Page 25 of Possessive Rancher

“We should probably make dinner or something,” I tell him, stretching out beside him on the living room floor.

“Probably,” he laughs. “I need coffee or spinach. You sure got a fire in you, little girl.”

“You know how to ignite me.”

The sound of his phone going off interrupts us before we can take this conversation into the kitchen or anywhere else. He has to lean over the edge of the couch that’s now against a wall instead of in the center of the living room to grab his jeans and his phone out of the pocket.

He grunts and swipes at the screen a few times.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“I don’t know. Get dressed and I’m going to go check it out. The sensors on those back gates are going crazy.” He looks out the kitchen windows and moves over to a drawer to pull out a set of keys.

I watch Hudson move to a closet by the front door as I throw my clothes back on in a hurry. When he opens it, he reaches up to a handle that looks like access to an attic, but it pulls down a heavy-sounding cabinet. The key unlocks it and inside is an array of shotguns and pistols.

“You comfortable shooting?” he asks me.

“No,” I tell him with dread coming over me. “I’m sorry.”

Hudson rushes toward me, taking my face in his hands. “Don’t ever apologize for that. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I just wanted to be sure so I know to look out for you shooting too. I can do what needs to be done. I’ve been taking care of this land for a few decades.”

He kisses me and returns to the cabinet where he tucks a handgun in his waistband, a clip for that into his pocket, and picks up a double-barrel shotgun. There’s a few boxes of ammo sitting along a bottom shelf that he opens up.

“Birdshot,” he explains, loading one red shell into each side. He holds up a green shell, saying, “Buckshot.”

I watch him load those two and then he opens another box to put four more shells on each side behind the ones he put in. “That’s a lot of buckshot.”

“No darlin’, these are slugs. Birdshot is the warning, buckshot will hurt ya but is not likely to kill ya, and slugs will put you down for coming onto my land and threatening the things and people I care about.”

Hudson closes the cabinet and locks it but puts the key on a hook on the wall. He shuts the closet door, grabs me by the hand, and leads me into the kitchen.

I don’t know what’s happening, but Hudson’s moving like a man with a purpose.

We reach the back door, and he puts his hand on the knob. His voice is calm. “I don’t know who’s out there, but I ain’t gonna let them hurt you. Just stick close to me.”

“Okay.”

My heart is pounding as we move toward the garage where he lifts the gate. I peek over his shoulder and he tells me, “I think you should wait in here until the coast is clear. Them ATVs ain’t gonna be any good in the mud with those tires, and I don’t want you stuck in my truck in case we do start shooting.”

“Well, then. Let’s not shoot at all, then,” a voice calls out from behind us before the sound of them cocking their gun fills the air.

I turn around to see Walton Emory standing there with a gun pointing at the both of us. Walton’s about 6’2 with stringy blonde hair and sunken cheekbones. His eyes are bloodshot red around their once-blue color, and he’s let his beard grow a bit since the last time I saw him.

Hudson moves to stand in front of me, putting himself between me and the creep.

“Wallace?” Hudson asks.

“Wallace, Walton, whatever name is easiest for a lug like you to pronounce is fine by me. Why don’t you move out the way and send my little woman on over here?”

Hudson laughs, “You know that ain’t gonna happen. So you do what you have to do.”

I’m gripping the back of Hudson’s shirt to the point my knuckles turn white. I can feel his hand reach behind him to pat me gently on the leg. It’s soothing in a way, and I loosen my grip.

When I peek around Hudson’s body to see the stand-off, there’s one thing that Walton doesn’t account for.

Hudson calls out, “Hey Jimi.”

13

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