understand better than you, Max, how the homophobes in town feel about my lifestyle. What I want to know is what
you
think.”
Max looked up. “You best to put on that sunscreen, I’m telling you.” He looked down the row of new fence posts—nowhere near enough to quit for the day.
Shit.
“Look, you know I love you. We grew up together. You’re my brother.” Another clump of dirt hit the ground, and he stopped to wipe his brow.
“Yeah, I know you love me. I don’t know what you think of me, though.”
Max threw down the post-hole digger. “What, Wyatt? You want to know what I think of your lifestyle?”
Wyatt nodded.
“I hate it. Okay? Is that what you want from me? I hate that you’re different. I hate that because of who you love, you don’t fit in.” He stomped to where the horses stood, snatching mouthfuls of prairie grass. He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out the sunscreen. “And I hate that it hurts you so much.”
He tossed the plastic bottle to Wyatt, walked back to the hole, and picked up the digger. Blood pounded in the veins of his neck, and his head throbbed in the same beat. “Now, can we just get this done so we can get back to the house and get a shower?”
“Okay, Max, we can let it go for now. But you’re going to have to find a way to deal with this, if we’re to have a relationship going forward.” He popped the top on the sunscreen and dabbed it on his palm. “Because I can’t change who I am, even if I wanted to.” He spread lotion on his face. “So that leaves only one of us to do the changing.”
CHAPTER
11
S aturday night, Max sat stewing at the empty dinner table in the mess hall. Wyatt had excused himself after dinner, saying he planned to work for a few hours. Max scowled at the men—and one stubborn woman—huddled around the television, watching bull riding. He remembered how shy the cowboys had been when Bree first arrived. What a difference a few weeks made. Now, aside from polite deference, the men showed no sign they noticed she was female. Bree had changed too. She’d been so skittish at first. Now she sat, hip-to-hip on the crowded couch with four men, cheering for the bulls.
She’s doing this just to get me to change my mind about the business.
But if that were true, why was she ignoring him? Bree asked Armando a question, one Max couldn’t quite hear.
Armando laughed. “The flank strap doesn’t hurt them. It doesn’t even make them buck. That’s in their blood. All it does is get them to kick out their back feet, see?” He pointed to the screen, and Bree leaned in, intent.
“How do they—”
The rest was lost in the squeal of Max’s chair on the linoleum. No one noticed when he walked out.
At the main house, Max gazed out the window of the great room, a cut-crystal glass of whiskey in his hand. Actually, he was seeing himself; the lamplight turned the dark pane to a mirror. Wyatt was right; he did look like the old man.
Been behaving like him too
.
He’d told Bree to examine her motives. Maybe it was time he did the same. Hell, probably past time. He paced the length of the room, his boots making a hollow thumping on the pine floor. Each lap granted new insights. The bull operation was a good idea, and he’d been too stubborn to admit it.
But he did have some questions. He recalled the horrific ropy scar on Bree’s neck. The shadows in her eyes. He still didn’t know who this woman was, or where she came from. And it rubbed him like a foxtail under a saddle blanket. She could be a running from the law, for all they knew. He snorted. Maybe Wyatt had a point about small-town paranoia.
Wyatt was right about something else too. He’d nixed Bree’s idea at first because it had come from a woman. When had he turned into his father—discounting women for anything more than their obvious charms?
He took a sip from the rocks glass and winced, only partly due to the liquor’s bite. It wasn’t that he thought women weren’t
you
think.”
Max looked up. “You best to put on that sunscreen, I’m telling you.” He looked down the row of new fence posts—nowhere near enough to quit for the day.
Shit.
“Look, you know I love you. We grew up together. You’re my brother.” Another clump of dirt hit the ground, and he stopped to wipe his brow.
“Yeah, I know you love me. I don’t know what you think of me, though.”
Max threw down the post-hole digger. “What, Wyatt? You want to know what I think of your lifestyle?”
Wyatt nodded.
“I hate it. Okay? Is that what you want from me? I hate that you’re different. I hate that because of who you love, you don’t fit in.” He stomped to where the horses stood, snatching mouthfuls of prairie grass. He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out the sunscreen. “And I hate that it hurts you so much.”
He tossed the plastic bottle to Wyatt, walked back to the hole, and picked up the digger. Blood pounded in the veins of his neck, and his head throbbed in the same beat. “Now, can we just get this done so we can get back to the house and get a shower?”
“Okay, Max, we can let it go for now. But you’re going to have to find a way to deal with this, if we’re to have a relationship going forward.” He popped the top on the sunscreen and dabbed it on his palm. “Because I can’t change who I am, even if I wanted to.” He spread lotion on his face. “So that leaves only one of us to do the changing.”
CHAPTER
11
S aturday night, Max sat stewing at the empty dinner table in the mess hall. Wyatt had excused himself after dinner, saying he planned to work for a few hours. Max scowled at the men—and one stubborn woman—huddled around the television, watching bull riding. He remembered how shy the cowboys had been when Bree first arrived. What a difference a few weeks made. Now, aside from polite deference, the men showed no sign they noticed she was female. Bree had changed too. She’d been so skittish at first. Now she sat, hip-to-hip on the crowded couch with four men, cheering for the bulls.
She’s doing this just to get me to change my mind about the business.
But if that were true, why was she ignoring him? Bree asked Armando a question, one Max couldn’t quite hear.
Armando laughed. “The flank strap doesn’t hurt them. It doesn’t even make them buck. That’s in their blood. All it does is get them to kick out their back feet, see?” He pointed to the screen, and Bree leaned in, intent.
“How do they—”
The rest was lost in the squeal of Max’s chair on the linoleum. No one noticed when he walked out.
At the main house, Max gazed out the window of the great room, a cut-crystal glass of whiskey in his hand. Actually, he was seeing himself; the lamplight turned the dark pane to a mirror. Wyatt was right; he did look like the old man.
Been behaving like him too
.
He’d told Bree to examine her motives. Maybe it was time he did the same. Hell, probably past time. He paced the length of the room, his boots making a hollow thumping on the pine floor. Each lap granted new insights. The bull operation was a good idea, and he’d been too stubborn to admit it.
But he did have some questions. He recalled the horrific ropy scar on Bree’s neck. The shadows in her eyes. He still didn’t know who this woman was, or where she came from. And it rubbed him like a foxtail under a saddle blanket. She could be a running from the law, for all they knew. He snorted. Maybe Wyatt had a point about small-town paranoia.
Wyatt was right about something else too. He’d nixed Bree’s idea at first because it had come from a woman. When had he turned into his father—discounting women for anything more than their obvious charms?
He took a sip from the rocks glass and winced, only partly due to the liquor’s bite. It wasn’t that he thought women weren’t
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