A Cowboy Returns. Kelli IrelandЧитать онлайн книгу.
so he knelt over Eli, fist raised.
Eli set his jaw. He wouldn’t fight anymore. Not like this.
“You sorry son of a bitch,” the man gasped. “All these years. You been gone all these years. Why now?”
Eli swallowed hard. “It’s good to see you, too, brother.”
Cade Covington shoved off Eli, panting. “Can’t say the same.”
Seemed karma was determined to put the screws to him by dumping every ounce of history in his lap all at once.
Excellent.
Eli dabbed his split lip with his shirttail. “You still hit like a freaking truck.”
“You used to be faster.” Cade shook out his fist. “What’re you doing here, Eli?”
Cade’s tone was cold and Eli glanced at his brother. “Ty didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Cade asked, the words flat.
“He asked me to come home and probate the estate.”
His brother cursed, low and harsh.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Eli leaned against the little clown car and, one at a time, emptied his shoes of sand.
Cade turned away, his voice carrying on the wind. “I’ve got this covered. We don’t need your brand of help.”
The words hit Eli harder than any of Cade’s blows. He watched his younger brother, the middle of the three of them, retrieve his hat and head for his truck, his gait as long and sure as ever.
“I’ll see this through,” Eli called after him.
Cade shook his head, slapping his hat against his thigh as he paused beside his idling truck. “Why bother? You don’t want to be here, and we don’t want you. So just...go on. Get back to Austin and do whatever it is you do down there.”
Eli clenched his jaw so tight his molars ached. His nostrils flared on each exhale. “I have a client roster that proves I finish what I start.”
Cade settled his hat on his head and glanced over his shoulder. “A client roster, huh?” He shook his head and grinned sardonically. “And how many of those clients have you stuck by through the years, Eli? How many have you seen through the hard times because it was the right thing to do?” When Eli didn’t answer, Cade shook his head, grin fading. “They pay you to stick. You don’t do it because it’s the right thing, and that makes all the difference.”
“I’ve never walked out on my professional responsibilities,” Eli snapped.
“Then I can honestly say I wish we’d been professional associates instead of brothers.” Slamming the driver’s door behind him, Cade shifted the truck into Drive and took off.
Hurt and anger warred for dominance, an internal battle that bloodied Eli with every volley. Who the hell does Cade think he is?
The idea that he could leave this whole mess to someone else crossed his mind again. He could send a check to cover the attorney’s fees, let it be someone else’s headache. Epic temptation that it was, it would only reinforce Cade’s opinion that he didn’t care about his family.
Eli glared down the empty dirt road. He might be a lot of things, but a quitter? No. His leaving had been about survival and what was best for everyone. If Cade didn’t get that?
“Screw him.” Folding himself gingerly into the car, he winced as it gained speed and resumed rattling over the dirt road. Each jarring bump hammered every new bruise. By the time Eli reached Highway 102, he was pretty sure at least two fillings were loose.
He had no idea how he would manage staying at the ranch with Cade and Ty, but there wasn’t a decent hotel within a hundred miles. What there was would be historic—thereby archaic—and that translated to dial-up internet if he was lucky, rotary phones and curious proprietors. The ranch would at least have a rudimentary office. His brothers might not appreciate his presence, but one-third of the house was his, and he intended to put it to use before deeding it to them jointly. Breaking all ties with this place was long past due.
Eli buzzed by the ranch’s main gate. The black iron arch over the gate had the ranch’s name centered at the top arch, the family name below. Their individual brands were showcased on either side of the ranch name. His, the E-bar C, was to the right.
The battered mailbox stood weather-beaten and worn as ever. The red flag hung broken and listless, the ever-present breeze swinging it back and forth sporadically. Behind the mailbox stood the metal road sign—Road to Perdition.
He’d helped weld and post it with his old man’s help. He’d been...what? Eleven? Twelve? The irony had been lost on him at the time. Now? Now it just seemed prophetic. His mother had died two years later and cemented his understanding of perdition. Spiritual ruin. Utter destruction. Hell.
He passed under the sign and onto Covington land.
Tension built in knots across his shoulders, spreading down each side of his spine the farther down the road he went. Long-suppressed memories were close enough to the surface to shove into his consciousness. They dragged him through an entire lifetime of highs and lows that he’d lived in the measly nineteen years he’d been here. So much to remember. So much he wanted to forget. Too much to survive all over again. Shutting his thoughts out, he took in the landscape.
The range looked good. The pastures had benefited from heavier-than-usual summer rains, the black grama grass already heading out. To the west, the mountains rose in a wild spray of desert colors. Fences were tight. Windmills spun in lazy circles, pumping water in a slow but predictable push-pause, push-pause cadence. Yet for all that, something was wrong. It took him a minute to figure it out, but when he did, he felt like an idiot.
As pretty as everything appeared, the pastures were empty.
The ground around the stock tanks should have been soupy from cows stomping through the overflow. Not so.
Grass shouldn’t be thickening along livestock trails. It was.
The roads shouldn’t have been clear of cow pies and other evidence of a herd. They were.
This wasn’t the picture of a working ranch but rather an idyllic snapshot of grasslands. Postcard perfect.
His brows drew together. It was the end of the stocker/grower season. His brothers should be getting ready to ship the contracted stocker steers to the feed yards, yet there was no evidence of activity. Anywhere. Following the road toward the main house, his confusion increased when he found the fields closest to the place empty. That should’ve been where his brothers were holding the cattle and where the work was happening.
Trying to sort out what might have gone wrong, he suddenly recalled Ty’s email. His little brother had asked him to handle the estate’s “issues.” Eli had assumed his brother meant the difficulty of probating such a physically large estate without a will or, at the very least, without a sufficient will.
Then there was Reagan. She’d accused him of not being here to help his brothers.
Looking around as he pulled up to the main house, the inactivity made his skin tighten. The “issues” his youngest brother had mentioned were clearly going to be larger, much larger, than Eli had assumed.
He parked in the main house’s half-circle drive. His childhood home hadn’t changed at all, from the silver tin roof to the stone walls to the aged, wavy glass of the picture windows. The sense of familiarity sans family left him empty. Steeling himself, he stepped out of the car.
The first thing to strike him was the smell. Someone had cut hay, and recently. The rich, clean smell tickled his nose. Below that hovered the subtle, distinct aroma of ammonia that was inherent to large animals. The barn door squeaked as the breeze curled around the corner of the building to shove the door to and fro. And the sky—man, the sky was so much bigger and bluer than he remembered.