Page 74 of Balancing Act

We were into it now. This was the type of energy we’d feel before we’d rumble as teens. I took a step forward.

“Easy, Gray.” Walker raised his hands, palms out, but it wasn't surrender—it was a challenge. “Wouldn't want you to do something you'll regret.”

“Too late for that,” I muttered, the words laced with venom. I struggled to contain the anger that threatened to consume me, a wild stallion bucking against the restraints. “I already regret letting things slide for too long.”

“Then maybe it’s time to change that,” he said, a spark of defiance lighting his gaze.

“Maybe it is,” I agreed, swallowing the fury that clawed up my throat.

And then we were moving, propelled by the same blood that coursed through our veins—a legacy of passion and pride. We lunged at each other, a tangle of limbs and fury, two forces of nature colliding in a storm of our own making.

The air was thick with the dust we kicked up. I tackled him to the ground, but he managed to slide away and punch my side. In that moment, there were no more words, just action—a brawl born from too many unspoken truths and not enough understanding.

We both jumped to our feet and went after each other again, my fist landing square on his jaw, his elbow sinking into my ribs. Before I knew it, we were on the floor again.

The crack of flesh against flesh reverberated off the wooden beams of the stable, a sharp punctuation to the argument that had been simmering between us. It was a sound I wished we could take back, but there it hung in the air, as real and stinging as the impact on my jaw. Walker's punch had come fast, but mine was an instant response, driven by raw instinct and the deep-seated frustration that had been building between us for too long.

“Dammit, Walker!” I growled, feeling a heat rise in my chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion. Our fists flew again, less about hurting each other and more about releasing the tension that had become a third sibling in our family.

“Think you can handle me, Gray?” he spat out, his words taunting but his eyes betraying a hint of old pain, the kind that brothers knew how to inflict without even trying.

“Always have,” I shot back, even as I dodged another of his swings, the movement so familiar it was like a dance we'd been practicing since we were kids wrestling in the dirt. But this was no game, and there was no mother to call us in for supper and make us shake hands.

That's when Mason's voice cut through the tension, sharp as barbed wire. “Break it up, you two!”

Mitch's weathered face appeared beside him, lines of concern etched deep. “Enough of this nonsense!” he barked, though I could hear the undercurrent of worry. They moved toward us with a determination that spoke of years spent breaking up fights—human or animal, it made no difference to them.

“Back off, Mason,” I warned, not ready to let go of the anger that was easier to hold onto than the fear for my brother’s secretive behavior. The fight wasn’t just about proving who was stronger, it was about breaking through to something true.

“Like hell I will!” Mason’s voice was firm, but there was a note of desperation there, too. He knew as well as I did that punches thrown today could be words left unsaid tomorrow. And in a small town where your business was everyone's business, unspoken words festered like untreated wounds.

Mitch's hands gripped my shoulders with an iron hold that spoke of years wrangling wild horses, and suddenly I felt foolish. A grown man brawling in the dirt like a boy fighting over marbles. We were supposed to be better than this, supposed to run this ranch together, side by side.

“Get off of him, Mitch. Let him be,” Walker gasped, out of breath but still full of fire. Even now, he wouldn't back down—not from me, not from anyone. That was Walker; always ready to buck, never ready to yield.

“Enough, boys,” Mitch said again, this time his tone brooking no argument. There was a finality in his voice that cooled my blood just enough to remind me what was at stake.

Our chests heaved, dust settling around us like the aftermath of a storm. Mason kept a stern eye on us both, ensuring no more punches were thrown. I could see the disappointment in his gaze—a reflection of my own—and it cut deeper than any blow either of us had landed.

“Both of you cool off before you do something you'll regret,” Mitch warned, his tone steady but carrying the weight of experience. His presence was a reminder of the countless sunsets we'd all seen on this land, of the unwritten code that bound us together even when anger flared hot and fierce.

Mason finally released me, but he kept his body positioned so I couldn't easily reach Walker again. Trusting his judgment, I took a step back, the anger simmering inside me. We were brothers, blood, but right now, we might as well have been strangers for all the understanding that lay between us.

“Go patch yourself up,” Mason muttered, nodding toward my knuckles, which were raw and starting to swell. I glanced down at them, then back up at Walker, whose hand was bandaged already—probably from the same stubbornness that had landed us here in the first place.

“Fine,” I conceded, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. I turned on my heel and strode out of the stables, the tension in my shoulders a heavy cloak I couldn't yet shed.

In this moment, I needed one person. The only person who could calm me. And I knew just where to find her.

* * *

I barged in through the door of my bedroom, slamming it against the wall. Eryn hadn’t been anywhere else in the house, so this was my last hope.

“What the—?” she asked at the noise, but then when she saw me, she rose to her feet, concern all over her pretty face. “My God, what happened, Gray?”

I could feel my already bruising cheekbone. My knuckles were a mess, my shirt ripped and splattered with dirt and blood.

“Got into a dust-up, is all.”

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