Josh
"Where are the extra men sleeping?"
"We're just about complete with the new bunkhouse, sir. We'll head there next. For now, the new hires are bedding down on cots in stable five. It's not ideal but I haven't had any complaints."
"Is that wise, putting all the newcomers together? Seems to me like a recipe for misconduct, Joshua, or have you forgotten these are young men?"
"Paul assigned Rory to live in the stable with them, sir. We figured someone in a supervisory position would keep things calm."
"Rory agreed to this? He's worked at this ranch for decades. He deserves better than a cot in the stables."
Rory had been around for a little over seven years, but Josh didn't bother to correct him. Time moved funny when a man was drunk from dawn to dusk, and his father had a penchant for hyperbole besides.
"He's seeing a pay bump to compensate for the living conditions. And he volunteered, besides."
His father stopped his horse with a sudden jerk on the reins that made the animal snort in protest. They were riding the perimeter of the ranch complex, part of their routine semi-annual "inspection." Once every fall and once every spring Owen Tucker toured the complex, the wells, and any stretches of the fenceline that had been cut or broken down throughout the past six months. The old man seemed to love it. Josh would have rather been mauled by a grizzly.
"You never told me about any pay raise," the old man said. "It's not reflected in the books. Do I need to remind you that I have a ranch to run? This isn't a charity organization, Joshua, and I can't keep us profitable if you're sloppy about communicating our expenditures." His fierce scowl felt like fire against Josh's face, even though the early fall air was crisp and cool.
"There was no reason to put it on the books," he explained with a shrug. "I took it out of my pay."
"Oh and I suppose you're expecting me to make up the difference?"
"No, sir. Never even would've told you if you hadn't brought it up." Three years married to Amelia had taken some of the sting out of his father's attitude. The old man was still bitter and cruel, but Josh didn't much mind anymore. Amelia had helped him see that, for all the old man's venom, Josh's position at the ranch, and in the family, was secure. He was allowed to take a day off. Allowed to speak his mind, so long as he did so respectfully. And there was no reason, in moments like this, to be cowed or to apologize. He had, after all, done nothing wrong.
"So you're robbing your wife and your brother's child just to avoid a conversation with me?" his father scoffed. "Does Amelia know about that yellow streak or do you hide it from her like you hide my own ranch from me?"
Josh tipped his hat low to cast a shadow on the smile that tugged at his lips. "Oh, it was actually her idea, sir. We were talking it over and she said it might save us all some trouble if I just kept it off your desk. She knows the way you fight me every which way and she's got it in her head the less opportunity I give you to antagonize, the more time I'll spend at home with her and our daughter."
Amelia had also taught him that if he wanted the situation to change he had to stop pretending the old man was right. Apologizing for things he hadn't done wrong only made things worse. Letting him think his constant hostility wasn't immature, unreasonable, and glaringly obvious to everyone only gave him more reign. It was a constant struggle to call him out without making him fly off the handle, but Josh was finally seeing the rewards. He asked fewer questions lately, and two nights ago at Sunday dinner had offhandedly mentioned potentially changing the will. Not to give his eldest an inheritance, of course, but to at least ensure his continued employment. That was something.
The old man scoffed again but didn't argue. He gave the horse its head, and they resumed their slow walk, meandering around the perimeter and through the complex while Josh pointed out new buildings, repair jobs, good workers, and problem areas. His father asked questions, but they were reasonable queries that Josh had anticipated, answers and explanations already drafted and rehearsed in his head.
They had dismounted, and were heading into the blacksmith's small, smoky building when a young man raced up, sweaty and disheveled and panting for air. He was a new hire, currently assigned to do odd jobs at the main house. Josh scoured his memory for the name. It started with an R. Ron? Ralph? Reginald? Ron sounded right.
Ron bent, placing his hands on his knees. "Sir," he gasped, addressing the elder Tucker but giving Josh a sideways grimace of apology. "You got a visitor."
It wasn't rare that visitors came to the ranch, but his father was usually there to receive them. Frowning, the old man shook his head. "I wasn't expecting anyone."
"Oh, no, he said you wouldn't be," Ron said, finally standing upright as his breath slowed. "It's uh... sir, he says he's your son..." The young man trailed off, casting a confused glance at Josh. He was new but not brand new, and Josh felt a flash of gratitude that he still hadn't learned the tragic saga of the Tucker Family. The men must have tired of that gossip.
But just as soon as the pang of gratitude hit him, a knife of icy dread stabbed into his stomach and settled there, stealing his breath. His knees wobbled and he locked them, watching dumbly as his father hurried away, swinging up into the saddle with a grace that belied his age and kicking the animal into an all-out gallop.
