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Copyright © BA Tortuga 2017. All Rights Reserved, Totally Entwined Group Limited, T/A Pride Publishing.
Matt took a deep breath, trying hard not to scream at his twin brother Luke. Shouting did more harm than good most days, but that fact didn’t ease the temptation, really. The truth was that Matt needed help on the ranch, and Luke should’ve been able to do some of the lighter jobs, but he was still lying around on his ass feeling sorry for himself.
Guilt immediately clawed at Matt’s gut. Luke deserved some downtime. Thirty-two missions with an eighty-two percent success rate meant nothing to Uncle Sam once that rate went down the toilet, thanks to an IED, a bunch of shattered bones, two surgeries and a scad of scars. Luke had given up a lot to be a SEAL and was now giving up even more of his life trying to recover.
So, instead of ramping up and stomping his damned boot heels, Matt counted to ten. “Hey, bud. I need some help with the foals.”
“Help doing what? I’m no cowboy.”
He peered into a face that ought to have been as familiar as his own, but somehow it wasn’t. He was the older by eight minutes, but Luke seemed like he was in his forties, lines around his mouth that Matt didn’t share, a hardness in his eyes.
“No, but you’re what I got, and I need help.” Luke was all about helping people, right? Matt was trying to appeal to his basic nature.
“Okay.” Luke moved himself from the sofa to his wheelchair using his upper body strength, the heavy braces on his legs brutal as all get out. The doctors said he’d walk again without them and the crutches as long as Luke did his therapy, but Matt knew Luke didn’t believe it.
Matt needed Luke to start believing.
Hell, he didn’t give a living shit what the ornery son of a bitch believed in—Santa Claus, flying monkeys, yetis. He was easy. Matt wanted his easygoing, laughing twin back. Damn it, he was the quiet, serious one. The frickin’ cowboy.
He held the door open for Luke, waiting for the wheelchair maneuver that caused the most trouble. Door jambs.
He’d fixed the ramp up, but the door would have to wait until he figured out where Luke was going to light for good. God knew his brother had always said he hated living in the back of beyond, which was why he’d gone into the Navy.
Luke managed to get out of the doorway without scraping his knuckles too bad. He’d suggested those fingerless leather glove deals, but Luke had responded poorly. His belly showed the bruises from Luke’s no.
Luke still packed a hell of a punch.
They got down to the barn without too much trouble because Matt had graded the path a bit, and the foaling stalls would be a simple in and out, even with the wheelchair. He’d stabled a couple three foals when he fed, just to give Luke something to do.
The horses knew they were coming, hooves slamming against the dirt. In the barn, the whinnies started right away.
“They love you,” he told Luke. “I don’t fucking understand it.”
Luke snorted. “They love the idea of some company, is all. Takes me longer to groom them, so I stay with them. They like that.”
“Uh-huh.” Matt didn’t give a shit on the whys. He just cared about the love. His best mare, Shana, nosed over the stall door, her time in quarantine obviously chafing her. She had a cut just below her hock. “Hey, baby girl. How you doing today?”
He rubbed her velvet-soft nose, let her nibble on his palm.
She blew, bobbing her head up and down.
“Soon. I promise. Maybe today.” He looked over at Luke. “You need help or you good?”
“I got it.” Luke started with the last stall, and Matt headed out to check the yearlings.
He was beginning to think this whole thing was going to work, he really was. The horses were thriving—the cattle were working the back forty. All he had to do was hold on for a little longer.
