Redneck Romeo (Rough Riders #15)(96)

Dalton bit back a smile.


“And rather than waitin’ to see if he’d made his point with me, he kept goin’. So in addition to bein’ a hypocrite, I’m a controlling * who doesn’t remember what it’s like to be young. Or what it’s like to want to do something besides bein’ a rancher.”


“Ouch. How’d you handle that?”


Cord sighed. “Not well. But that’s pretty much par for the course between me’n Ky these days. Half the time I wanna throttle him.”


“And the rest of the time?”


“I want to make the most of the two years we’ve got left before he heads off to college because it doesn’t seem that long ago he was five and he hero worshipped me.”


“He’s a good kid, Cord. At least he ain’t afraid to voice his opinion to you.”


Colt nudged Cord. “Getting off the subject.”


Dalton shrugged. “It’s probably a more productive subject for us anyway. Not that I’m one to offer up any advice about father-son relations.”


“No change with Casper?” Cord asked.


The man is incapable of change. “Nope.”


“That’s gotta be hard on you guys. But I know Brandt and Tell are glad to have you back.” Colt sipped his coffee. “Man, did they lay into us. Between them and Kane and Kade tossing in their two cents’ worth I felt about an inch high by the time they finished with me.”


“Me too,” Cord added. “Though I’m pretty sure Tell was jokin’ when he suggested we write our apology in blood.”


“Is that why you’re here?” Dalton asked suspiciously. “Because my brothers demanded it?”


Colt laughed. “Take it down a notch. We’re apologizing because we said a buncha shit to you that was wrong. Colby would’ve come too but he got waylaid.”


“Letting something fester ain’t good. Best to get this out in the open, deal with it and move on,” Cord said.


“Along those lines, Ben said to tell you that the two of you are squared up now. Something about you both bein’ dumbasses that overreact?” Colt looked at him. “Does that make any sense to you?”


“Yeah, it does.”


Cord raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask specifics. “So on certain points of this issue, we’ll agree to disagree for the time bein’.”


“Agreed. I appreciate the olive branch.”


“So we’re cool then?” Colt asked.


Dalton grinned. “At least until the next poker game and you guys are pissed off that I cleaned you out again.”


Chapter Twenty-Three


Seething, Rory sat in the WNRC truck and beat her hands on the steering wheel, punctuating each, “sonuvabitching, motherf*cking cocksucking goddamned *” with another smack of her hands. When she missed and hit the horn, she scared herself so bad she screamed.


Okay. Enough. Breathe. Focus on deep cleansing breath in, negative energy out.


Rory closed her eyes. Inhale one, two, three…hold. Exhale one, two, three. Again. Three more cycles and she should’ve been calmer. She shouldn’t have been thinking, f*cking know-it-all asswipe douchebag and imagining clipping him with the four-wheeler so hard he tumbled into the ravine.


She really, really, really f*cking hated her job today.


Up at the crack of dawn, hauling an ATV on back roads two hours away. Only to be confronted by a foul-tempered, big-mouthed, sexist, ageist, government-hating rancher who spewed vitriol from the moment she’d opened the pickup door until three hours later when she’d finished the survey of his land for the proposed elk farm permit.


And to top it off, the smug man had only applied for the permit to f*ck with the “useless, liberal-leaning, pseudo-regulatory agency” that she worked for.


The trip was an entire waste of her day. She could’ve checked out three other proposed landowner sites, but no, she had to give each permit equal consideration. Even those who openly professed they were dicking with her.


Rory had half a mind to report the jerk-off to the brand board for improper tagging or to the Wyoming Livestock Board, aka—the Wyoming CDC-cow disease control—for possible foot and mouth disease.


Sucked that she was too…honest to do it. Sometimes she wished she could just be a devious, coldhearted, vengeful bitch.


Who was she kidding? She couldn’t even be honest with herself. What happened to her plan of indulging in the most amazing sex in the history of mankind with sex god Dalton McKay and not falling for him?


She was so so so screwed.


Berating herself wasn’t helping. She needed a physical activity that’d burn off this negativity. Too bad she couldn’t chop wood. That always worked off a good mad. But her mom had replaced the wood stove in the cabin with electric heat.


Not enough snow to shovel.


She could take Jingle for a run. Except Rory didn’t run—ever—and Jingle preferred to sit on the couch like a pampered pooch.


Yoga…for being a great workout, her mind needed stimulation, not serenity.