Dylan by C H Admirand Page A

him—which translated to fist-to-jaw, but it worked. After they beat the tar out of each other, Dylan had started talking, purging the hurt from his soul.
    Knowing Jesse, he would keep it inside until they were ready to kill him. Even though he liked beating on his brothers, they’d never broken any serious bones—just a nose or two… or three.
    Jesse turned his back on Dylan and walked out the door. Dylan tripped on his boots and slammed his shoulder into the doorjamb. “Damn it.” His brother didn’t turn around, just kept walking. If Jesse made it outside, he’d have to chase him down in order to beat on him. Dylan was tired, grouchy, and needed a damn cup of coffee.
    â€œHey, wait up!”
    His brother kept walking, never looking back. It was like he was in a trance, following a voice only his brother could hear, and it scared the crap out of Dylan. “Jesse, don’t make me chase after you.”
    â€œGot work to do.”
    â€œI thought you were hungry?”
    â€œChanged my mind.” From the way his brother picked up the pace, he didn’t want anybody stopping him. Well, that was too damned bad. If Dylan had to be brotherly and pick a fight with Jesse to get him to talk, then that’s what he’d have to do. “Damn,” he said staring at the coffeepot.
    Watching out the window, he saw which direction Jesse rode off in, filing it away for later. If he was going pick a fight with his brother, he needed to be awake enough to do it. Pouring a cup, he started thinking about why men were attracted to females who didn’t want them back.
    Perverse. “Yeah, Grandpa, I know.” Reaching for the sugar, he bumped his cup, spilling hot coffee on his thigh. “Damn that’s hot!” His leg was beet red and throbbing. “I know, I know,” he said looking up at the ceiling. “I should have put my damned pants on.”
    Oddly, his grandfather’s voice was silent. No sarcastic comments rang in his head. Just as well; he needed to focus on catching up to his brother, but if he didn’t step it up, he’d be even further behind.
    Dylan didn’t start his morning without eating unless it was an emergency. Looking down at his leg, he figured he’d live. He should probably put cold water on it, but he kept remembering the pain in his brother’s dark eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. Dylan remembered the pain, remembered the hurt.
    He grabbed two apples from the bowl on the counter and a banana from the hanging basket by the window and set them on the table. Running for the stairs, he took them two at a time. He was dressed and back downstairs inside of six minutes. Grabbing the fruit, he shoved his Stetson on his head and shoved the back door open so hard it slammed twice before closing.
    He inhaled the banana and was halfway through the apple when he got to the barn. A soft whicker let him know that his horse caught the scent of apple. He smiled. Wildfire was one of his favorite cutting horses, a sorrel American Quarter Horse. He snickered thinking about the cowboys that trained to ride in rodeos; they might think they knew what riding a good cutting horse was all about, but he rode one every day. He and Wildfire worked the ranch and cut steer out of the herd when they needed to, whether it was to vaccinate them, castrate them, or sort them getting ready to go to market.
    Walking toward the stall where his horse waited, he grinned. “You think I’m gonna give you this other apple?” Smart horse that he was, Wildfire nudged Dylan’s hand while he pulled out his pocketknife and cut it into quarters. The horse whickered again, impatiently waiting until Dylan offered him his treat.
    Wildfire munched while Dylan got the tack he needed and then went through his normal routine, checking the animal’s legs and hooves before tossing the saddle blanket on Wildfire’s back and smoothing it out. When he was