Page 69 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"Dean was the first one to realize something was off, but it was too late. One of them jumped out of hiding and opened fire—right at me. Dean… he threw himself in front of the shot. Took a bullet for me. Actually, took several. While I?—"

He stops, eyes dropping. "I ran for cover. Like a coward."

"No." I reach for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his. The word coward drips with so much shame it makes my chest ache. "You didn't run like a coward. You ran like a man under fire. Like someone who'd watched his best friend go down and had the sense to live to fight another day."

He snorts softly. "That's a first—no one's ever accused me of being smart before."

But his response lands gently, a little less bitterness in his words than before. My words seem to have hit something real. He draws a breath and goes on.

"Most of our squad didn't make it. Dean survived by some miracle—they managed to stabilize him. And Lennon… he was the only one sober enough to keep his head. He fought back. Held the line for long enough for the rest of the platoon to reachus. We were lucky, they happened to be nearby, on their way back from an earlier engagement. Heard the gunfire and came to see what was happening. If it hadn't been for those two, I'd be dead. No question. Even so, over half of the squad bought it that night."

He looks down at our hands, out of words, deep in memories.

I don't think even Reed realizes it. But after Dean took that bullet for him, and after Lennon held the line to save what remained of his squad when all hope appeared to be lost, Reed must've silently made his decision—a decision to always be there for them. A decision to repay that debt as much as he could, and in any way he could. It's probably why he rarely pushes back when Dean gets bossy, even though they're not that far apart in age. I squeeze his hand, giving him every bit of comfort I can manage. Hearing his story helps me understand him in a new way—and it explains why he's here at the ranch at all, even though ranching doesn't seem to bring him much joy.

There's a reverence in the way he treats Dean—different from how he is with Lennon—and now, I get it. I see it clearly.

And I know what I have to do.

Before, I needed to talk to Reed about Lennon. Now I need to talk to Dean about this whole thing—about Lennon and Reed and what he means to them. Because I don’t think he knows. He deserves to hear this, to understand how deeply he's shaped the people around him.

So, the next morning, before breakfast—after Reed quietly slips back to his own room—I make my way to Dean's office, where all the paperwork is kept, and where Dean wrestles with the accounting books and with all the invoices and bill payments.

There's no response when I knock, so I gently push open the door.

He's at his desk, furiously typing, neck muscles tense, brow furrowed, jaw tight. It takes all of two seconds to realize what he's doing—wrangling with the company's profit and loss statement, trying his level best—but failing nevertheless—to get it to do what he needs it to do. But it's not playing ball, and that's because he's not using his accounting software the right way. He's glaring at the screen like it's personally offended him.

"You could've waited for me," I say softly. "Might've saved yourself some trouble."

He grunts in response, not looking up.

I take a breath, twisting my hands together. The words feel heavy on my tongue, but I know I can't keep this to myself.

"Dean," I say quietly, stepping closer. "I have something to tell you."

CHAPTER 26

Dean

Ifreeze, every part of my body reacting to and rejecting the words that are about to come out of her mouth. She doesn't have to say it. I was awake for most of the night and already aware of exactly when Lennon left her room, plus I saw Reed sneak in there too, from my study window. He didn't come out for hours, and that's all it took for me to understand what happened. They must think I'm stupid or something.

I'm ashamed to admit it to myself, but it was all I could think about all night.

Here's the thing: I'm not a prude. I don't begrudge people having fun after work hours, and this isn't the first threesome I've observed on this mountain. As I've often said, it can get pretty isolated up here, and that can cause all sorts of strange and unusual behaviors—perhaps sometimes it makes people do things they otherwise would not do, I don't know. I do know that threesomes are something I've indulged in myself with Reed and one of the hot young fillies from town who we chatted up in the bar one Friday night. She was up for it, but she was on her own, so we shared her. No big deal. It's not something I would ever judge Hailey for.

But whilst I don't at all judge her, God damn it, it burns. It hurts, knowing the three of them were doing what they were doing without me. I wasn't there. I wasn't invited. Lying there on my bed on my own, whilst across the yard the other two were in the guest house, bringing her to ecstasy, showing her the intense pleasure of being worshipped by two men. That was hard, very hard.

I didn't get to see her eyes roll over or hear her cry out when she reached the edge. I didn't get to taste that sweet ambrosia between her thighs, and hear her moaning in bliss, as I suck her clit while the other one has her nipple. I didn't get to feel her tighten around my cock as I entered her with gritted teeth, slow so as not to hurt her...

Shit.

Thanks to these thoughts revolving around and around in my head, I had to give up on getting any rest, and go take a long walk around the house, but even that still didn't help me cool off. I chugged glasses of water, washed my face in the sink, paced some more, not knowing what to do with myself. Miserable from the knowledge that I was the one that was on his own, whilst the others were all enjoying themselves without me.

They talk about the loneliness of command. Someone has to be in charge. Someone has to make the hard decisions. Someone has to get everyone stirred up and moving. Around here, that 'someone' is me. But that doesn't necessarily make me popular. I know they call me 'The General' and "Old Blood and Guts" behind my back. But if I didn't make everyone work, we'd never get anything done. Still… it doesn't make me popular. And I see now that whereas I had thought they loved me as their friend, in fact they simply see me as their boss, nothing more. I sigh deeply.

Whilst I'm lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, they're all having fun.

Ungrateful bastards.

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