The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,1

around much and I’m fed up of covering for you. I’m surprised you even bothered to attend today’s funeral.”

The snide remark had the desired effect—insulting Bowie, who growled furiously. Not to be outdone, Quin growled back.

“You hightailed it out of here after Clea North jilted you. Can’t blame her for thinking you weren’t good enough for her.” Quin knew Clea was a sensitive subject, but Bowie was playing hell with his temper and he was past controlling it now. “You thumbed your nose at family obligation, pinned on a badge and refused to compromise for anyone.”

“All I’ve ever done is compromise!” Bowie yelled. “And walk in your shadow for all of my twenty-nine years! Well, I’m sick of it! I’m not quitting my job to become your errand boy!”

In a fit of temper, Bowie shoved Quin against the wall. Quin fell against Ma’s treasured porcelain wedding bowl, cutting his right hand in the process. The keepsake crashed to the floor and shattered into pieces—just like the broken dreams of his parents.

Annie cried out behind them, but Quin was too intent on returning the angry shove. He lowered his shoulder and knocked Bowie into Pa’s big leather chair, then he shook off the sting of the bloody slice on his hand.

“Accept your responsibility,” Quin commanded harshly. “Let someone else get his head blown off defending law and order. I need help with this ranch. It belongs to all of us. Our first obligation is here and here you’ll stay.”

Bowie bounded to his feet and glowered at Quin. “Go to hell and take your orders with you. Nobody put you in charge.”

“Someone has to take charge,” Quin defended hotly. “You aren’t around often enough to do it.”

“You’re not Pa,” Bowie hurled derisively. “You’ll never be able to fill his boots, no matter how hard you try.”

The verbal jab prompted Quin to thrust back his shoulders and glare heated pokers at Bowie. “At least I’ve been here to fulfill Pa’s dream of expansion.”

“Yeah,” Bowie jeered. “Until you went to the spring cattle sale in Dodge City and got waylaid by a couple of whores. ’Scuse my language, Annie.”

Quin was furious with his brother for hitting another raw nerve. Bowie was right—damn him—but Quin was too proud and stubborn to admit his shame in front of his defiant family. Already, grief and guilt were gnawing at him. He’d failed his parents by gallivanting an extra day during his return trip. The selfish craving for whiskey and women had prevented Quin from driving his parents to the important meeting. Regret was eating him alive.

“I covered for you more times than I care to count while you chased after one skirt or another! You knew I might not be back in time. You should’ve been here to take up the slack. For once,” he retaliated. “Especially when you got word that Pa had injured his wrist. You knew he would need help driving to and from Wolf Grove to meet with the railroad executives to establish a town on our property.”

“I was working that day,” Bowie gritted out defensively. “There was a dangerous prisoner in my jail.”

Chance marched over to stand nose to nose with Bowie and Quin. “I’m not staying to take orders from either of you. If I do, I’ll never be anything but your kid brother. Pa’s gone and I’m through being a ranch hand.”

Hearing Chance defect, just like Bowie, was worse than a hard slap in the face. Quin itched to go for both brothers’ throats—simultaneously.

“You’re part owner of this ranch,” Quin muttered between clenched teeth. “It is your obligation to work here.”

“Ranching isn’t in my blood, Quin,” Chance flashed heatedly. “I only stayed this long for Pa.”

Quin exploded in frustration. “Ma and Pa are barely in the ground and you two are turning your backs on this ranch? Pa wanted us to be the most influential ranching family in Texas and, by damned, we will be!”

“That’s what you want, Quin,” Bowie lashed out.

Chance nodded. “I’m going.”

“Me, too,” Annie stated decisively.

Quin stared at his kid sister as if she had betrayed him—which she had. “This is our home, our way of life, our birthright! You aren’t going anywhere and neither are Bowie and Chance,” he decreed, his voice pounding like a gavel.

“You just watch,” Bowie had the audacity to smart off.

Fists clenched, Chance got right in Quin’s face. “I’m damn sure quitting this place.”

“Stop fighting and yelling at one another,” Annie demanded, stepping between them. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“That goes for