11. Bishop

I can't help lookingtoward the bunkhouse every few minutes, knowing Porter is in there sulking and being antisocial—or just pretending to be to spite me. So imagine my surprise when the door slowly creaks open and Porter steps out, seemingly unsure about the decision.

I'm not the only one stunned by his arrival. Wade's eyes widen even as his lips keep steady on the harmonica, and some of the others mutter under their breath.

"Well, well, well," Randy says, already a few brews in. So are Jeb and Bulldog, but they're only a stone's throw away from their beds. "Guess you decided to bless us with your presence."

My gaze shoots to the ranch house, where Pixie is sitting with Mom on the front porch, enjoying the fire from a distance and gazing at the night sky. We all know that Randy needs to get her to bed soon, but he doesn't seem to be aware of his own shut-off valve, and it makes me nervous. Maybe it would be reasonable to discuss the situation with my mother, since she seems to instinctually know when Pixie needs a diversion.

"You were already blessed back in the bunkhouse," Porter lobs back. "What? You need my company around the fire too?"

Some of the hands chuckle, but Randy's jaw tightens. "You know exactly what I mean. Like I said before, you act like you're too good for us."

"Knock it off already," Wade says, narrowing his eyes at Randy.

"Not in front of the boss man," Bulldog hisses, and Randy stiffens, his eyes darting to me.

I want to say something so that nobody's on edge around me, but I let it play out, pretending I'm only half listening to the conversation.

Wade returns to playing his harmonica, while Porter moves to the cooler and reaches inside for a beer. He draws out a bottled water as well and heads toward Randy. "Maybe it's time for a switch. Take it from me, I know all too well."

Their eyes lock, and it seems as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for an argument or maybe even a physical altercation. Finally, Randy's shoulders sag, and he takes the offering, but not before guzzling the rest of his beer and letting out a loud belch.

That turns into a burping contest that continues as Randy unscrews the water cap and Porter finds the only open seat, which is beside me. Guess the men are more aware of my presence than I thought.

"Nice of you to join us," I say as the men laugh and try to outdo each other.

"Could say the same to you, boss," he retorts.

I shrug. "Felt like it tonight. Plus, wanna keep my eye on Pixie."

Porter's gaze fills with concern as it swings around the space, possibly in an effort to locate her.

I raise a thumb over my shoulder. "She's with Mom on the porch."

He visibly relaxes, which surprises me. Maybe he's taken a liking to the girl as well. Or just knows from experience what it's like to be around a parent who drinks. That's probably what his comment to Randy was all about. Remembering his dad sinking further into his addiction, and according to others, his depression, over all the ranch business. Not sure I ever understood all that, and I sure as shit don't intend to bring our grandfathers up again, so for now, we'll let sleeping dogs lie.

"Pixie's something else," Porter says around a sip of beer. "Older than her years. Bet she has to be."

I nod, knowing exactly what he means. It's the reason for my growing concern.

"How about you join in with your guitar?" Big Jimmy says to Porter.

He stiffens beside me as if surprised they know that about him.

"Not like we ain't seen you practically making love to that guitar," Jeb says. "Protecting it with your life, like one of us is gonna take off with it or something."

"Surprised you don't sleep with it," Otis adds, and the others laugh.

"We wouldn't even know what to do with a dang instrument." This from Randy. "Not one of us got a musical bone in our bodies, besides Wade."

"Hey, speak for yourself," Bulldog says, and I remember somewhere along the way hearing about him learning to play the violin in school.

"Yeah, well, I've had it stolen before, for parts or money or whatever," Porter replies through a tight jaw. "So you can't fault me for keeping a close eye on it."

"What happened next?" Otis asks with a sparkle in his eye, as if hoping for a good story. These men love running their mouths and gossiping about the other ranches.

Porter hitches a shoulder. "I got it back, that's what."

"Ooooh," Bulldog replies. "Did they even see you coming?"

"Nope." Porter takes a swig, and my stomach tightens thinking about all the time that's passed between us and the untold stories. It's like we're strangers, learning things about each other. And just as the others seem to bend an ear toward him, so do I, eager to hear more. "But he deserved it."

Bulldog whistles, and all the men start talking at once, lobbing questions at him.

"That one of the times you got fired from a ranch?" Otis asks at the same time Jeb says, "How could the boss not take your side?"

To my surprise, Porter answers them, maybe because the beer is helping smooth the way or because he feels the need to explain himself regarding his reputation. "Think they were just looking for an excuse to let me go at that point. Didn't help that I was fucking the owner's son."

My throat constricts with the bitter taste of jealousy as I imagine Porter fucking the man over a hay bale. My face catches fire, and I look away. Porter's brazenness is obvious to me. He wants to bluntly put himself out there, for shock value. To get a rise out of them—and me. But also to dare the men to call him a queer or something worse.

Instead, most of the men laugh and play along. Wade shakes his head, Big Jimmy grins, but Randy spits on the ground as if disgusted by his confession. It makes my gut churn, wondering if he'd have the same reaction knowing about Porter and me.

"You got some balls on you," Jeb says. "Plenty of daughters I wanted to fuck, but no way I'd chance it."

"Not like it was my idea," Porter says, and again there's an eruption of laughter.

