him for judging her and blamed him for making her life more difficult than it already was.

And she often told him that she loved booze more than him and that she couldn’t be saved.

But he’d tried anyway.

God, how he tried.

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