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I shrug. “I don’t know. You’re the Lex Luthor of the group. Don’t you have an evil plan?”
Shane’s quiet. I glance over, noting the little wrinkle between his eyebrows. That’s usually a good sign. It means he’s thinking. And when Shane Emerson gets to thinking, good things happen.
I stand. “You just let me know, man.”
“You going to talk to Clint?”
“Hell no. Not right now,” I add.
“Will you?”
Internally, I groan. My role in our group, more often than not, is peacemaker. Clint’s stubborn as a mule and as hard-headed as a goat. Shane’s like a bear. He’s generally pretty easygoing, but when it comes down to the wire, if he wants something, he’s hell to budge.
That leaves me as the go-between. Fun, friendly, fast-and-loose Landon Morrison. I’d like to think that our friendship didn’t exist until I started to tag along after these two, but hey, who knows? They might have made it work without me.
“Yeah, I’ll go,” I finally say through clenched teeth.
“Thanks, brother.”
“Anytime.”
Shane leaves, heading off to his room to do some evil genius stuff, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
It’s a farm kitchen. It looks like every farm kitchen I’ve ever been in, which is a surprisingly large number. But for the first time, I’m struck by the fact that it feels… incomplete.
I stand up, looking at the walls. There are small squares imposed on the wallpaper. Places where pictures used to be. We bought the place from two retired ranchers whose kids were grown and gone. I guess the little spaces, less faded than the paper around them, are from where they had family photos and shit.
I collapse back into my chair, nursing my beer. A weird loneliness punches through me, taking the breath from my lungs. The three of us don’t have family photos. We’re not really a family, I guess. I used to run over to Shane’s place when my parents had their big fights, and Clint was dumped there by his dad, who worked for Shane’s dad as a ranch hand.
The three of us just kind of… stuck. We’ve always wanted to do something together. Something that combined Clint’s knowledge of horses, Shane’s weirdly smart mind, and my…
My what?
I lean back, the beer sitting uneasily in my stomach. Other than a shit-eating grin and the ability to make Clint and Shane see reason, I have nothing to contribute to this group. It brings up an old hurt. One that’s drowned in fighting words and seasoned by the experience of coming home to an empty house.
Neither one of them wanted you.
“Fuck,” I mutter, sipping the beer. I have to shake this shit off. A rolling stone grows no moss, and fuck if I want this kind of moss weighing me down.
I’m all right. I have Clint and Shane. The business is booming, and the Wild Spur is going to be the only way to outfit a trail ride in the state of Montana soon.
No matter what, I bring something to that team.
For now.
Fuck my thoughts. I stand, my annoyance clear. I head out, trying to find Clint.
Shane and Clint are the best thing that ever happened to me. I’d never do anything to risk that. Not in a million fucking years. Life’s good, just the way it is.
I hold on to the thought. Use it to squish down the darkness gnawing at me. Outside of the barn, I take a huge breath.
Time to make this right with my friend and get us all back on track as a team again.
CHAPTER 4
Clint
Ihaven’t even started my coffee by the time Shane slaps a thick document on the table in front of me.
