Boots and Twisters by Myla Jackson

easily, following him to the shed at the back of the barn where they stored the ATVs. “What did you two do?” He dropped down beside the tires and whistled. “You took her to the creek?”
    Trent fought a groan. “Yeah. So?”
    Isaac straightened and crossed his arms. “Did you make a pass at her?”
    “It’s none of your business.”
    “I hired her. That makes it my business.” His eyes widened. “Fuck, Trent. You did her, didn’t you?”
    “Keep your voice down.”
    “The hell I will. I want this ranch hand to stick around. And didn’t I tell you earlier that I liked her?”
    “And I’ve want to sell this hell hole from the beginning. It’s nothing but work, and my paying work is falling behind.”
    “Then sell me your half. You needn’t have anything to do with the ranch or anything else, including me, ever again.”
    “You know I can’t do that. Terms of the will specifically say we both have to sell or neither can sell. If you agree to sell, I’m on it. I’ve even had an offer.”
    “Fuck you, Trent. This is my home. I’m staying. If you don’t like it, get the hell out.”
    “You can’t handle the upkeep on your own and you need my help. This place doesn’t make enough money to support paying more than the two ranch hands and one is out until his knee gets better. You need my help.”
    “ You don’t want the ranch.”
    “I guess that leaves us at stalemate.” Trent dug the remaining tools out of the ATV’s toolbox and stomped away.
    “Damn right it does.” Isaac called out after Trent, “And don’t think I’ll ever sell. You might hate this place, but I don’t.”
    Trent stopped, turned around and glared at his brother. “You said you’d give it a year and if I still wanted to sell, you’d consider it.”
    “I’ve considered it.” Isaac crossed his arms. “I don’t want to sell.”
    Trent spun away, trudged to the house, kicked off his boots and stripped as he walked down the hall. A shower ought to clear his brain sufficiently to let him get to work on the project he’d been commissioned for.
    Another oilrig to be placed in the Gulf. As if they didn’t already have enough. This would be his tenth rig and, frankly, he was tired of it. He hadn’t gone to school to be an architect to spend his life as an oilrig specialist. Back in college, he’d had dreams of building beautiful museums, something that combined his love of history, art and mathematics. Not something that destroyed the environment and littered the floor of the gulf.
    He’d gone into the field straight out of Texas A&M, working with some of the best architects in the industry. He’d worked his way up the ladder until he was designing rigs on his own. Why? To prove to his father that he didn’t need him. That he could make it on his own, without the ranch, without him, without putting up with his negativity.
    As he stepped into the shower, he realized his fists were knotted.
    His father was dead. He’d died almost a year ago, without ever telling Trent he was proud of him and all he’d accomplished.
    Then why the hell was he still pushing himself?
    He turned on the water, leaving it on cold, the drops pelting his body and all the tiny puncture wounds he’d accumulated when he’d been wrapped in barbed wire.
    An image of Lucky’s shocked face came to mind and he laughed, forcing his anger out. Yeah, he’d been mad about being wrapped in barbed wire. But when she’d stood beside the pool, staring around in wonder, he’d gotten a glimpse of a new perspective.
    I can’t see how anyone could not love this place , she’d said.
    But he didn’t love it. He despised it and every moment he’d had to work on it with his father telling him all the things he did wrong, never giving him a lick of encouragement.
    If he hated it so much, why was he there? He had an apartment and office in Houston.
    He’d told himself he was there because of Isaac.
    One full-time foreman and Isaac only part time could not run