Tempting the Rancher (Meier Ranch Brothers 1)

When Nat was twelve, the Meier brothers perfected the art of saying fuck you to each other in as many pre-adolescent boy variations as there were blades of grass on the ranch. Chance was the most creative—musical instruments, elaborate mime routines that ended in a grandiose display of the forbidden middle finger. Wes, named after their father’s historic collection of Smith & Wesson firearms, favored the gun varieties of flipping off his brothers. Usually double-action with a ton of kickback.

“Always were Grandad’s favorite, weren’t you?” said Wes.

“After you gave his favorite steer a heart attack with those black cat fireworks.”

Wes tossed his head back and laughed. “Hoss jumped like a jackrabbit.”

Nat joined in the laughter. After that July Fourth, they had renamed the cow St. Elmo, after the weather phenomenon that turns the tips of a steer’s horns to fire, and he spent the rest of his days coddled by their grandmother.

Not unlike January and MooDonna.

Nat sobered.

“What are you doing up here, man?” said Wes. “Such a sad place.”

“It’s peaceful. Good spot to think.”

“You’ve always done your fair share of that.”

Nat sat on the bench. Wes filled the space beside him. His brother sat straighter, taller, his nose to the breeze. Shoulder to shoulder with Wes, alive, fucking alive, felt good, lifted a cloud. Like maybe Nat could do this ranching thing, after all.

“How long are you here for?” asked Nat.

“Long enough to help you sell some hide.”

“I appreciate it, man. But I’m sure you have things you’d rather do now that you’re home.”

Wes shook his head. “It’s funny. Growing up here, all I could think about was doing something else, you know? God, I hated mucking stalls. I never took to this place the way you did. But over there? Some days…some days were so fucking dark, I’d have traded a limb to be back here, working the land beside you.” His bottom lip quivered on a sigh.

Nat looped his arm around Wes’s shoulders and tugged him close. “Missed you, brother.”

Wes blinked toward the breeze, sniffed.

“Now who’s the pussy?” said Nat.

To which Wes promptly hiked his pantleg up from his boot with a strategic middle finger.

“Saw January up at the house.”

Her name, the mention of it, was a sucker punch.

“Did you?” Part of Nat wanted her gone. The other part wanted her at the house, doodling cartoon additions to the kitchen wallpaper until their grandbabies walked underfoot.

“She get tired of the world yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well? What are you going to do about it?”

Nat shrugged. He didn’t want to get into it.

“Did you know Mona sends me a care package every month? Usual stuff—hand wipes, pistachios, glittery notes from the church youth group. Her chocolate pecan bark. Countries could win wars with troops eating that. Know what else she sends? Every one of those girly columns of yours where you preach about missed opportunities and living with intent. They were kind of a thing in our unit. We’d pass them around. Read them to stay awake on duty. Use them for toilet paper.”

Nat shook his head and smiled. Always from the moment he returned stateside, the brotherly ambush.

“Nah, they’re good, man. Aside from the guys calling my brother Aunt Anus.”

“Your point?”