Titus: Book Two of the Cantrell Brothers Series

Chapter One

Slightly rusty but still sharp to the touch, the wire's points poked and prodded at his skin but did not pierce, his calloused hands much too accustomed. He placed all of the six foot long boards and the coil of quarter inch wiring into the backseat before unhooking the trailer and following the tangled paths to the southern fencing line.

With the exception of the northern end - the quarter where his house was located - all of his property was bordered by dottings and groupings of trees that were sometimes extremely thick and other times sparse and not at all clumped together. A few bushes were here and there, but he tried to get rid of those; for snakes and other dangerous critters could sometimes be hidden inside.

It didn't take long before he found Luther corralling a few cattle to a an area several feet away from where the fence was almost split in half. With graying brown hair, knowing, brown eyes, and an aging body used to hard labor, Luther Plymoth was one of Titus's most trusted friends and the best ranch hand he had ever come to meet. The forty-year-old man always teased him that it was love at first sight when Titus had first hired the man, and it never failed to make him laugh.

"Luther!" he called and watched as the man dismounted from his Canadian pacer, Action. "Fix it up. I'll do the milking tonight if you stack the rest of the bales."

"Yes, sir." Luther grinned before rummaging through his saddlebags and getting to work on the fence.

The harsh sun beat at his back as he finished up with the rest of the chores until finally, Titus just discarded the soaking wet shirt onto the passenger, not caring that he would get more cuts and scratches on his already damaged torso. Sweat dripped down his face and chest as he mucked horse manure into the back of his truck.

There were only a few more things left to do on the list, and he finished up almost all of them with ease that could only have come from repeating the process over and over again. Specks of manure were splattered against his chest, getting caught in the light dusting of golden hair. Reeking of ranch animals and sweat, Titus made his way over to the ranch to refill his gallon jug.

The Texas heat could be a scorcher most times, and today was no exception. The perspiration that slicked down every inch of his body giving evidence to that fact.

White paint peeled off every inch of the two-story home's surface, allowing Titus to see the old wood underneath. A large porch surrounded the very front, wooden posts and railings bordering everywhere but the set of stairs. With wooden shutters framing the large windows, the sun reflected its light beautifully, and Titus felt that familiar surge of pride.

Steps creaking under his weight, he walked into the air-conditioned interior, wishing that he was clean enough to collapse on the buckskin couches that framed the only television in the entire house. A Native American rug accentuated the tan couches' color, laying flat on the scuffed wooden floorboards that had seen decades of use.

He made his way into the kitchen where his breakfast plate was still sitting on the island table. Now carrying both his gallon jug and the plate, he turned the faucet on and waited. Like it always had been and - he thought sadly - most likely always would be, the house was empty, only the clicking of the antique clock in the upstairs hallway filling the lonely void.

Upstairs, his bedroom would be cold and empty, no woman to warm the rumpled covers that he tossed and turned in every night. But now wasn't the time to think about that, and now most certainly wasn't the time to gripe about his life. He had never been one to complain, and now wasn't the time to start.

A cool liquid spilled over his hands, and he almost rocketed into the ceiling. Turning around, he realized the faucet was just leaking again and immediately calmed down. The jug was full, and while most people who came to his house - granted there were hardly any - always only drank the water from the purified pitcher in the refrigerator, he had become accustomed to the stale, dirty taste; and didn't mind how it made his teeth feel a little gritty at the moment.