Page 8 of Wrangled

“Oh,nowI get it. You telling me all I need is to get laid?”

Zeeb’s eyes sparkled. “A little fuckin’ is good for a lot of what ails ya. Think about it. Especially since I’d be willing to guess you haven’t…youknow… since…”

I laughed my ass off. “You are such a paradox.”

Zeeb grinned. “And there you go, using big words again.”

“You’re okay telling me a little fucking will cure my ills, and even going so far as to tell me you heard Kevin fucking me, but you can’t bring yourself to say I haven’t gotten fucked since he died?”

He’d nailed it, of course. I was expecting a letter any day now, demanding the return of my gay card.

Zeeb grinned at me. “Gotta say, boss. Sure was a whole lotta fuckin’ going on in that last sentence.Reader’s Digesthas this page about improving your word power. Want me to lend you a copy?”

I merely raised my eyebrows.

“Besides, it wasn’t so much the fuckin’ part, more about not wanting to bring up—”

I held my hand up. “It’s okay. I get it.” I grabbed the reins. “I’m going back to the house. Be sure to get the new guests ready to rock and roll tomorrow. This isn’t Diana’s place. They’re here to work.”

Zeeb tipped his hat. “Yes, boss.” He turned Thunder around and headed back toward the ranch.

I gazed across the creek at the cabin.

Zeeb said I had to move on. Of course, he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, because he didn’t know the truth—no one did—but all the same, that hair shirt I’d been wearing for five years was starting to itch. If I let it abrade my skin any longer, I was in real danger of turning into a whining bitch—in my head, at least.

And that just wasn’t me.

I stared at the chairs where we’d sat—and done a few other things too, my heart pounding like a bass drum for fear someone would come along, which was why Kevin had made me do it in the first place, the bastard.

I nudged Rusty’s flanks. “Let’s go home, boy.” We headed back to the ranch.

Enough is enough.

Chapter Three

Toby

Saturday, June 11

I got off the shuttle bus, put my suitcase on the sidewalk, and scanned my surroundings. It had dropped me off outside the Baxter Hotel, as indicated in the email confirmation of my stay. I hoped there’d be food when I got to the Salvation ranch, because it was already getting close to six-thirty and I was starving. The more than three-hour layover in Salt Lake City had made me regret flying Delta—I could’ve flown nonstop with United, but I had points, so what was I going to do?

I chuckled to myself.You’re just stingy. You could afford to fly first class if you wanted to.

My dad didn’t raise fools. Just because I had money didn’t mean I was going to throw it away.

I gazed at the green parasols of the café that was part of the hotel. Main Street in Bozeman was pretty quiet for a Saturday night.

Too quiet. All of a sudden, San Francisco seemed a long way away.

Then I reasoned I wasn’t there to have a good time. I doubted I’d have the opportunity to sample the nightlife anyhow. I knew what lay at the root of my anxiety.

I’m not sure if this is a good idea.

It had seemed the perfect solution, back in my apartment. A break from it all, getting back to nature, hard work—

And horses. Couldn’t forget that part, right?

That first view online, Salvation had ticked all my boxes. It was a working ranch, with the prospect of a cattle drive to move the herd to summer pastures. The email had said there would only be two other guests apart from myself. From the photos, the ranch seemed kinda rustic, but I was okay with that.

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