Amelia insisted he was a bad man. A terrible father. Over and over, on and on, she'd rant and rave about how cruel he was, and how unjust. How his heart was cold and his soul was dead and, by God, Josh should just go on ahead and shoot her between the eyes if she ever treated Reb the way his father treated him. Her diatribes were so impassioned and so frequent, part of him had started to believe her.
But then there were times like this. He watched the old man gallop away, coat flapping behind him, and thought that a bad father probably wouldn't be so overjoyed to greet his prodigal, wayward son. Nor, he had to admit, would a bad man be so fond and supportive of his stubborn, opinionated daughter. Or laugh so freely with his illegitimate granddaughter. Josh wanted to believe Amelia, but in times like this it was hard. Owen Tucker wasn't a bad man or a terrible father. He just hated Josh.
The screaming dread rose to a fever pitch inside his head as he waved off poor, breathless Ron and went to his horse, following his father at a slow, reluctant walk up the hillside to the main house. He tied Copper to the hitchpost by the porch and climbed up the steps, his feet growing heavier the closer he got to the front door. He didn't want to think about what this might mean. He couldn't let himself imagine where it might lead.
He let himself into the house and found his family in the parlor. The two men stood in the center of the room and Melissa stood off to the side. She was smiling but it was a tight, contractual smile and when he stepped inside her eyes met his with a measure of pity. His stomach twisted and bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
"Joshua!" his father exclaimed, clasping his youngest son by the shoulder and grinning joyfully as he turned toward Josh. "Your brother is home! He says he's here to stay!"
Josh had lead in his stomach. That must be it. A solid ball of lead. That's why it was so hard to stay on his feet.
"Welcome home, Brent," he said, offering a hand, which Brent took with a puzzled frown. Usually his homecomings earned him a hug, but Josh couldn't bring himself to come so close to dread and doom incarnate. For the first time in his life, he scanned his brother, not with concern and love but with competition. He'd never had any reason before. Comparing himself to Brent would be like comparing a horse to a bull. They both had four legs and two eyes but that was pretty much where the similarities stopped.
Now, though, he looked at his brother with a harder eye. Because now they had something more in common: Amelia. Rebecca.
In an instant, Josh decided that he had a slight advantage in height and a definite advantage in breadth, but Brent had the advantage in grace and charm. He was stronger, but Brent was better dressed. He had prettier eyes and lighter hair, and a nicer face. Ladies loved Brent Tucker's face, Josh knew that for damn sure. If his skill at cards was any indication, Brent was the more clever. He was the surer connection to a stable future at the ranch than Josh, should he decide to stay. Josh had spent more time with Amelia, but she'd loved Brent first. Josh had helped raise Rebecca, but Brent had sired her.
God, it was stuffy in this damned house. He could hardly breathe.
"It's good to be back," Brent said with a wide, charming smile and Josh wanted to cringe. Brent had a straight, regal nose. Josh's was crooked from a glancing encounter with a horse's hoof. Brent had a full smile full of straight white teeth. Josh knew for a fact his teeth were a little crooked and he was missing a molar from a fight with his father. Brent looked around, frowning, interrupting his inner tally. "Where's Amelia? I want to see her. I want to meet the baby. Is it a boy or a girl? What's his name?"
Josh wanted to throttle him. "You'd know if you'd sent us any correspondence," he snapped. "An address? Something? Any way to find you in case something happened?"
"Joshua," his father growled. "Now is not the time."
But Brent had paled. He stumbled back from his brother, shaking his head. "Are they alright?" He pressed a clasped hand over his chest. "Please, tell me they're alright."
"They're fine," Melissa chimed in, stepping forward and putting a hand on Brent's arm. She raised her eyebrows at Josh. Even his father was silent. Amelia was his wife. Reb was his daughter. Explaining this to Brent was his responsibility.
"We oughta talk," he said, nodding toward the front door. "In private."
Amelia
Josh came home early. That was her first clue that something was amiss. Usually he arrived just as she was finishing up supper. That day, she heard the telltale pound of hooves a full two hours earlier. She'd barely set the pot on the stove.
Her second sign was that he didn't follow her rules. There was no splash of water as he washed up, and no thudding sound as he used his hat to beat the dust from his clothes. When he came into the house, his boots stomped from the porch to the sitting room to greet Rebecca, and then all the way to the kitchen. She was so alarmed it didn't even occur to her to scold.
Her third indication that the world had tipped sideways beneath her was the look of him. He appeared in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled. He didn't smile when he saw her or lean casually against the frame of the door. He paused a moment, wavering, and then charged forward.
