Cowgirls Don't Cry(57)

The day had started out perfect. It was one of those times when all was right with his world. When Brandt knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be doing exactly what he’d been meant to do: be a steward of this Wyoming land he loved. Some of his cousins weren’t keen on being part of the McKay cattle company, they’d moved on, but Brandt couldn’t understand that mindset. He loved the ranch. He loved the day to day back breaking work. The cycle of seasons. The unpredictability of the cattle market and the weather. Working with his brothers day in and day out. The humility of being a part of something that was so much bigger than him. From the time he was a little boy, all he wanted was to look across this gorgeous hunk of earth and know it belonged to him. As he’d gotten older, he realized that he belonged to the land—it owned him, heart and soul. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Naturally his father noticed his good mood and felt entitled to destroy it.

Goddamn him.

At times like this, when clouds of rage fogged rational thought, Brandt was half-tempted to keep driving until he ran out of gas. And then keep walking until he ran out of energy. What he hated most of all was the way his father could twist his love of the ranch into something ugly. Into Brandt berating himself for sticking around because he’d always be second banana to Luke. He’s always be a verbal punching bag for his father.

God knows he’d tried—and failed—to protect Tell and Dalton from suffering the same fate. He’d watched his mother become a shell of a woman. Thinking that all these sacrifices and drama would mean something in the end when his father trusted him enough to turn over all the ranch operations to his oldest son.

Yeah, the McKays were just one big happy f*cking family and it’d just gotten worse in the two years since Luke had died.

If the urge to physically lash out wouldn’t go away, he’d head to a bar, drink until he was ten foot tall and bulletproof, and start a fight. It never made him feel better. In fact, he’d usually end up bloodied, bruised and broken. His compulsion to fight wasn’t something he was proud of—the primitive need to Lorelei James


prove himself with his fists was his deepest shame. His cousins Colt and Kane both had the same violent streak. When Colt’s punching bag wasn’t enough to keep his demons at bay, he and Kane mixed it up. At least they had each other to take the edge off. Brandt had no one. And Luke had taken perverse pleasure in denying Brandt a good fight.

He imagined one of those head shrinking docs would have a field day trying to analyze him, especially since the violence was never directed at anyone he knew.

Right now he wanted so badly to drive to some hole in the wall bar where no one knew who he was.

He’d drink, come out swinging and after having his ass handed to him, or ending up victorious, he’d sleep off the booze and the pain in his truck. Then he’d feel calmer.

Why not go to Jessie? She has a calming influence on you.

Jessie.

Now that they were sleeping together, he couldn’t get enough of her and she’d held nothing back from him in bed or out. She’d given everything of herself to him one hundred percent. He wanted her body under his the last thing before he went to sleep at night. He wanted her body beneath his first thing in the morning. He wanted her after he’d just had her. He thought about all the different ways he’d take her while he was taking her. If he thought he’d been obsessed with her before, it was nothing compared to the craving he had for her now.

Which was why he had to stay away from her right now.

He texted Jessie, letting her know he’d be late without going into detail. Then he called his mother, who was watching Landon at his house, telling her he had to finish a couple of things. She didn’t complain or ask questions, but then again, she never did.