“Thank you.” Her voice is soft and supple, and it brings out in me an ache for her I buried a long time ago. I thought of her constantly after that night, and eventually I knew I had to tuck away my memories of her.
I grunt my response like a caveman, because I don’t know what else to say and I feel too bare and I don’t particularly care for the feeling. Add to it the fact that—
“What the fuck?” I shout, my eyes trained on the building a couple hundred yards away from the homestead. A beat-up late-model truck is parked at an angle in front of Cowboy House, and the person who it belongs to has no business on my ranch. I step on the gas and send dirt and dust flying.
“What’s wrong?” Dakota asks. She leans forward, peering out the windshield, trying to spot an obvious problem, but there isn’t one. Not to her, anyway. There certainly is to me.
I drive up to Cowboy House and slam on the brakes, locking my arm across Dakota so she doesn’t go flying into the dashboard.
“Stay here,” I instruct, throwing it in park and getting out.
I’m livid. My fury-laced blood boils under my skin.
The hinges protest as I yank open the door to Cowboy House. “Dixon,” I bark. “Get out of here, you motherfucker.”
I cross the kitchen and round the corner to the sleeping area. Dixon slouches in a chair beside Troy’s bed. I’m too late. Troy is already fucked-up.
Dixon’s eyes are small and beady, and I’d like to carve them from his head. “Don’t answer to no one,” he says slowly, his chin tipping up insolently. “Especially not a rich prick like you.”
Inside I’m shaking, but on the surface I’m steady. It’s what the military ingrained in me, something I don’t think will ever wane.
“You talk stupid, but I happen to know you’re pretty fuckin’ smart. So why is it you’re coming around here for customers?”
“Your boy sought me out.”
“Get the fuck out.”
Dixon glances down to Troy, a satisfied smile etching his face. He stands up, and even at his full height, he’s nearly a head shorter than me.
I hate everything about the guy.
I hate the way he slouches when he walks, how he has no pride, no honor, no positive contribution to society. He’s a predator who preys only on the weak, and in my book, that makes him scum.
He slinks past me, pushing his shoulder into my arm as he goes. He’s like a ball of fluff, hardly moving me. I walk behind him, my steps loud and heavy, making certain he knows I’m on his heels.
He opens the front door and Dakota literally falls into him, as if she were reaching for the door handle when the door opened and her forward momentum carried her into the open space.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” he crows, holding on to her upper arms. “You’re making it easy for me.”
She presses away from him, face scrunched in revulsion and fear, but he keeps his grip on her arms.
If I thought seeing Troy drugged up on his bed made me mad, it’s nothing compared to watching Dixon put his hands on Dakota.
My first punch lands against his lower back. Dakota goes stumbling against the wall as he releases her, making a heavy breath sound as she hits the wood. I spin Dixon around and bury my second punch in his stomach.
“Oof,” he grunts, doubling over.
I’m not done. Dixon needs the point driven home. I push him outside and follow him through the open door. In my peripheral vision, I see Dakota, pressed against the wall with her eyes shut tight. She’s terrified, but I can’t help her now. There’s a drug dealer on my property trying to make customers out of my employees.
Dixon is on his feet, but he’s bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. He stands when I walk up to him. He looks at me with contempt, sniffles, and takes a swing.
Behind me, Dakota screams. She must’ve followed me out.
I duck out of the line of Dixon’s hand and follow up with a fist straight to his nose. Blood pours from him instantly, like water from a faucet.
Suddenly there are more people than just me, Dakota, and Dixon. Josh, Denny, Bryce, Ham, and Warner. Even Wyatt is here, and he’s probably still half in the bag. Josh grabs Dixon’s arms, pinning them behind his back, without a question to me about why we’re fighting or a thought about his own injured wrist.
“You stay off my property,” I seethe, my voice low and menacing. “You don’t talk to my cowboys. And you never, ever look at her again. You got that?”
Dixon spits blood into the dirt between us. “This is a free country, Hayden. You of all people should know that.”
“Not for you.” I tip my head closer. “Don’t test me, Dixon.”
Josh drags him back and Denny jumps in, helping him walk a struggling Dixon to his truck. I turn my back on the scene and look at Dakota.
“Are you okay?” I ask, at the same time Warner and Wyatt walk up to me.
“What the fuck happened?” Warner demands.
“Found Dixon in Cowboy House with Troy,” I growl, remembering the contemptuous and lazy look on his pinched face.
“Did he—?” Wyatt asks.
I cut him off with a terse nod.
“Fuck,” he groans.
Behind us a truck starts up and tires screech, sending dust billowing toward us. Dakota blinks against it, and I can taste its chalkiness.
“Boss?” Josh asks, coming closer, the other cowboys around him. “What’s going on?”
The name surprises me, taking hold of something in me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll never be the cowboys’ boss, even if it’s the thing I want most in the world.
I rub a hand over my face. I’m suddenly really tired, and Dakota is still staring at me like she can’t process what just happened.
“Get in there,” I say to Josh, inclining my head to Cowboy House. “Sit with Troy. That fucker got a needle in him. Make sure he’s okay.” The guys sidestep me, Warner, and Wyatt. Every one of them tries damned hard not to look at Dakota as they pass her.
“Josh,” I call out, and he turns back to me. “Call me when Troy comes out of it.”
I’m not looking forward to that conversation.
Dakota walks closer. Her boots are dirty, and her hair has fallen out of her bun, cascading over her shoulders in soft, messy waves.
She comes to a stop in front of me, her eyes searching. I wish I knew what she was thinking.
“Dakota, these are my brothers, Warner and Wyatt.”
Warner steps forward first, shaking her hand, and then Wyatt.
“Dakota is the land developer Dad and I are working with,” I explain.
“Is that all?” Wyatt eyes me meaningfully. “You sure didn’t like when Dixon looked at her.”
“Shut up, Wyatt. He touched her too, for the record.”
Wyatt shakes his head, his eyes full of regret. I understand. Wyatt was friends with Dixon when they were little kids, back when Dixon’s dad was an HCC cowboy. That was before my dad caught him stealing and fired him. I didn’t keep tabs on what happened to the family after that, but from what I’ve picked up over the years it sounds like one bad choice led to another, until it was too much to come back from. Still, a tough upbringing doesn’t excuse the choice to peddle drugs around town. Funny thing is, as tough as my dad may be, he believes in second chances. Dixon’s dad refused to apologize or take ownership of what he’d done, but if he had he would've probably saved his family all the heartache.