Sworn Enemy: An MM Enemies-To-Lovers Book (Wild Heart Ranch 1)
Sworn Enemy: Chapter 1

It’s hot as balls in Central Texas, and the spring drought has continued into the summer, making my fencing-crew job particularly miserable. Still, there’s no place I’d rather be.

I recently celebrated nine months of sobriety, and even though I take it one day at a time, I’m damn proud of myself. Turns out, when you begin to build an authentic life, you don’t have to white-knuckle your sobriety.

Who knew?

I mean…I still have to work hard to maintain it and be honest about where I am in my head, but I’ve been doing the work, and it shows. Frankly, I’m damn lucky to be able to do it in the community where I grew up.

Refocusing on the job in front of me, I tighten the last bit of barbed wire on the Brickners’ fence and wipe the sweat from my brow. Nacho shoves a bottle of water into my hands.

“Drink it before you dehydrate, you stubborn son of a bitch,” he grumbles.

Ignacio Rivera—Nacho to his friends and all non-law enforcement types—is a recovering drunk like me with an even more colorful past if the prison tattoos covering every visible inch of dark-tan skin are any indication. I’m pretty sure the teardrop tattoo by his eye means something serious, but I also know enough not to ask for details.

That said, if it weren’t for the tattoos, his clean-cut style and immaculate grooming of his super-thick raven-black hair would peg him as a J. Crew type. It’s fun to sit and watch people try to make sense of him. Even better is them trying to make sense of us as friends because I’m pale, unfashionable, and nowhere near as good in social situations.

I grin and take the bottle of water from his hands. My brother’s just made me co-foreman of the fencing crew with Nacho, and while I was worried the guys would have a hard time with me in that position, I suspect Nacho is the reason they’ve been nothing but supportive.

And by supportive, I mean giving me good-natured shit at every turn.

“Justin, come in.”

I pick up my two-way cell phone and hit the talk button. “Hey, Jason, I’m here. Just finished up at the Brickners’.”

“You’re using the flat bed today, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m going to need you to bring it in right away. There’s a big fire at the Wills ranch.”

Fuck. Not Charlie’s place.

“Shit. That property is unincorporated, right?”

“Yep,” he says with a heavy sigh. “And the surrounding counties are hella busy today. Brush fires everywhere.”

One of the ways my brother and I give back to the community is by backing up the surrounding fire departments. Shading my eyes, I look to the south, where the Wills ranch is located. Sure enough, an ominous column of smoke rises into the air.

Guilt turns my guts. I’ve got a lot of history—all of it bad—with the Wills family. That jackassery I spoke of was mostly aimed at Charlie Wills. I was so awful to him that he left before the end of high school.

Heh. Talk about your revisionist history.

To put it plainly, I was the reason he tried to kill himself.

Until a few weeks ago, he’d been living in New York, or so I’d heard. Now, right as he’s moved back, he’s having to deal with this. Maybe if we can help save his property, it’ll be the chance I need to make up for the crap I put him through.

Not the point, Justin.

“You getting a water tank filled up?” I ask, setting aside my mental wanderings for the more important task of actually helping.

One of the services we offer through Jason’s ranch supply store is switching out tanks when the water runs low for folks who don’t have access to city utilities. That’s also how we ended up playing second string to the county fire departments.

“We’re gonna use the five-thousand-gallon tank I ordered for Ms. Jenkins. It’s already filled, and I’ll make sure she understands this takes priority.”

“Good call. I’m maybe ten minutes out. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll grab the tank together.”

Our water guy is ready when we get there, and his crew gets the tank on the back of our flatbed in a matter of minutes. I race down Highway 290 and take the turnoff right before Rebel Sky Ranch, navigating the twisting miles of country road as quickly as I can.

The closer we get, the denser the column of smoke in the sky seems.

When we pull onto the Wills ranch, it looks like a scene out of a Hollywood disaster movie. The sky is nearly black with smoke. Ravenous flames devour everything. The burn pattern indicates that the fire started in an area of dry brush, then spread to the wooden buildings.

