Roped Tight (Ryker Ranch #4) - Kim Loraine Page 0,6

I had to get her under control while he rode on. But we’d had a fucking moment just then. There was no denying it.

By the time we brought the final cow in for her shots, my shoulders and back ached. I was ready for a hot shower, some supper, and my bed, in that order.

I sighed and strode toward the main lodge, hoping Mama had some lemonade waiting in the fridge. This time of year, when the sun beat down from an unforgiving summer sky, she usually had cold drinks ready and waiting by the end of the day. Sure enough, there was an ice-cold pitcher of the good stuff on a table on the porch and glasses enough for all of us. That woman was a saint.

I filled a cup and took a long swallow, eyes closed, savoring the tart bite of the lemon and the sweetness of the perfect amount of sugar.

“How you feelin’ today, cowboy?” Tucker’s voice washed over me in a way I wasn’t ready to examine.

I jolted and choked on the last of my drink. “Fuck, I didn’t see you there.”

He gave that low chuckle I liked too much. “I know. You looked like you were having a religious moment with your lemonade there.”

“It’s fucking good.”

“Samuel.” The screen door slammed, and Mama stood behind me, a frown on her face.

Tucker smirked, reaching past me and grabbing a glass. His arm brushed mine, but that wasn’t what made my chest tight. His intense stare did. “Sorry, Mama,” I said through a thick throat.

“Tuck, don’t you let my boys corrupt you. They seem to have forgotten that the English language has more to it than just expletives.”

My cheeks burned as embarrassment first skittered, then spread through me.

Tuck tipped his hat. “No, ma’am. I won’t let them offend my delicate sensibilities.”

She smiled. “Good. Now, maybe you can rub off on Sammy. Did you know he got in a bar fight last night? Honestly, if only one of my children could make it through a season without going toe-to-toe with the Langston boys, I swear, I’d be happy.”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t a Langston.”

“Oh? Who was it?”

“Near as I could tell, they were Wildes,” Tucker said. Alarm bells rang in my mind. The Wildes were pretty damn far away from home to be at The Silver Spur.

I didn’t care who it’d been. All I knew was they’d gone after Clint, and I couldn’t let that stand. You messed with one of us, you messed with us all. That was just the way things worked.

“Wildes,” Mama mused. “Well, I’ll be. I thought they’d moved on to bigger, better places after George and I refused to sell to ‘em.”

Tucker’s brows rose. “You told Wesley Wilde no? That’s not somethin’ that happens often.”

“She has a habit of telling him no.” I smiled when Tucker’s attention turned to me.

“What do you mean?”

“She was his girlfriend until the day she met my dad.”

Mama shot me a look that said I’d be mucking extra stalls for a week. “That’s enough yammering on. I’m sure the two of you have work to do.”

“Day’s done, Mama,” I said, chuckling at the spark in her eyes.

“Not for you. Go help Tristan. He’s mucking stalls. You can take over.”

Fuck, I was so damn tired. All I wanted was my bed. I opened my mouth to protest, but Tucker clapped a hand on my shoulder, the contact sending a zing of awareness down my spine. “C’mon, Sammy, your mama’s right. There’s always work to do.”

He released me, and I immediately missed the heat of his hand. The screen door slammed shut, jolting me out of my Tucker-induced daze. I would’ve been lying if I’d said I didn’t look at him as he walked in front of me. Those jeans fit him like a second skin, and the arousal rushing through me was something I really needed to get a handle on. I couldn’t be out here, fighting a hard-on over him. Shit.

Adjusting myself, I took a long breath and followed, forcing my gaze everywhere but his ass.

Tucker

Dust rose in a cloud that billowed out as a small arena where a ranch hand was working with the newest horse the boss had purchased. This one was a wild young stallion, coat the color of burnt amber, shiny with health. He reared and whinnied, anger and mistrust flashing in his dark eyes. The hand working with him was barely eighteen, greener than me at his age. He was gonna get himself hurt.

I stalked