Page 6 of Wilder Heart

At first glance, Wilder looked exactly like Lain. Cash appreciated the warning that they were not just brothers buttwins. There were as many differences as there were similarities, though, once he started looking. Wilder’s hair was shorter. There was a gauntness to his face that Lain didn’t have. Lain spent hours out in the sun, ate hearty home-cooked meals, and got plenty of varied exercise. Wilder was pale, his dark blue eyes shadowed. He was muscular but lean, lacking the healthy layer of fat Lain had. He looked like a man who’d been through the wringer.

He was also tattooed, which was the easiest way to tell them apart. A dagger was tattooed on the left side of his neck, angled down and forward, with the handle stretching toward his hairline behind his ear. There were letters on his knuckles, but Cash wasn’t close enough to make out what they said.

The other hands seemed to be giving him a wide berth, likely taken off-guard by the new presence that favored the boss so much. Right, he hadn’t told them who exactly their new coworker was going to be.

With a sigh, he went to the coffee pot on the counter first. Coffee, then responsibilities.

“Morning, boss,” Clyde said, pushing some scrambled eggs around the pan. Nearing fifty, he was the oldest hand they had. His black hair was peppered with silver. “Hungry?”

“You know it.” Dipping his voice low as he filled his mug with coffee, he asked, “How’s he been?”

“The doppelgänger?” Clyde shot him an arch look. “Quiet. Got some coffee and some food and put his back to the wall. What’s his story?”

“Estranged brother, been in prison eight years.” He dreaded having to tell them why he was put away, but it was a matter oftime until someone got curious and asked—if they didn’t already know. Roselake was small enough that gossip traveled fast. Half the hands here had grown up in town. Many of them probably already knew, and it was a matter of time before word spread. Clyde wasn’t one of them, having come to town just a year ago.

Clyde clicked his tongue at the news but didn’t pry. Cash always knew he liked him.

Billy, a couple of years younger than Lain—and Wilder, Cash supposed—sidled up to them and said, “Murder, right?”

Cash sighed. Billy grew up in Roselake. Of course he’d heard the story.

Clyde’s brows rose. “No shit?”

“He got out for good behavior, it’s fine,” Cash said quickly. “He’s no danger.”

“He’s plenty dangerous, boss,” Clyde said. “I got a cousin who did time. I know what those tattoos mean.”

That threw Cash for a loop. “What do they mean?”

“The ones on his knuckles look like gibberish,” Billy said. “EWMN?”

Cash frowned, but Clyde said, “Evil, wicked, mean, nasty. It’s basically a billboard that says ‘don’t fuck with me.’”

They shouldn’t be having this conversation so close to the man himself, but Cash was too curious not to ask. “And the knife on his neck?”

Clyde met his eyes seriously. “Killer for hire. Willing to commit murder within the prison for the right price.”

Cash scowled. That didn’t sound right. They wouldn’t have let Wilder out for good behavior if he’d been going around shivving people. “Are you sure?”

Clyde picked up a plate and plopped some fresh eggs down on it. “Absolutely. Here you go. Best of luck with him. I’ll be keeping my distance.”

Billy shook his head, his gaze dark. “He’s got no business here.”

“That’s not up to any of us. Just keep your head down and do the work. The boss wouldn’t do anything to endanger the ranch. You know that.”

“The boss might have a blind spot where family’s concerned,” Billy remarked.

“Enough,” Cash said sternly.

He grabbed a sausage and biscuit and carried his plate and coffee over to the table. Before he could second guess his decision, he set his plate down beside Wilder and held out his hand.

“Hey. Cash Arden. Boss asked me to take you into town today for some work clothes. You up for it?”

Wilder, who’d frozen with his mug halfway to his lips, eyed Cash’s hand for a moment before he set his mug down and shook it. Cash caught a flash of another tattoo on his right hand. Five dots, between thumb and forefinger, like the four points of a square with a single dot in the middle.

“Wilder,” he said. “And yeah. I’d rather not have to keep wearing these.” He gestured to his sweatpants and white T-shirt. “Lain said whatever it costs could come out of my next couple of paychecks, right?”

“That’s right. We’ll get whatever you need today, and I’ll charge it to the ranch. Don’t worry about the cost for now.” He sat, keeping his body loose and relaxed the way he would around any other hand. The last thing he wanted was to put Wilder on edge.

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