The Rancher Read Online Free Page A

  cattle   drive, complete.
    “Cole,” Raine attempted once again, his voice low and resolute.
    Cole glanced up at his brother and,

    without further acknowledgement, walked right past him toward the ranch house.  With   each   quickened   step,   his determination   grew   and   his   stride
    elongated.
    Raine was right behind him. His strong hand gripped Cole’s upper arm and squeezed.
    “Alaric’s dead,” Raine said in a quiet, but firm tone.  “It’s been nearly a year, but it’s still eating at you.”
    Cole froze.  The familiar pang stabbed him in the chest.  He shook his arm free
    from his brother’s grasp and turned to face him head on. “Leave Alaric out of this, Raine,”   he   countered   with   clear deliberation.  His jaw flexed and his teeth crushed together with intensity.
    “You can’t keep blaming yourself for

    what happened.” Raine’s defensive stance exuded his many years of experience apprehending outlaws. “The men can hardly stand to be around you anymore,” he pushed a little further. “It used to be that you cared about what you were doing. Cared about the men you did it with.”
    Cole’s eyes stung from the last two sleepless nights on the trail. His ears were hot and his hands ached from gripping the reins of the gelding he’d chosen for the trip. His attitude matched. Hot and aching.
    “If they don’t like the way I run things, well, then they can find another rancher to work for.”   Cole rubbed his neck and arched his back, his shoulders working to meet in the middle.
    Raine opened his mouth to speak, but Cole cut in before the words could sound.

    “Look Raine, I’ve been gone for nearly
    three months.  I’m tired and sore.  We lost
    a hundred head or so, and two of the hired hands quit before we even reached the Texas border.  Can we not do this right now?” Cole shoved his gloves into his back pocket and walked into the house.
    “Welcome home, little brother,” Cole thought he’d heard Raine call after him.
    The smell of rolls baking in the late afternoon wafted through the corridor in a trail of welcoming fog.  Cole followed his nose down the hallway.  One foot inside his mother’s kitchen and he was pulled into a vast array of heavenly aromas battling for his attention.  Fresh homemade stew bubbled on the stove. Two rather large chickens turned on the spit in the oversized adobe fireplace.   And, three

    warm  baked   cobblers   sat   on   the windowsill, a seductive haze rising from their golden crusts as they cooled. It certainly was a welcome sight after the long drive with only Griff’s cookin’ to sustain a man.
    Cole breathed deeply before crossing the newly swept wooden floor into the study.  He removed his hat and tossed it into his father’s oversized mahogany chair.  Moving to the desk he opened the top right hand drawer.  A brown leather bound ledger rested at the top, veiling a locked black metal box from immediate
    view.  Reaching in, he pulled both items from their resting place and set them on top of the desk. He placed his hand inside his vest and retrieved a long, discolored envelope from the inner pocket.

    “The herd looks good.”
    Cole glanced up from his task to see his father standing casually in the doorway.  Jameson Redbourne had a commanding
    presence.  Standing six feet two inches, he and Cole measured equal, but something in the way his father carried himself filled the room.  He lifted one foot to rest on the edge of a wooden table, his arm propped on his bent leg, his hat in hand.
    “Lost near sixty at Red River and another thirty, or so, at Doan’s Pass.” The hardness in Cole’s voice surprised even him.   He averted his father’s searching eyes and focused on the lockbox.   He pulled the money Tag had given him and placed it in the metal container, careful to record the numbers