Page 32 of His Saving Grace

Chapter 7

Masonclimbedoutof the truck, the gravel crunching under his work boots. He slammed the door and strode around the vehicle, each step on his bad leg sending sharp shots of pain down his thigh. His limp was getting more pronounced, but he refused to fucking stop.

He made his way over to Simon, who stood at the fence, the cattle in the distance a soothing soundtrack, as weird as that sounded. Simon greeted him with a dip of his chin, but didn’t say anything. Which was good, because Mason wasn’t in the mood for a chat.

Two weeks. It had been two frigging weeks, and Grace had successfully managed to avoid him at every turn. They lived within a hundred yards of each other, and he’d only managed to get within talking distance a handful of times. Before he could say anything, she made an excuse and disappeared.

Oh, and, somehow, she’d stolen his dog.

After she’d run out on him two weeks ago, she and the dog had disappeared into the guest house and hadn’t come out until sometime in the afternoon. Not that he’d been watching or anything. He just happened to be sitting on the back porch when she and Tank finally appeared.

She’d changed into a t-shirt and some short yoga pants or something, the kind that clung to her ass and made him want to reach out and grab a handful. Not that he would have. At that point, she probably would have slapped him into next week. And he’d totally deserve the beat down.

So, he’d watched as she and Tank disappeared around the guest house and into the woods that lined the back of the property. He’d wanted to go and talk to her, but figured she needed some space. Big mistake. Because that was the last time he’d gotten that close to her.

Between her and Owen, he was beginning to get tense. Add the fact that his dog had ditched him to become Grace’s constant new companion, and he was starting to develop a complex.

He leaned against the fence, taking the weight off of his bad leg. His thigh muscle twitched, teetering on the edge of seizing. He gripped the wooden slat of the fence tighter, trying to not give any outward sign of his discomfort. His gaze shifted to Simon, who was busy scrawling something in a notebook. He eased his hip forward and the muscle relaxed. Thank Christ.

His family, without realizing it, were still treating him with kid gloves. Even though they weren’t doing it on purpose, it drove him fucking batty. Sometimes he wanted to scream that he wasn’t made of glass, he wasn’t going to break, they didn’t need to treat him differently.

But then his fucking leg acted up, and he was forced to limp around like an idiot, with everyone looking at him with pity in their eyes. They made excuses to not include him. Made him feel like he was damaged goods.

“So, what do you think?”

Simon’s question knocked him back into the present. He looked over to see his brother finished with his notes and staring at him. The point of the trip out here was to get a look at the herd, since the cows were being prepared for their move to the summer grazing pasture. Not that Mason had a say in any of this stuff, but he appreciated Simon asking. Trying to include him in something.

“Everything looks great.” Mason shaded his eyes from the setting sun. “But then, I’d expect nothing less.”

His gaze caught on Owen, who was right in the middle of it all. While the ranch had a foreman, and plenty of hands, Owen had always been a hands-on kind of guy.

Something that felt an awful lot like grief wrapped itself around Mason’s heart, the sharp edges slicing deep. Not that he would know if Owen was still a hands-on kind of guy. He didn’t know Owen anymore. Like with his dad, he hadn’t spoken to Owen in fifteen years. Or, more to the point, Owen hadn’t spoken to him in fifteen years. Not since the day he’d chosen West Point over the ranch, and had gotten in his truck and drove away. Once again, that stupid, stubborn Callahan pride had kicked in, and here they were.

The only reason he knew what had happened here over the years was because of his mother and the other boys. For men, they gossiped like a bunch of middle-aged busy-bodies at a book club meeting.

Owen looked over at them and raised his hand. Simon lifted his in response. Whatever was wrapped around Mason’s heart pulled tighter, the sharp edges carving deep. There was no point in him acknowledging Owen. Stupid, stubborn bastard.

Simon turned to him. “He’ll come around.”

Mason snorted. “Have you met him? He’s the most stubborn ass I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, cause he’s the only one with that quality around here.” Simon’s words practically dripped with sarcasm.

“Yeah, well…” Mason didn’t have a comeback for that, because they all had a tendency to dig their heels in occasionally. Or all the time.

He glanced at Owen across the pasture and scrubbed his hand over his face, running his fingers over the stubble on his jaw. Fuck, he really should be the bigger man and try to work things out with him. But if the asshole wasn’t going to make an effort, then why the hell should he?

Maybe because it’s the right thing to do? And it would make your mother happy.

Yeah, but why should he be the one to cave? He wasn’t the one who’d started this whole thing. Owen had, by being an ass and refusing to talk to him and all of that other bullshit. It eventually got to the point where Mason stopped trying, stopped reaching out. It was better to quit than to keep trying and getting slapped down every time. If Owen wasn’t willing to try and fix this, then Mason wasn’t going to go out of his way to make it easier on him. Regardless of what Mama wanted.

“Hey,” Simon said, giving him a tap on the upper arm to get his attention. “I’ve got to go and talk to Owen and Sam about the move. You want to come?”

Mason shook his head. He didn’t feel like being ignored in front of witnesses. It was bad enough it kept happening in front of the family.

“You going to be okay finding your way back?”

Mason gave him what he hoped was a don’t-be-a-moron look. “You do realize I was roaming these lands before you were even born, right?”