Five thousand gallons will hardly make a dent, but we hafta try.

The Rebel Sky guys are here with their horse trailer, likely helping Charlie get his horses loaded and off the property. Just as I park, the back of the barn goes up in flames. They run toward the dangerous situation without a thought for their safety.

Meanwhile, Charlie and Erik are trying to stave off the fire with garden hoses, but they might as well be spitting on it. Jason and I jump out, grabbing the hose and pumping mechanism from the back of the truck.

Charlie runs up to us, stress and fear shadowing his features. We have a moment, less than a second, really, where our eyes catch. I inhale sharply, having forgotten how beautiful he is up close. God, those eyes…

He’s filled out, that’s for damn sure, and his style is…what? Texas-meets-guru? He’s wearing a linen button-down that was likely white before it was blackened by soot, and even though he’s been living in New York his entire adult life, broke-in cowboy boots stick out from the bottom of his equally broke-in blue jeans.

His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms and leather bracelets as he pulls on a pair of rugged work gloves. I glance down and replace the long jagged scars which run from his inner wrists damn near up to his elbows.

The world is burning around us, and all I can think is he really did want to die that day. Followed immediately by I might as well have been the one to put the knife in his hand.

I remember that night vividly. My dad got this secret little smile. Like he was proud of me for nearly driving the queer Wills boy to his grave. It made me sick to my stomach then, and it makes me sicker now.

I’d always been the life of the party: drinking, smoking, and taking whatever pills people gave me to keep me going. But that night? That was when I started drinking to black out and taking pills to function when I had to be awake.

I didn’t stop until nine months ago.

Charlie’s the first to break our trance and grabs the pump out of my hand while my brother drags the hoses over to the tank. We climb onto the flatbed, and Charlie and I work together, assembling the pump and connecting the hoses. His arm brushes mine, and the incidental touch takes my breath away. I nearly fall over myself trying to give him room, but we don’t have time for my guilt, and we certainly don’t have time for the fucking butterflies in my stomach.

Spoiler alert: I’ve been in love with Charlie Wills since the eighth grade.

Once everything’s in place, we jump down, and I grab the nozzle while Charlie steps in behind me, supporting the length of the hose.

I look back at him, ignoring the everything all at once I’m feeling just being this close to him. “Charlie, we have to be strategic with the water usage. Let’s cut a wet line around your property. The field will burn itself out, but it’ll prevent any more fire from encroaching and protect the wooded areas in the back of the property.”

He nods. “That’s smart. Let’s do it.”

Once we’re standing firm, I open up the hose, grateful for a strong pump as we direct the long stream of water along the property line as far as it can go.

The barn looks like a total loss, but maybe we’ll be able to save his home, and perhaps that’ll feel like penance.

Jason and I— covered in soot, ash, and failure—pack the pump and the hoses back into the truck. I place my forearms on the hood and bend forward, resting my forehead on my folded hands. My nose stings and my throat clenches as I hold back tears. How stupid I must be to think I could be any use to Charlie Wills.

In addition to the barn, the bunkhouse is a complete loss, and it’s about fifty-fifty if the house he grew up in can be saved.

My therapist would remind me I can’t process someone else’s hard feelings for them, but if I could, I so would. Charlie’s been through so much and has done a lot of work to rebuild himself, and since I’m the reason he’s had so damn much to rebuild…yeah. Surveying the scorched earth around me, I’m once again cloaked in the stench of uselessness.

Definitely calling my sponsor tonight and my therapist in the morning.

I slowly climb into the truck, my limbs five hundred pounds of dead weight. I look over to replace my brother wearing the same defeated expression.

“I really wish we could have saved the house for him,” Jason says quietly.

I start the truck and look in the rearview mirror. Charlie is standing in the middle of the destruction, looking as lost as I’ve ever seen a man look. Fuck, I would give anything for him not to feel that way.

“Yeah, brother. Me too.” A single, stubborn tear cuts a path through the dirt and grime on my cheek. “Me too.”