Page 52 of For Fillies and Monsters

“We will start earlier tomorrow so that we can be done before it gets this hot.” He snorts, as if agreeing, and I slide off the leather, my feet hitting the ground with a thump. “Sound good, big guy?” I scratch his large, pale cheek, pressing a kiss just below the globe of his glassy eye. White eyelashes the length of my pinky slowly blink down, and I smile at him.

Days like this rank in my top favorite; me and my best guy roaming over our land together. It’s therapeutic, more so than my stupid breathing exercises.

Winston’s long ears perk forward, swiveling as horses do when they are looking around. His large warm eyes move, the iris tracking well behind his haunches, his ears following a similar path—he’s alert and listening. It’s odd because I know how tired he is after a morning spent in the brutal heat.

I scratch him once more and then follow his swiveled ear with my own eyes and ears. I hear the shuffling of feet and thegrowling of voices growing louder and louder. Throwing his reins over the fence post, I stride toward the noises.

“You need to wait until Stetson gets back. This is her property,” Gus hisses, and I picture his jaw popping as he grinds his teeth.

“I do not need her permission,” comes another voice, this one older sounding.

“You sure as fuck do. You can’t go around taking pictures.”

“I sure can. And watch your mouth around me, boy. My niece,” the word comes out as a sneer, and I skid to a halt, “might tolerate the foul mouth of a dirty cowboy, but I will not. Do not forget your place here and do not get too comfortable. It. Will. Not. Last.”

As the last word tumbles from the stranger’s—my uncle, apparently—mouth, I barrel around the corner of the house. Both men start at my abrupt entrance. First, I note Gus’s heaving chest, his black irises swallowing the flinty-brown around them and sparkling with anger, his scowl somehow deeper than normal, creasing around the corners of his pale lips. Second, I notice my uncle—a tall, wiry-looking man with thin brown hair, a long nose and jaw, and dusty blue eyes—looking down at me. He’s wearing khakis and a white button-down, his chest puffed with a put-on air of importance. And he looks just like Gibson. A little older, a lot thinner, with just as much rage and hate filling his beady eyes.

“Uh, what’s going on?” I am so far out of my fucking element when it comes to confrontations, and I only got the last few bits of this one. Plus, being around family, the family I didn’t even know I had, makes me queasy. Family has only ever fucked me over.

“What’s going on is, this trash was telling me what I can and cannot do.” His eyes narrow at me, lifting his chin to peer down his spindly nose in my direction.

I put my hands on my hips; I already hate his attitude, but I know southern hospitality is a thing around here, and I make a conscious effort to extend it to every person I meet. Once.

“I’m Stetson.” I shoot my hand out toward him, and he looks down at it, an oily sneer taking over his face.

“Yes, I am aware. You look just like your mother, unfortunately.”

I flinch at his hateful words. “And you are?”

“Your father’s brother. Craig Dean Walker.” He continues to look down at my hand, never extending his. Not ‘your uncle’, but ‘your father’s brother’, like any personal connection to me would be a stain on his reputation.

I slowly retract my hand, feeling every bit snubbed.

“Well, can I help you?” I hope he can sense my growing irritation, but he doesn’t look like the kind to care.

“You can vacate my property to start. I have investors interested in the place, and I’m ready to get rid of this stupid plot of dirt once and for all.”

I stare at him. Vacate his property? Investors?His property? What the fuck is he talking about?

“It’s my property.” I square my shoulders, ready to stand my ground. His sneer deepens, hate nearly dripping from his eyes. But I’m used to this look. I saw it every day for the first eighteen years of my life. Only then, I ran from it.

But I’m fucking done running.

He finally breaks his stare down to speak. “Yes, well, we will see about that.” He strides past me, a thick layer of spicy cologne coating my lungs with the movement. I fight the urge to gag. “I got what I needed, anyway. I will be back.”

He speeds off in his shiny silver Audi, and I slump back onto the front porch steps, my head falling into dirty hands. I want to scream, cry, or both. But nothing comes, nothing but the icy realization that I will probably lose my home. Again.

The steps groan next to me, and I don’t have to look up to know Gus is staring at me; I can feel his eyes searing into my skin.

I can always feel his eyes searing into my skin.

He remains quiet for a few moments, but then must decide I look too pathetic because he speaks, surprising me. “You want to talk about it?”

Yes, I do. But not to him. Speaking to him will feel too much like confiding in a lover, to a close friend,to someone I can rely on. But I know better; I can’t rely on anyone, especially Gus. I don’t know much about his past, but I know he was always moving forward, always moving on. And I don’t think I could survive when he leaves if I were to start confiding in him now.

I’m used to operating alone, solving problems alone. But I know I have Dale now, and I believe she won’t leave me; somewhere along the way, Dale proved to me she would remain a constant in my life, no matter how fucked up I am. With her, there’s no going back. But I can still protect myself from Gus.

So, I shake my head, saying the only thing I can think of to protect my fragile heart. “Not with you.”

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