And finally, the death knell for the life they'd created, he wound his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her. He'd never lacked in passion, but this was something else. This was less passion and more desperation. Less desire and more fear. He forced her mouth open with his tongue and claimed every inch, greedy and frantic. And she kissed him back. Less passion and more worry. Less desire and more ferocious protectiveness. She tasted pain on his tongue and a fire sprang to life in her chest. Something was hurting him, and she wouldn't abide that kind of affront. He clung to her even after the kiss ended, hunched over with his face buried in the crook of her neck, sucking in air as if he'd run there himself instead of riding his horse.
"Josh," she murmured in his ear when he showed no signs of letting go. "Love, tell me what's the matter."
He shook his head against her, and she felt him fight to slow his breathing, his fierce grip on her easing bit by bit until finally he released her, standing up straight and stepping back. If she didn't know better she'd say there were tears in his eyes.
"What's going on, Josh?" she asked again. She wanted to chase after him and pull him back into her embrace but that would get them nowhere. Something was wrong and she couldn't fix it if she didn't know what it was.
"You should probably sit down," he gritted out, refusing to meet her eye.
"The hell with that!" she exclaimed, bracing her hands on her hips even as her knees threatened to buckle with alarm. "What's the matter? Is it Melissa? Is it your father? Is it--"
"It's Brent," he sighed, and at that her legs did go out from under her. Josh lunged forward and caught her, easing her into one of the rough-hewn chairs at their little kitchen table. She sank into it and he dropped to his haunches in front of her.
"What..." her throat was dry. "What is it? Is he..." is he dead? She didn't care. She shouldn't care. Dammit, but she did care. "How... when... Josh, is he dead?"
He grimaced, taking her suddenly-frigid hands and wrapping his own around them. "He's fine, sweetheart. He's okay. He's just... he's home." The finality and the grief in his words gave her pause. He spoke as if his brother was dead. But he wasn't. He was just... home?
"Josh..." she trailed off, shaking her head. She wasn't daft. She understood his consternation. But didn't he see it didn't matter? It didn't matter. Did it?
"He wants you back," he said brusquely, snatching his hands back and shoving to his feet, like he couldn't touch her, couldn't look at her while he said it. "He came back for you, and... and for Reb. He's got money. A business partner," he snorted, shaking his head at the floor as if he couldn't believe his own words. "He says he plans to make a home in town. Claims he'll turn the town into a city. He's already broken ground on a house just outside the limits." He was rambling, his face drained of color and emotion as he stood in the center of their kitchen with his eyes on the floor by her feet and his hands hanging limp at his sides.
"Josh--"
"He wants me to divorce you," he said, grimacing. "Wants to take you and Reb for a trip out east while they're building his house. Marry you under city lights or something like that."
"Josh, stop--"
"He said to tell you he's sorry. He was afraid, but he's realized his mistake. He wants to see you tomorrow. Explain himself." His voice broke and he swallowed hard, finally looking up and meeting her eye.
Amelia didn't know how to feel. Relieved, of course, because Brent wasn't dead as she had feared. A little thrilled to see him again, as she had once enjoyed his company. But mostly, her heart was breaking. Fear and dread were warring in her chest. She didn't want to go with Brent. Of course not. She was married and she loved her husband. But the casual ease of their partnership would undoubtedly be tested by this new development, not to mention the peril of crossing what his father's will was sure to be in this matter. The prospect scared her to her core.
But Josh had always given her what she needed. He'd married her and given her stability. Claimed Rebecca and given her child legitimacy. He'd given her space when she feared him, and passion when she craved him. He'd given her a home and companionship and a say in every decision they made together. He'd followed her rules and listened to her advice. He'd given her quiet Thursday mornings and blissful Sunday nights. Whatever she needed, he'd offered freely and without question. Even now, in this terrible, frightening, wonderful, confusing moment, he was giving her what she needed-- the truth. What he thought she needed-- time alone with Brent. But in this terrible, frightening, wonderful, confusing moment, she didn't really give a damn about what she needed. By the anguish in his eyes, he needed her. Her promise, not her fear.
Forcing her knees to steady, she stood and closed the distance between them in three smooth steps. Winding her arms around his waist, she leaned into him, pressing her cheek to his chest and squeezing him so tight he huffed out a reluctant, strained laugh. His arms closed around her and he lowered his face to her hair. She didn't speak but stood there silently, waiting until the tension in his muscles eased and his heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a steady thud against her ear. Without pulling back, she raised her head, her chin pressing into his sternum as she peered up at his face.
"I'm glad your brother isn't dead, Josh," she said evenly, closing her eyes and accepting the gentle kiss he dropped on her forehead. "But I'm busy with the garden this time of year, you know. I can't be wandering off and having meetings in the middle of the week, and you can bet your rear end I'm not spending Thursday riding to the ranch and back. We'll go to the house on Sunday for dinner, like always. Brent can talk to me then."