Chapter 43
It took all of Cole’s self-control to not hit the man, to decimate him with one lean, long blow. With one slam of his knuckles he could do it, the harness wound tight around them so the diamond-cut metal studs were facing outward.
He could annihilate the bastard.
But reason called him back to his senses. To take a serious look at his opponent, really see what he was facing.
Quinn Raary was built like a bull. Thick neck, stocky. Extra weight on him, but surprisingly, not a lot of flab. Tough muscle in spades.
If the guy hadn’t been such an asshole he’d have had respect for him—the man had built his spread almost out of nothing. His ancestors had come and settled the land, and he’d heard tell there was an Indian squaw or two in his background as well. Quinn himself had hauled stone, cut trees. Worked heavily with the river, the catchment areas. Made it more, helped it bring water not only to his lands but the Dawsons’.
There’d been no issue between them for decades. Despite the huge spread Quinn boasted. Double their head of cattle. Triple their interest in horses. Black Oaks was known throughout the west for contender as one of the largest, most successful ranches.
They’d gotten along fine. Until six short years ago, when Quinn Raary had turned into an ass.
He’d always had a mouth. A man couldn’t work the land, deal with all the unexpected shit that came his way and leveled his plans regularly, without some way to let off steam.
Quinn Raary boasted and spewed bull. Indeed, even the name of the ranch was a misnomer. There were no Black Oaks in BC. Only Garry Oaks were native.
“It’s the name a renegade chooses,” Cole’s Dad had said. “A complete renegade. Mark my words. The man’s sitting on something big. ”
Even so? He’d been relatively harmless until about six years ago. Now, he faced Cole in the street, and the small-town, weekday lunch-hour traffic was backing up.
Cole fixed his eyes on the stupid, stupid man as a mean glaze came over the fool’s face. “You talking to me?”
“Won’t be talking long. You bloody thief.” Quinn shook an arrogant, crooked finger at Cole. “I've told you once, and I'll tell you a thousand times until it's done. Give me my land back!”
Cole shut his eyes, prayed for strength, but was also glad he had the reflexes of a boxer, because, indeed, he’d trained. In that, and a dozen other techniques. In the military, he’d taught hand to hand. Krav Maga, to be specific, the deadly Israeli/Czechoslovakian self defense fighting system.
Pray all you want but hone your muscles, men, had been his rallying cry. “I could level you with one blow.”
“Coward!” screamed Quinn, and got even more agitated. “You hear, everyone?” He looked around for support at the growing crowd, more onlookers joining in at the edges. “He can hurt me, the big, bad Dawson. Well, I’d like to see you try.”
He advanced on Cole, but a couple of men grabbed his shoulders, pulled him back. “Mr. Raary. You can’t.”
“The cops’ll be coming. You don’t want a scene.”
Cole noted, with a tinge of sickness in his belly, the reverence the outsiders seemed to feel for the man. Gaining traction. Hell. He’s gaining traction.
Quinn, though, twisted himself out of their hold, glared at Cole. “You might be able to hurt me, boy, and I’d like to see you try. But that’s what a coward does. And a thief that doesn’t want to be found out.” He lunged forward, screaming. “You took my boy’s land!”
That surprised Cole. What? Was the idiot drunk? He’d heard on his few stops in town that morning that Quinn had gone on a bender the night before. Everyone was all too happy to give him the latest on the man’s actions, and the crap he’d been spewing. As if they were extras in some western town’s showdown between the town’s two biggest men.
Only Cole was getting the distinct feeling now that the roles of hero and villain weren't as clearly prescribed as he hoped they'd been.
Now Quinn was feeding the stupidity? With more booze?
Another character was running down the street. In short-sleeved shirt, dress pants, pocket protector knocking against his loose, short-sleeved shirt. A doctor. “Mr. Raary. You can’t get so angry.”
Quinn wasn’t caught by the warning. He was 100% focused on Cole.
“Mark my words. You can steal a man’s land, and that’s bad enough. Years of value gone into the wrong pocket, the criminal’s pocket. Years of interest. But,” and here he came forward, strangely subdued, yet intense. “…when you take from a man’s boy, from his only son and offspring…you are garbage. Dust. You will be held accountable. And everything that’s happening to you and your land, and your ranch, and those you love is just. And right. And will continue.” The word echoed crazily in Cole’s brain, like a verbal house of horrors. “Until you do what’s right.”
The weird nonsense raced up and down Cole’s spine. A threat, pure and simple. The thought of the hell his family was going through—decent, hard-working, good people—fuelled his own anger. “You’ll make sure it continues, will you, old man?”
A scary type of pleasure spread on Quinn’s face.
“You can set the sun’s rising on it.” Suddenly, the doctor was there, insinuating himself into the scene. He gripped Quinn’s forearm, turned him away roughly. Quinn let himself be led as he stumbled up, onto the sidewalk, then teetered down the street, with a tiny entourage around him.
Insulating him, Cole thought. From all sides.
Not good. An ass like that didn’t always have friends, people that would stick their necks out for him. But these days, he seemed to. Not good.
As he left, Cole swore he heard the man muttering all kinds of crazy things. My spread. Our spread. Jedadiah’s and mine.
And the last weird, nonsense phrase?
He has to see the horses dancing.
Crazy. Flat out crazy.
Well. Cole’s heart was still pounding hard. He hadn’t noticed it all during the altercation.
Aggie ran up to him, hung on his arm. “You okay?” Behind her, Tabby, hanging back. Those gorgeous eyes big and wide. Not from delight. Or joy.
She was trembling. Darkness shot through him, almost cut his breath.
Of a thousand reasons he had to hate Quinn, he now had a thousand and one.