Page 26 of Dirty Cowboys
I finish loading the feed into my truck, my mind racing. She thinks Wyatt is one of the masked men. She heard the bull’s name and connected it to the safe word we gave her, and now she’s spiraling. Indie thinks some kid and his buddies have been playing games.
The drive back to the ranch feels like it takes forever, even though it’s only twenty minutes. I need totalk to Nash and Walker and figure out how to handle this before it all falls apart. We’ve been so careful about keeping our identities separate from our activities, but one fucking bull’s name has blown everything wide open.
I find them in the barn, where Walker’s bent over the engine of the old tractor while Nash hands him tools and provides a running commentary that’s more hindrance than help.
“Hand me the three-quarter wrench,” Walker mutters.
“Which one’s the three-quarter?” Nash asks, holding up two nearly identical wrenches.
“Jesus Christ, Nash, how have you worked on a ranch for so long and still don’t know basic tools?”
“I know the important tools. Rope, saddle, branding iron, beer opener...”
I smirk at them. Nash knows he is winding Walker up, wanting to get a reaction out of him. Today we are alone on the ranch. I’m sure he is horny, and the easiest way for him to get Walker to fuck him is to bait him.
“That’s not a tool,” Walker replies, emerging from under the hood with grease streaked across his cheek.
“We need to talk,” I announce, interrupting their banter, and both of them turn toward me. Something in my tone must give away the seriousness of the situation because Nash immediately sets down the wrenches.
“What happened?” Walker asks, wiping his hands on a rag.
“I just ran into Indie in town. She was crying and a little shook up about something.” I lean against the workbench, crossing my arms. “She said Wyatt’s bull is called Mercy.”
“Shit,” Nash says. “She thinks?—”
“She thinks Wyatt and his friends are the ones who have been fucking her,” I confirm. “The safe word we gave her is the same name as one of the bulls he’s been practicing on.”
Walker turns to Nash with a look that could kill. “I told you choosing your favorite bull’s name was fucking stupid.”
“How was I supposed to know Wyatt would end up riding Mercy?” Nash protests. “Besides, it seemed appropriate at the time—if she needed mercy, she’d ask for it.”
“Appropriate,” Walker repeats. “You picked the name of a bull you’ve been obsessing over for months because it seemed appropriate.”
“Okay, so maybe it wasn’t my best decision, but what are we supposed to do about it now?” Nash says, running a hand through his hair. “She’s probably planning to confront Wyatt, and that kid’s going to have no idea what she’s talking about. Then he’ll tell someone, and this will all go away.”
I push off from the workbench and start to pace. “We need to figure out how to fix this without blowing our cover.”
The radio in the corner of the barn suddenly crackles to life with Marge’s unmistakable voice, cutting through our conversation.
“All ranchers in the area, this is Marge. The weather service just issued a severe storm warning. A big one is coming in fast, should hit in the next hour or so. Secure your animals and get inside.”
The three of us exchange glances. Marge doesn’t use the emergency channel unless it’s serious, and she’s been watching the weather for longer than we’ve been alive.
“Shit,” Walker mutters, already moving toward the barn door. “The horses in the south paddock need to be brought in.”
We split up without discussion, each of us knowing what must be done. I head for the cattle in the nearest field, Nash takes the horses, and Walker secures the equipment that could become projectiles in the high winds.
The sky is already darkening when I reach the cattle, and heavy clouds are rolling in with the wind that is picking up fast. I whistle a “hurry up” to Scout, and my horse responds immediately. We reach the cattle quickly and get to work herding them toward thebarn. The first raindrops hit just as I’m closing the gate behind the last animal. I can see Nash in the distance, leading a string of horses toward the stables.
By the time we all make it back to the house, the wind is hectic, and the rain is pelting down. We race through the front door, all soaked to the bone.
“Everyone accounted for?” I ask, shaking water from my hair.
“Horses are secure,” Nash says. “Though they’re not happy about it.”
“Equipment’s battened down,” Walker adds. “But if this gets as bad as Marge thinks, we might lose some of the older buildings.”
Lightning flashes outside, followed by thunder that shakes the windows. “Fuck,” Nash says suddenly, his face going pale. “What about Indie?”
