Something Borrowed

Chapter 41

***A very short chapter for ya. This week has sucked ass. Anytime one of you wants to pay me to live in the woods and write shitty romance novels for a living just let me know. This real life crap is gettin' old.***

Josh

Of all of his duties as his father's foreman, riding the fence line was one of the most enjoyable. Not that he didn't glean some satisfaction from managing the men, or from caring for the livestock. Hell, even the books weren't so bad. He didn't hate the soothing dependability of the numbers.

But if he really had to choose, riding the fence was his favorite activity. He loved the land, and he loved the freedom and the quiet of those days spent riding by himself along the perimeter of his father's property. The only thing that would make it better is if he could bring Amelia and Rebecca with him. They would love it the same way he did-- cherishing the fresh air and the vistas. The freedom and the peace.

Yes, someday soon he would bring his girls on one of these rides. For now, unfortunately, he had to make do with the company that was thrust upon him.

"I don't get why you're being such a spoilsport about this, Josh," Brent grumbled, drawing up alongside him. They were riding through the west quarter of the property, along a fence line that bisected a section of woods. Snow rose to the horses' hocks, making the going slow, and Josh fantasized about leaving his brother riding the fence line alone and returning to his home. It wasn't far from here. A couple miles at most. He could practically smell the woodsmoke.

"I'm not being a spoilsport," he tossed over his shoulder, making a show of surveying the fences. Anything to keep his gaze off his brother. "I just don't think it's a good idea."

"It's a thriving company, Josh!" Brent argued, reaching across the space between them to nudge at his shoulder. "We've already made great progress and bought up dozens of struggling ranches across the plains."

"Exactly," Josh spat, reining back and drawing Copper to a halt as he glared at his brother. "Struggling ranches, Brent. I understand your business model. I just don't think it's right for this place. Does the old man know you intend to buy his land out from under him?"

Brent rolled his eyes and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the saddlehorn. "Josh, it's not like that. He'll retain control over the way things are run. I've been very careful drawing up the contract. It's just a little extra revenue to give the place a boost and--"

"This ranch doesn't need a boost!" Josh exclaimed, tossing a hand at his surroundings. "We're doing fine, Brent. We're not just doing fine, we're doing good. Our profits have increased every year for the last decade. Our herd has grown. Our acreage has expanded. What about this place makes you think it needs extra revenue?"

"It's fine for now, sure," Brent acquiesced with a shrug. "But the territories are quiet, Josh. Relatively free from taxation. Sparsely populated. One might argue they're uncivilized. How long do you think they'll remain that way? The railroads are just the start. You mock my partners because they're easterners, but who do you think is going to be running this place within the next ten years?"

"I haven't mocked your partners," Josh said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not even mocking your business model, Brent. I think it's great what you've done, leveraging your know-how and making a name for yourself. I just don't think this place needs what your company has to offer."

Brent scowled, an unpleasant look twisting his face. He opened his mouth to retort and Josh would never know what it was he meant to say. Maybe Brent had spoken the words, and maybe he'd merely drawn a breath to form them. Whatever the case, Josh would never know because right at that moment his attention was torn from his brother to movement in the background.

How could he have missed it?

The lumbering form, so unmistakable now that he'd finally noticed it, drew to a rippling halt not ten meters beyond Brent. Josh had encountered grizzlies before. It was a hazard of the job, ranching in these mountains. He'd just never seen one so close. The hubbub of the ranch usually pushed them into the far reaches of the property.

Far reaches of the property, he mocked himself. Like the fence line, idiot?

"Brent," he said quietly but firmly, cutting off whatever words his brother was speaking or intended to speak. "You gotta be real slow right now, kid. Real calm." Brent's eyes flared wide and his mouth snapped shut. Apparently two decades of trodding along in Josh's shadow hadn't completely worn off. Obedience was ingrained.

"What is it?" he hissed, his nostrils flaring.

"Bear," Josh murmured back, reaching to close a hand around the pistol at his thigh. His rifle hung in a scabbard off Copper's saddle, too far from his hand to reach without triggering the bear. The animal stood on all four legs, but its body was tense. It was awfully late in the season for grizzlies. Whoever she was, she ought to have been in hibernation by now.

Brent's eyes were so wide Josh could see whites all the way around. "Don't move," he said. "She's not gonna attack. Just stay still and she'll be on her way."

Slowly, Brent craned his head around and glanced at the bear before turning back to Josh. "Shoot it, Josh."

"That'll just piss her off. Be still and she'll leave."

Ten years ago, his little brother had still worshipped the ground he walked on. Ten years ago, Brent hadn't been building a mansion and planning to buy out the family ranch. Ten years ago, Josh wasn't married to Brent's first love and raising Brent's first-born child. A lot of things had changed in the last ten years. Josh had foolishly hoped that this hadn't.

Unfortunately, ten years seemed to have erased Brent's faith in his brother. He glanced from Josh to the bear, and back to Josh. "It's not gonna back down," he said. "We gotta run."

And then all hell broke loose. Brent bent low over his horse's neck, digging his heels hard into the animal's sides and hollering in its ear. "Haw!" he screamed, and the horse leaped forward, shooting up a wave of snow as horse and rider plunged forward into the drifts. The bear reared up on its hind legs and released a roar that made Josh's hair stand up on end and sent Copper into a panic.

For a moment, Josh lost track of his brother as he fought to keep his seat in Copper's saddle. The poor horse bucked, reared, and danced, ears flattened to his head. By the time Josh got him under control, Brent was gone, shooting along the fence line, a streak of black with a broader streak of brown lumbering after him. How could a creature lumber so quickly?

It was an absurd thought, quickly dismissed as Josh dug his own heels into Copper's sides, nudging the horse into a run after his brother. He had noticed through the years that in moments of panic his senses seemed to divide themselves and present their findings to him one by one. He didn't see, hear, smell, taste, and feel all at once. It was all broken down into manageable pieces.

He felt Copper's power beneath him, running after Brent and the bear. He felt cold wind against his skin and the heat of the fight rising in his face.

He tasted fear.

He smelled the bite of fresh snow.

He heard Brent's horse cry out in terror.

He saw the animal go down, tossing its rider into the powder.

He felt the pearl handle of his pistol against his palm.

He tasted defiance.

He smelled blood.

He heard Brent scream in pain.

He saw the bear raise a massive, clawed paw and bring it down in a vicious slashing motion.

He felt the kick of the pistol. He tasted blood. He smelled bile. He heard the bear roar. He saw the whites of the animal's eyes, turning on him...

He felt the ground rumble. He tasted the bite of cold air as he sucked it into his lungs. He smelled fury. He heard his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. He saw the gaping maw, the bloodstained teeth...

He felt the blood go cold in his veins. He tasted iron. He smelled snow. He heard his thumb, cocking the hammer on the pistol. He saw Amelia. He saw Rebecca. He wondered why in the hell he'd ever favored this particular chore. Riding the fence line was, by far, his least favorite job on the ranch.