Cowboy Proud. Kelli Ireland

house rule. But Reagan Matthews had resurrected it the moment she’d moved in with the eldest Covington son and Cade’s older brother, Elijah. Didn’t matter that the house was owned equally by all three brothers. Reagan had taken over the majority of the household chores and thereby set the place to rights as only a woman ever could, turning house into home, and she’d lain down the law.

      Cade had grumbled at the time because his easy acceptance would’ve been suspect. It was no secret he resented change, particularly in his personal life. But his dislike of mopping floors far exceeded “resentment.” He hated that particular chore. So he’d deal with this particular change.

      The major ranch renovations were a different story. His personal comfort level was currently parked in another county—in a neighboring state, in fact. The project was almost done, and as soon as the last nail was driven and the last plant planted, the results would set in motion massive, unimaginable changes in everyone’s lives.

      Cade had gone along with the initial suggestions months ago as a last-ditch effort to keep Eli involved in the ranch again, as a desperate measure to reestablish the lost relationship with his older brother, as an effort to fill the aching void Eli’s absence had wrought when he’d left the ranch years ago.

      And there was also the money aspect. The three brothers and Reagan, at her insistence, had taken out a mortgage on the ranch. Land they’d owned free and clear, land that had been in the Covington family since before New Mexico had officially been a state, now held a million-dollar-plus mortgage on it.

      The idea brought Cade to an unsteady stop. A million dollars. He’d never thought to see that kind of dollar figure attached to his name in any way, let alone as debt. Always the brother most focused on fiscal security, his hand had shaken so hard at the bank signing, he’d screwed up the paperwork. Twice. But it was done. Finding another way forward wasn’t an option anymore. No, his “option” was more do-or-be-damned “obligation.” The Bar C would be a successful dude ranch or they’d lose it all. Forcing himself to stand, Cade continued through the living room and headed for the kitchen, stockinged feet padding softly over worn hardwood floors.

       Food first. Worry later.

      If he was lucky, Reagan might have packaged the leftover enchiladas she’d made for dinner last night. She was awesome about stuff like that, the nurturing, thinking ahead, meal planning. All that and more, really. After his old man died, when it had just been Cade and his younger brother, Tyson, living at the house, mealtimes had been fend-for-yourself events. They’d considered it a good day if they came up with something that couldn’t be mistaken for a mold culture, wasn’t seriously outdated or hadn’t suffered such severe freezer burn it was rendered unrecognizable. Survival had depended greatly on peanut butter sandwiches or, if either of them finished their day and wasn’t too tired to boil water, one man might have put in the effort to cook spaghetti noodles and open a can of eighty-eight-cent sauce. Those days were over, though.

       One change that’s been pretty good overall...

      He grinned and shook his head. Keep up that kind of positive attitude and people would begin to wonder if he’d suffered a head injury. Not that he was negative, just realistic. The smile faded as quickly as it had shown. Cade was very, very realistic.

      Hinges squeaked obnoxiously as someone opened the front door and let in the sound of bullwhip-like cracks of hammers striking nail heads. Sporadic pauses were punctuated by supervisors’ shouted directives and the crew’s answers. Then the door closed, muffling construction sounds that had, in their own unique way, become white noise over the past eleven months.

      And every nail driven home brought them one step closer to completion.

      The idea they’d be moving on to the next phase, actually opening the Bar C as a dude ranch to paying customers craving an “Old West experience,” rattled Cade yet again. Strangers wandering around what had, for so long, been his private sanctuary. Strangers who would spend their vacation riding his horses and learning to be cowboys for a week before returning to their real lives with jobs that paid well and allowed them to live in the suburbs. They’d drive expensive SUVs and enroll their kids in all sorts of activities. Both husbands and wives would work long hours at jobs they hated in order to fund the lifestyle they’d become accustomed to living. To Cade, it was as foreign a way to live as his day-to-day life was to the same folks he’d be catering to.

      Sweat dotted his hairline, a bead of moisture trickling down his temple. He swiped at it with frustration. “Suck it up, buttercup. You signed on for this. From money to mayhem, you knew what the end result would be.” Cade entered the bright kitchen at the same time his stomach let out a sonorous rumble.

      “You miss breakfast?” Eli asked, moving into the galley from the opposite doorway—he must have been the one who opened the front door. It didn’t escape Cade’s notice his brother had been reduced to socked feet, as well.

      Cade pulled the fridge door open. “Got an early start this morning and wasn’t at a place I could stop when the breakfast bell rang.” Moving contents around, he grinned when several plastic containers of individually portioned enchiladas came into view. A glance over his shoulder revealed a sheepish grin on Eli’s face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe someone tried to hide these.”

      “No idea what you’re talking about.”

      “Liar.” Cade pulled out two servings and tossed them into the microwave, shut the door and hit Reheat. He faced his brother and leaned his hip against the worn Formica countertop. “Before you go thinking I’m being generous, both of these are mine. Course, I ought to take yours from the fridge as well, just because you’re such a selfish old man, hoarding the cook’s goods.”

      Eli’s brows drew down in a mock scowl. “Hey. She’s my woman. You and Ty may benefit from it, but technically she’s cooking for me.”

      Cade burst out laughing, fighting to regain control before he answered. “Man, I dare you to tell her she ‘belongs’ to you. Or, even better, tell her she’s cooking for you. Go on. You might even tell her what she should fix for dinner tonight or that you hate the fabric softener she uses. I’ll stand near the phone in case someone has to call in the paramedics, Life Flight or, you know, the National Guard.”

      Eli’s grimace was exaggerated but probably appropriate all the same. “Yeah. I’m not about to say any of those things. Woman’s wicked with a blade and a crack shot. She’d probably shoot me in the ass only to ‘volunteer’ to remove the slug without any kind of numbing agent.”

      “No, I’d probably shoot you both in the ass and let the wounds fester before I removed the slugs,” a feminine voice answered. The woman under discussion strolled into the kitchen, long hair swinging from her high ponytail. Reagan moved straight into Eli’s embrace, their lips touching briefly, then lingering over the kiss.

      Cade’s chest tightened. He’d never dated much, hadn’t considered it a priority, and now he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have the kind of intense intimacy Eli and Reagan had, the kind that would survive life’s fiery trials and rise from tribulation’s ashes stronger and surer. Nothing could tear these two apart now.

      It didn’t bother him that they’d reconnected after Eli found his way home. What ate at Cade was his personal reaction to their undisguised, unguarded happiness. That kind of thing—love, he supposed, if he had to name it—didn’t fit anywhere in his life’s plans. It never had. Had he been wrong to take that path?

      The microwave beeped, and Cade shook off the melancholy before retrieving the leftovers. Hot plastic burned his fingertips, forcing him to juggle the bowls. He tossed them on the counter before grabbing a fork and paper towel. He pulled the lid off the nearest container, forked up a large bite of enchilada and shoved it in his mouth. Less than a second later he was reaching for the fridge, intent on grabbing the first cold thing he found. Milk. He twisted the cap off and drank straight from the plastic jug, swallowing rapidly but still spilling it down the sides of his face and soaking his shirt.

      “Hot?”