Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(88)

Wyatt takes a heavy breath. “I know,” he croaks. “I’d play her game if I thought I could win.”

I give him a look. “Who says you can’t? You’re no quitter.”

He grins and sits up, caps the whiskey. “You’re a damn good brother. Even if you are a bossy bastard.”

Snorting, I reach out and loop an arm around his shoulder.

Wyatt tenses. “What is this?”

“I’m hugging you, asshole.”

“Oh.” He awkwardly pats my arm. “Thanks, man.”

I bark a laugh. “Eat a fucking sandwich and sober up. You gotta ride tomorrow.”

With that, I exit the Bullshit Box, looking toward Ford’s shop.

One brother down. Another to go.




The reverberation of the impact wrench hits me as soon as I step inside the garage. The scent of oil and gasoline hang heavy in the air. Tacked to the particle-board wall are posters of Babe Ruth and newspaper clippings of the Braves. The black cat Ruby pawned off on Ford sunbathes on a workbench.

Pulled up alongside Ford’s mallard green Dodge Dart Classic is a vintage John Deere. Like Wyatt rescues those horses, Ford rescues scrap metal.

I watch my brother’s shaggy head of hair flop around until he looks up from the hood of the Dodge.

When he turns off the impact wrench, silence lands. Heavy and tense.

After clocking his bandaged hand, I meet my twin’s gaze. “You put your fist through the jukebox, Ford.”

“Sure did,” he says evenly. He steps away from the car to wipe his good hand on a rag.

“Last night, that shit you pulled with Wyatt…” I glare at him. “You put him in a headlock as much as you want, but fucking with his heart, that’s a dick move.”

“I know.”

Our gazes clash. We’ve been in our fair share of arguments through the years, fought over girls, horses, and chores, but there’s been nothing we haven’t gotten over. We’ll get over this. I just might have to tie him to my truck’s hitch and do a few donuts in the pasture first.

I step up to square off with him. “Look, this whole doomed relationship act is getting old. First with Ruby. Now Dakota.” I shake my head. “Ford, if you ain’t happy with your life, fix it. You can’t go back to that place. I got one brother back; I’m not losing another.”

“It was that song,” he mutters.

That goddamn song will be the reason Ford gets admitted to the psych ward.

Ford’s face screws up. “Every time I hear that song, I think of Savannah. And when I think of Savannah, I think of that goddamn kid. I can’t hear that song without wanting to put my fist through something.”

Ford picks up a baseball and tosses it up in the air, then catches it again. There are things people never heal from. Ford’s taken more than his fair share of heartbreak in life, and I’ll never forgive the woman who broke my brother’s heart.

“Savannah…”

He flaps his hand. “Me and Savannah could have gone either way, D.” A hard edge laces his drawl. “She wasn’t the one.” He looks me in the eyes and exhales. “You don’t gotta fix me, man. I’ll be okay.”

“You drink too much.”

“I reckon I do,” he says easily.

“Whatever you’re goin’ through, get right,” I tell him, jabbing a finger. “You’re not pushing us away by acting like a prick, but we sure as hell won’t take your bullshit, either.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I figured that out pretty damn fast when Wyatt punched me in the kidneys this morning.” His mouth curves up at the corner. “Kid’s got an arm.”

He sobers and reaches over to scratch his black cat. “There’s no excuse,” Ford says. “I’ll make it right with Wyatt and Dakota.”

“See that you do.” I cross my arms. “Because she’s not going anywhere.”

“Your girl, huh?”

“Yeah. My girl.” The words feel right in my mouth. Fucking perfect, in fact.

“She’s good for you.” Ford moves across the garage to his ’57 Chevy and swipes something off the hood. “If you buy a goddamn ring without telling me, I’ll kick your ass.”

I grin. “Count on it, brother.”

“Found this.” Ford comes back to me to slap a severed metal tube into my hand. His gaze is grim. “From my Chevy. Cut brake lines.”

I freeze. “When? On the ranch?”

“No. In town.”

Fuck. Panic grips me by the jugular.

Ford lifts his brows. “What’re you thinking, D?”

“Bullshit Box,” I growl. “You, Charlie and Wyatt. Fifteen minutes.”

Then I haul ass across the ranch, desperate to get back to Dakota.

Classic rock and roll hits me the minute I step through the front door of the lodge. The Rolling Stones sing about brown sugar, and I smile when I see my clean kitchen messy as hell. The soft movement of Dakota and her belly is slowly becoming my favorite sight.

I’m ready for it. All of it.

Too damn beautiful for words. Barefoot, she’s changed out of last night’s clothes and into a long slip dress. Her belly’s hugged by a blue apron. Dark hair rolled in a messy bun. Golden April sunshine falls through the window, bathing her in an ethereal glow.