"You fucking love this," I spit out, trying to tame my reaction, and he offers me a knowing grin. This is the Porter Dixon he's become. Oh, he was all sass back then, but his momma would've wrung his neck if he outright disrespected anyone in charge. What that says about what we had going, I'm not sure, but right now I feel like I want to puke.

The men start sharing stories about their time on different ranches, and Porter listens politely, not giving any more of himself away. But it had the desired effect. The guys think he's one of them now, and I suppose that's not a bad thing. Though it's unlikely Porter would trust any of them as far as he could throw 'em, and I'd bet our brightest steed it's the same for them. They find Porter interesting, but until they're convinced they can rely on him, they'll also keep their distance—outside of shooting the shit and giving him shit too.

I think about Porter with Storm the past few days and rub at an ache in my chest that he feels as alone as the horse even with caring people around him. I know there's a lot of burned bridges between us, but I'd round up a hammer and nails and start rebuilding if I knew it would do any good. For now, I'll have to treat Porter with kid gloves, same as he does with the mustang, and hope he comes around. I don't want any regrets before he leaves town again, though some will remain seared into my skin.

When Big Jimmy asks about the guitar again, to my utter astonishment, Porter stands and heads to the bunkhouse to retrieve it. He returns to claps and whistles, but his expression remains shuttered. He'll give these men a little something, but not everything. And like a man starving in the desert, I'll take even a mirage of water at this point.

He sits down, tightens the strings, then looks at Wade. "I'll follow your lead."

Wade nods and starts playing an older country song about a man being left by his love with only his horse. Aren't they all?

Porter joins in, and it makes the sound richer. I try not to stare at his relaxed features when he's playing. Instead, I focus on his weathered hands and battered knuckles from years working on ranches. I remember how those same fingers on my body—sometimes gentle, sometimes rough—were able to make it sing. Porter being inside me made the world disappear like nothing else ever has. So much so that my hand would find my dick and replay those moments over the years to try and chase that same feeling.

The men start singing the country song out of tune, which nobody minds. Porter's lips never move, and I wonder if it's different when he plays open mic at the bars. I want to ask but dare not mention it and break the spell we're all under. The mood is one of camaraderie, making these cowpokes a family. Even Randy, who's guzzled enough water to make me feel better about his eventual drive home.

When Pixie runs from the porch to join in, she brings a youthful energy that makes some of the men laugh. We spend the next hour belting out familiar songs, and even my parents watch from the porch, smiles on their faces.

By the time Wade tires of his harmonica, there are only embers remaining in the firepit and the moon is high in the night sky.

Pixie is asleep in Randy's lap, and the men start making their way to the bunkhouse, knowing the morning will be here soon enough. I stand and stretch just as Porter returns from putting his guitar away. He helps clean up and put out the fire.

When Randy thinks no one is watching, he pulls a flask from inside his coat pocket and takes a swig. I open my mouth to say something, but Porter's hand on my arm stills me. We watch as Pixie rouses, as if she either recognizes the sound or just knows instinctually.

"Daddy, please. Are you okay to drive home?" she asks in a hoarse voice, and because I feel like I'm witnessing a private conversation, I turn away.

"Of course I am. Let's get you to bed."

He lifts her in his arms, and I'm still halfway turned as Porter meets him at his truck. "She can always stay overnight. I'm sure the Sullivans won't mind."

"Get the hell out of my way, Porter. You saw me drinking water for the past hour."

"True," Porter replies in an unsteady voice. "But I won't be able to rest unless I know she's safe. Let me and Pixie follow you home."

"How dare you?—"

"Randy!" I step toward them before it comes to blows. "If you know what's good for you, you'll let him drive her home."

Pixie must like that idea because she struggles in his arms until he sets her down. "It'll be okay, Daddy. See you at home in a bit."

I can see the rage in Randy's eyes, and though I know this is all about his bruised ego, he should be glad the others aren't around to witness this. Though his animosity toward Porter will no doubt double.

He hops in the driver's seat and presses angrily on the gas, revving the engine.

My eyes meet Porter's. "I can take her if?—"

"Be back in a few," he responds curtly, then helps Pixie into his truck.

My gut churns the whole time they're gone, and I don't move from the bench in front of the firepit until I hear the wheels on the gravel about thirty minutes later.

I stand unsteadily as Porter parks and exits the truck.

"All good?"

He nods, and then we breathe the same air for a few tense seconds.

"Glad to hear it."

I turn toward the ranch house when he says, "Bishop."

I meet his eyes, see the roiling emotions in his irises.

"You know I was exaggerating earlier with those stories, right?"

That familiar ache in my chest flares up. "You mean, you didn't fuck the owner's son?"

He averts his eyes. "Well, that part…that was true."

"Yeah, I figured." I dig my fingernails into my palms.

"It wasn't the same…" His gaze finds mine again. "As you and me."

My heart clangs against my rib cage. Fucking hell, Porter.

I don't need him to placate me. I can't, won't, let him see how unnerved I am. I don't want to feel ruined by this man again.

I try to steady my trembling hands. "You mean as boss and employee?"

His face falls briefly before his expression transforms into that familiar cocky smirk. "Right. Sure. See you in the mornin', boss."