Ride With Me (A Quaking Heart Novel - Book One)

  Chapter 11

  Clint was bone-deep bushed, and hung over. He ambled over to the horse trough, threw his hat off, and plunged his head in, shoulder deep. He never did that. In fact, he usually got after the cowhands if he caught them doing such a thing when a barrel of rain water sat just three yards away. Today it felt right—matched his grungy mood. He straightened and shook his head, the water sluicing down his face and onto his shirt. He glanced up. The too-bright sunshine blinded him for a split second, intensifying his headache. Growling, he raked his fingers through his soaked hair and grabbed his hat off the ground, not bothering to dust it off before sticking it to his wet head. He sauntered to the house, hoping he was late enough to have missed Jessie. The innocent daily prods she delivered to his rusty heart had to stop, before he did something he'd regret.

  He banged through the back door. His jeans were dirt-streaked from the day's toil. The work shirt was wet to his shoulders. Dirty water dribbled down his neck. He knew he looked like something the bull drug through a mud hole, but he didn't care.

  Taking a step inside, he tried to stand on rigid legs but swayed a bit. Man, he was plain worn down. He tried to will himself not to look toward the kitchen, but failed. His heart skipped. There she was—Jessie—leaning against the kitchen counter, dishtowel in hand, her gaze bouncing from one cowboy to the next as she laughed over something one of them had said. A real need to snap every one of those toying men in half reared up. And Jessie—he wanted to shake her free of that darned relaxed attitude, as if nothing was amiss.

  He kept his gaze away from her as he ambled across the wood floor toward the stove. The men eyed him with concern. Some glanced at his wet shoulders, others the hat he never wore indoors. Let them wonder.

  "Here," Mabel said, eying him warily, knowing better than to take him on right now. She shoved an empty bowl in his hand and gestured to the big pot on the stove. He silently lifted the lid and ladled out stew. Without preamble he took a seat and dug into the hot meal.

  "Hey, Wilkins," one of the men shouted from the farthest table. "You been kinda moody lately. Need to get your antlers trimmed? You must be long overdue."

  The room exploded into a cacophony of laughter. Clint ignored them, kept his head down, and continued shoveling in the food.

  "Yeah," the voice of Brad Turner. "The way you ogle the boss's niece, why don't ya just—"

  Clint launched out of his seat, so fast his chair smashed into another and both went sailing into a wall. In two swift strides Clint stood toe-to-toe with Turner, fastened a hand to the cowpoke's neck, and slammed him to the floor with one effortless heave.

  Two cowboys jumped in and peeled Clint's hands off, wrestling him to his feet. Determined to rearrange Turner's face, Clint strained forward again. He labored against the men, dwarfing them in size—a wild beast against human constraints.

  He darted a furtive glance at Jessie. Her eyes were moon-sized, and registered awe. But it was the panic he saw there as well that sapped the fury right out of him. He yanked his arms out of their bonds, let them hang to his sides.

  Turner coughed, his hands reaching up to his throat. "Are you crazy?" he rasped. "What's she to you anyway?"

  Clint didn't know the answer to that. No time to think, he lurched forward. "She's nothing to me! Just none of your stinkin' business." Clint loomed over the man. The rest of the crowd quieted like crickets to an intruder. "I've had enough of you! You're fired!" he roared. He thrust a finger toward the door. "Get your gear and get off the ranch!"

  "What the—" Turner staggered to his feet, retrieved his upended hat from the floor, and probed each man with a fierce gaze. "Fine. I wouldn't stay if ya paid me double. Your almighty foreman is nuts! And so are all of you if you stay on here!" He slapped his hat across his leg and stuffed it on his head.

  "Randy, Darrell," Brad yelled. Two of the cowboys escorted the man out the back door. His two cohorts followed meekly behind.

  Clint stood in place, vibrating with surplus rage. He'd never been this out of control, no matter what the circumstances. It had to be the hunger or the fatigue. He shook his head, trying to loosen his good sense. He didn't understand himself anymore.

  Pete stepped up to him and brushed at his shirt as if that would calm him. "Why don't you go see Veronica?"

  Clint shot a brutal glower at him.

  Pete looked chided but confused. "No Veronica?"

  "Not anymore." With that Clint stomped to the back door, and lit out into the night.