interfere. I'm sorry if I gave you a bad few minutes. When I first realized .. . well, all I could think about was our poor mother and exacting some small measure of revenge."
A tense silence descended, broken only by the occasional stomp of a hoof or the blowing of air through a horse's nostrils. In the distance, Ace could hear a night bird calling forlornly, its cries fading quickly on the wind. In an attempt to calm down, he took a long draught of air, focusing on the myriad scents that assailed him. Was that honeysuckle he smelled? He let his eyes fall closed and concentrated. On the smells. On the sound of his own heartbeat. Breathing in, breathing out. Slow and easy.
He had no idea how much time passed, only that it did, and that with the passing of each second, he felt better. The crushing pain inside his chest ebbed and his thoughts started to feel a little less tangled. Lifting his lashes, he narrowed an eye at his brother, the fact not lost on him that he could have indulged in such introspection with no one else but Joseph. Sometimes his brother seemed to understand him better than he understood himself.
Ace nudged the brim of his hat back and patted his shirt pocket. "I need a smoke."
The corners of Joseph's mouth tightened. Whipcord lean and compact like his father, he wasn't a very large man, but what he lacked in size, he compensated for with sheer grit and orneriness. Ace trusted no other man as much when it came to guarding his back. Joseph would take on a half dozen opponents without thinking twice, and the marvel was, he usually won.
"Smoke, hell," he said. "Like I said, what you really need is a good ass kickin'."
Ace shifted in the saddle. "Yeah? Well, if you plan to do the honors, you'd best pack a lunch."
"Shit." Joseph said the word as though it had two distinct syllables. He drew his Bull Durham pouch and La Croix papers from his shirt pocket and tossed them carelessly to Ace. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall, big brother. If I hit a man and he don't go down, I'll walk around behind him to see what the hell's proppin' him up."
It was a saying Ace had taught Joseph years before to bolster his confidence, and after Joseph's first fistfight, during which he'd sustained two black eyes, a chipped tooth, a cracked rib, and three broken knuckles, the saying had become a joke. The familiarity of it now put them back on safe ground.
After withdrawing a cigarette paper from the packet, Ace creased it and tapped out some tobacco. He retightened the drawstring, then tossed both the pouch and papers back to Joseph. A quick lick and a twist of his fingers later, he had a cigarette. Not as fancy as one of the Cross Cuts he had occasionally enjoyed back home in San Francisco , but it would do.
"Thank you, little brother."
Joseph returned the pouch to his pocket. "Need a match?"
"Your face and the south end of a northbound jack ass?" Ace chuckled at the narroweyed glare his brother gave him. "Some people never learn." Shaking his head, he drew a Lucifer from his pocket. "I usually carry a few matches with me. Beats the hell out of rubbing sticks together if I want to build a fire." He struck the match on the seam of his Levis and bent his head to the flame, which he protected from the wind with cupped hands. A second later, he straightened, taking a long, satisfying drag as he waved out the match. After taking two more pulls, he offered the smoke to Joseph.
"Peace?"
Even as he accepted the cigarette, Joseph swept his tawny eyelashes low over his eyes, and a muscle along his jaw began to tick. "You know, Ace, there isn't anything I hold sacred that you didn't teach me to hold sacred, nothing I believe that you didn't teach me to believe, my attitude toward the ladies notwithstandin’. Back there in that barn, it wasn't my rules you were breakin' but your own."
That stung. And yet Ace couldn't blame his brother for saying it. He had broken his own rules, and in doing so, he had betrayed not only
A tense silence descended, broken only by the occasional stomp of a hoof or the blowing of air through a horse's nostrils. In the distance, Ace could hear a night bird calling forlornly, its cries fading quickly on the wind. In an attempt to calm down, he took a long draught of air, focusing on the myriad scents that assailed him. Was that honeysuckle he smelled? He let his eyes fall closed and concentrated. On the smells. On the sound of his own heartbeat. Breathing in, breathing out. Slow and easy.
He had no idea how much time passed, only that it did, and that with the passing of each second, he felt better. The crushing pain inside his chest ebbed and his thoughts started to feel a little less tangled. Lifting his lashes, he narrowed an eye at his brother, the fact not lost on him that he could have indulged in such introspection with no one else but Joseph. Sometimes his brother seemed to understand him better than he understood himself.
Ace nudged the brim of his hat back and patted his shirt pocket. "I need a smoke."
The corners of Joseph's mouth tightened. Whipcord lean and compact like his father, he wasn't a very large man, but what he lacked in size, he compensated for with sheer grit and orneriness. Ace trusted no other man as much when it came to guarding his back. Joseph would take on a half dozen opponents without thinking twice, and the marvel was, he usually won.
"Smoke, hell," he said. "Like I said, what you really need is a good ass kickin'."
Ace shifted in the saddle. "Yeah? Well, if you plan to do the honors, you'd best pack a lunch."
"Shit." Joseph said the word as though it had two distinct syllables. He drew his Bull Durham pouch and La Croix papers from his shirt pocket and tossed them carelessly to Ace. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall, big brother. If I hit a man and he don't go down, I'll walk around behind him to see what the hell's proppin' him up."
It was a saying Ace had taught Joseph years before to bolster his confidence, and after Joseph's first fistfight, during which he'd sustained two black eyes, a chipped tooth, a cracked rib, and three broken knuckles, the saying had become a joke. The familiarity of it now put them back on safe ground.
After withdrawing a cigarette paper from the packet, Ace creased it and tapped out some tobacco. He retightened the drawstring, then tossed both the pouch and papers back to Joseph. A quick lick and a twist of his fingers later, he had a cigarette. Not as fancy as one of the Cross Cuts he had occasionally enjoyed back home in San Francisco , but it would do.
"Thank you, little brother."
Joseph returned the pouch to his pocket. "Need a match?"
"Your face and the south end of a northbound jack ass?" Ace chuckled at the narroweyed glare his brother gave him. "Some people never learn." Shaking his head, he drew a Lucifer from his pocket. "I usually carry a few matches with me. Beats the hell out of rubbing sticks together if I want to build a fire." He struck the match on the seam of his Levis and bent his head to the flame, which he protected from the wind with cupped hands. A second later, he straightened, taking a long, satisfying drag as he waved out the match. After taking two more pulls, he offered the smoke to Joseph.
"Peace?"
Even as he accepted the cigarette, Joseph swept his tawny eyelashes low over his eyes, and a muscle along his jaw began to tick. "You know, Ace, there isn't anything I hold sacred that you didn't teach me to hold sacred, nothing I believe that you didn't teach me to believe, my attitude toward the ladies notwithstandin’. Back there in that barn, it wasn't my rules you were breakin' but your own."
That stung. And yet Ace couldn't blame his brother for saying it. He had broken his own rules, and in doing so, he had betrayed not only
Similar Books
