Luke's Cut. Sarah McCarty

his senior. Luke Bellen leaned against a post on the front porch and observed as the distinguished, blond-haired victor claimed the spoils. The normally smooth-running Hell’s Eight Ranch was bursting at the seams with celebratory chaos. All because Hester MacFairlane had gone and married Jarl Wayfield. Right here at Hell’s Eight, before God, the padre and half the town. No one could have seen that coming.

      Luke had to admit though, during the past few weeks of upset, panic and last-minute wedding preparations, the women had managed to soften the ranch’s rough edges. For sure he’d never seen the Hell’s Eight looking so festive. Lazy breezes ruffled the ties on the smartly dressed men, the women’s full skirts and the cheery, bright pink bows tied to every post within sight of the side yard. Everyone was wearing their biggest smile and their Sunday best. And Luke was no exception. But for some reason the whole day—the whole event—was aggravating the piss out of him.

      It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seriously been in the game or that he was happy for the bride. Nor that he figured just enough of his father’s teachings lingered in him that he didn’t like to lose. Taking a sip of his lemonade, he grimaced as he swallowed the bitter reality. The truth was that he was jealous. If he could’ve made himself care the way he’d needed to, that could’ve been him standing up there with Hester, thanking the well-wishers and letting the stream of congratulations pour into his annoying internal demand for more and fill it up until it was too sated to nag him.

      It might have been easier to accept the loss if Hester had chosen Jarl because the man had more money or more prestige than Luke, but money wasn’t the spur to Hester’s get along. The woman had more confidence than six liquored-up cowboys on a Saturday night. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her. No one could seize an opportunity like Hester, but she was also down-to-earth and perceptive, and she’d seen right through Luke’s not-what-it-should-be interest, then turned to someone who could offer his heart along with his hand. He gave the lemonade a swirl, watching the light play hide-and-seek with the shadows. Dammit. Why the hell hadn’t he been able to offer Hester what she needed?

      The bottom step creaked in that familiar way he’d grown used to over the last nine months. He looked up.

      “Looks like you could use something stronger,” Ace said, advancing to join him. Sunlight glinted off the whiskey bottle he held up as he leaned a hip against the opposite porch rail.

      Luke pushed his hat back. “How’d you know?”

      Wry humor lurked in Ace’s blue eyes as he uncorked the bottle. “You’ve never been one for losing gracefully.”

      Luke tossed the lemonade over the rail. “Age changes a man.”

      Ace snorted and filled Luke’s glass. “You oughtta be six shots into the bottle before you start spitting nonsense like that.”

      “I’ll be thirty-two next week.” And beyond a couple dozen novels and his place in the Hell’s Eight, he didn’t have a damn thing to show for the time spent.

      “You trying to tell me you can’t still tear up the town?”

      No. He just didn’t enjoy it the way he used to. “The difference is, now it takes days to recover.”

      Ace filled his own glass. “Thirty-two or not, only a fool would bet against you in a fight.”

      Luke looked Ace up and down, from his scuffed boots to his serviceable pants and blue shirt, all the way up to his battered Stetson. The only concession to the formal occasion was a narrow tie around his neck. There was no sense pointing out gamblers were supposed to be sharp dressers. Ace went his own way. Always had. Always would. That didn’t mean Luke couldn’t prod him a bit. “Speaking of bets, after fleecing Jarl’s pockets last week, couldn’t you afford a new suit?”

      Ace smiled. “You heard about that?”

      “A twenty-six-hour poker game?” Luke swirled the amber liquid and watched a sunbeam make light of the potent beverage. “Do you think anyone in the territory hasn’t?”

      Ace’s smile took on a feral edge. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

      There would only be one reason for that. Ace was spreading the word. “Banking on a flood of hopefuls challenging you to a fifty-two-card duel?”

      “Damn straight. Petunia’s been harping about new furniture. Seems now the walls are painted, what we have is ‘tired and sad.’” Ace took a drink and shook his head. “How the hell does furniture get ‘sad’?”

      Luke chuckled. “I haven’t a clue. Did you ask?”

      Ace cut him a look. “I might be still a newlywed, but I’m not stupid.”

      Ace had married Jarl’s daughter, Petunia Wayfield, last winter. Funny how small the world got when a body stayed in one place too long.

      “Well, Petunia is one opinionated woman.”

      Ace raised his glass in tacit agreement. “The word you’re looking for is stubborn.”

      “Said the pot about the kettle.” Ace and Petunia’s courtship had been as much about love as about compromise. He’d never seen two people more determined to swing the deal to their point of view than those two. And enjoy it. He’d always doubted there’d be a woman who could go toe-to-toe with Ace, but Petunia had proven him wrong. She brought balance to Ace. And he to her.

      “What makes you say that?”

      Luke took in Ace’s too-long brown hair, and well-worn clothes. Ace was a good-looking man, but he wasn’t one for putting a polish on his shine. “The fact that you haven’t taken me up on that appointment with my tailor.”

      “I’m a busy man.”

      A year ago, Ace had been a single gambler living above the saloon. Now he had a wife, a house and the responsibility of a school for unwanted children.

      “Not only busy, you’re living proof life can change on a gust of wind.” He took a sip of the whiskey. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

      “Not everything changes.” Ace sobered. “We won’t.”

      Luke touched his glass to Ace’s, feeling the weight of the lie as he said it. “No, not us.”

      They’d been best friends from the moment they’d met outside the one-room building that served as church, school and town hall in the small border town with Mexico where his father had moved his family. They’d been so innocent then, insulated by their faith in their parents’ dreams. They’d had no understanding of the tensions between the Mexican army and the Texan settlers. They’d just been friends enjoying the sunshine and the wild beauty of their new home. Their friendship had been tested by the onslaught of the war, but nothing had changed their commitment—not the massacre that occurred when the Mexican army had swarmed their town and taken their families, not the years of revenge upon which the eight surviving boys had embarked that had built their reputations as Hell’s Eight, nor the struggle in the last few years to go from wild Texas Rangers to stable ranchers. But this becoming stable thing, it was taking Ace and the rest of the Eight to places Luke couldn’t go. There was no way around it, he wasn’t fitting in as easily with the rest of Hell’s Eight as he used to.

      “You could have at least polished your boots.”

      Ace held up the bottle. “Yours are polished enough for the both of us.”

      Luke held out his empty glass.

      “Technically, it’s your turn to be doing the tipping,” Ace pointed out.

      “I poured at your wedding.”

      “That doesn’t count. Pouring at the wedding is the best man’s job.” Ace refilled each of their glasses and then set the bottle on the sanded planks of the porch. His expression sobered right along with his tone. With a jerk of his chin he indicated the wedding group. “Are you all right with this?”

      Ace worried too much. “Why wouldn’t