The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,2

a fucking rug.

I flick his ear with my middle finger, the same way my dad did to me and my brothers when we were younger. Difference is, we learned to stop being idiots. I don’t know that Troy ever will.

Troy yelps and his eyes fly open. He takes me in, and I watch the understanding dawn in those ridiculous blue eyes of his.

“Get up,” I growl at him.

Even this he does slowly, and my irritation soars. When I wake up at five every morning, I get out of bed like a man, not this pussified joke stretching out his arms in front of me right now.

“Were you the one to count heads yesterday?”

I see him swallow, his fingertips on his right hand nervously tapping against his bare thigh like he’s playing the goddamn piano. The guy sleeps in his underwear, and for a quick second I make a mental note to add a T-shirt to my choice of sleepwear so I no longer have anything in common with him.

He nods reluctantly, but I see the lift of his chin, however slight it may be. Instead of angering me, I find his quiet defiance a relief. Weakness on the ranch has consequences. Empires have fallen for less.

“You left one out in the pasture. I came across her this morning.”

He runs his hand through his hair, his shoulders dropping an inch. “At least it wasn’t a bull.”

Behind me, one of the cowboys sighs, knowing Troy’s mistake immediately.

I step closer, but it’s awkward because Troy is still seated on his bed, not standing on his own two feet like a man should, which makes his face just about dick-height to me. To remedy that, I grab his shoulders and haul him up.

“Every head in that herd matters. Got it?” My voice is low, but my words carry meaning.

Troy nods once, stiff and sharp, the defiance gone. He knows what a loss it is to lose even one cow.

Now that I’ve made my point, I pat his upper arm roughly and step back. “Let me know if you need a calculator. I’m sure the Merc carries one.”

I turn back to the collection of cowboys in their various sleep clothes. “About time to get to work.”

They go in separate directions, and I head out of the low, long building that houses them.

I’m striding up the yard toward the homestead, morning dew leaving behind beads of moisture on my boots, when I hear an old, wrinkled voice say, “What time did the sun rise this morning?”

A smile breaks onto my face. The owner of that voice never fails to cut through my layers of bullshit and reach the person underneath, the person I was before I spent two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.

“Coffee on the porch this morning, old man?” I climb the stone-lined steps of my parents’ house and settle in a chair beside my grandpa.

“Brought extra for you,” he responds, his wrinkled hand gesturing to the tall, scratched, green-speckled thermos and empty cup.

“Is this thing older than me?” I ask, gripping the thermos and lifting it off the table between us.

“That thermos is like me—old and ugly, but it’s still got some use.”

“Nah”—I shake my head—“you’re pretty as a picture.”

He cackles and slaps his thigh.

I twist off the top and pour the steaming hot, black liquid into my mug. It’s almost to my lips when I catch sight of the front of the cup. Kiss me, I’m the ranch wife.

I chuckle to myself. Gramps either didn’t realize which mug he’d grabbed or did it on purpose. Knowing him, it’s the latter. I sip the nearly scalding coffee, wincing not at the temperature but at the strength of the brew.

Gramps must know what I’m reacting to, because he murmurs, “One guess who made it.”

“Warner?” My younger brother never measures and always over-pours the grounds. Funny though, I don’t mind his lack of precision when he’s making us a drink in the evening.

“Damn straight.” He looks out at the green lawn, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiles mischievously and lifts his cup. “This jet fuel just might have me doing a cartwheel.”

I laugh as I lift my mug for another drink, the air streaming from my nose pushing away the rising steam. “Please don’t. You know it’s a half-hour to the hospital.”

Gramps grows quiet, then says, “You didn’t answer my question.”

I hold in my sigh. When he asked me what time the sun rose this morning, he wasn’t actually seeking the