I should know better than anyone that when Quinn gets her mind on something, there’s no getting her off of it no matter what name you call her.
“Don’t you ‘Quinny’ me, Maverick Austin Davis. You’ve had a burr stuck up your ass for two weeks now. The same burr, I might add, that has decided to root itself deep in my best friend too. Now, I might be off the mark here—however, I seriously doubt that I am—but I do want you to clue me in on why you both are actin’ like petulant little brats.”
With one last flick of my wrists, I toss another pitchfork full of hay down into the stall, checking briefly to make sure I’ve finished, and turn to face my sister. I place the pitchfork’s handle against the stall door and cross my arms over my chest—mirroring her stance—and wait for her to continue, because Lord knows she isn’t done.
“I mean, Jesus Jones, Maverick. You hadn’t even arrived back long enough for the mud on your tires to dry and you were creating an epic storm in your path, but it’s more than that and we both know it. What happened when she left the PieHole and came to find you? After, I might add, that insane kiss that you plastered on her in front of THE WHOLE TOWN! I mean, seriously, what has gotten into you!?” By the time Quinn finally shut her damn trap, she was red in the face and pacing back and forth. I could hear Daisy, Quinn’s horse, getting agitated in her stall. Not because of Quinn’s screeching, but more so because she wasn’t getting the attention she loves from her. Those two have been thick as thieves since the day Daisy was born.
“Are you finished?” Ignoring her, I take a step back and reach out toward where Daisy is sticking her head out, huffing deep exhales in exasperation to be noticed, and give her a sugar cube from my pocket.
Quinn pins me with a death stare. “I don’t know. Let me think.”
My lips twitch and I have to fight the smile that starts to dance at the edges. I wipe off the wetness that Daisy left behind before pulling my favorite Stetson off and wiping the sweat from my forehead into my damp hair and shoving the hat back in place. I should have left this damn hat behind when I left Vegas, but it’s been with me every step of the way since I started on the circuit; hell, it’s been with me even years before that. Regardless of the fact that it’s nothing but a reminder of the future that I no longer have in front of me, this damn thing has too much mileage with me and memories to go along with it for me to just throw it away.
“She did come to you. I know it. She had the fires of hell lighting her ass; there’s no way that she would leave the PieHole—early, no less—and just go home.” Quinn’s voice breaks through my thoughts, bringing my attention back to her.
“Are you askin’ me that or tellin’ me?”
“Oh, shut up,” she snaps, and I lose control of my lips, a smirk replacing my normal stoic mask of indifference. “Tell me what you did, Mav.”
“For the last time, Quinny, what makes you think that I did anything?”
“Because!” she screams. “I know her and she wouldn’t do anything without analyzing it from every angle. Leighton doesn’t run off the handle, but you . . . it’s your MO to do just that—run off all half-cocked and without thought of the consequences.”
“Damn, Quinn, tell me how you really feel, darlin’.”
Her opinion of me shouldn’t bother me, but fuck if it does. She’s wrong, but she’s also so very right. Look at me, a few weeks back and already the hard shell of indifference that I’ve been able to wear like a shield is cracking. She’s not going to let this go, and even though she’s the last person I want to talk about that night with, if anyone knows what would be going through Leighton’s mind, it would be my sister.
“Look, don’t tell me what happened, okay? It’s pretty dang clear neither of you wants to talk about it, but Maverick, I’m begging you not to do this to her. I don’t feel like fixing the mess you stir up when you leave again.”
“How many times do I need to tell you that I’m not going anywhere?”
She looks around, taking in Dixon’s now mucked stall, before giving me a sad look of resignation. “Look at you, Mav. You’ve been back for two weeks and not once have you made the move to make this stay something of permanence. Your duffel bag is still packed. You wear it, wash it, and repack it. You haven’t been down to the shop. Clay says, while you might keep busy, you damn sure aren’t doing anything but keeping yourself busy with bullshit work around here that’s better left for the hands. You’re here, but you aren’t. Hell, you might as well just be a new hired on the ranch. Except at least those guys actually want to be here. Drew even said all you do is the grunt work. The bullshit not even the young bucks eager to learn want to touch.”
“Now, Quinn—”
She puts her hand up, shaking her head. “You say you aren’t leaving, but everything you’ve done so far since Dad’s funeral screams temporary. You didn’t even wait for the ink to dry on his will before you were talking to Clay about a buyout.”
“Don’t bring him up, Quinn.”
“Someone has to. Look, I get it, you want nothin’ to do with him, but, Mav, he isn’t Davis Ranch. Not anymore. The ranch is us. Clay, me, and you.”
“How did we get on this shit?”
“Well, you won’t talk about Leigh, so might as well just move right on to some more bullshit centered on you.”
“Fuck, Quinn! I didn’t talk to Clay about a buyout because I was leavin’. I just don’t want anything that has to do with the old man.”
“I get it. I really do. It’s about time you accepted that what happened in the past sucked, but it’s over. Clay and I both had our own challenges in gettin’ over the hurt that Dad put on us, but he wasn’t the same man that pushed you away from us. Not at the end, anyways.”
Her words tip the aggravation over our conversation to the tipping point, and before I can control the burst of anger that fires through my system, I let out a string of profanity that would make a sailor proud before punching my fist through the drywall.
“You better know how to fix that, Maverick Davis!”
Fists now balled on my hips, I take a few heaving breaths before turning toward the angry voice shouting at me and waving. “I’ll see to it, Drew.”
“You do that, son,” he calls back before clicking at his colt, Stoner, and taking off at a quick gallop.
“I don’t know how to talk to you, Mav.” Quinn’s voice is quieter now, and the break I hear in it cuts me to the quick more than her loudest shout. “I just know you’re hurting. You were hurting before you came back, and now it’s not just you that’s fighting something inside of yourself.”
“Come here, Quinn,” I demand softly and open my arms.
She runs to me without pause, and suddenly she’s just my kid sister again, not the fiery, feisty woman standing before me a moment ago demanding answers. “You’re gross,” she mumbles against my sweat-drenched shirt.