Ty Hard

Chapter One

Tyler Hardin climbed from his truck in front of a sprawling adobe ranch house and wondered what in the hell had happened. Six or seven cowboys on horseback cut sharp turns around a small knot of horses, pushing them with waves of arms and hats, steering the small herd toward the open gate at the rear of the paddock. Other men stood around the yard or leaned on the split rail fence that surrounded a small kitchen garden. No matter what they were doing, everyone’s attention was on the Lifeline helicopter and whatever emergency had brought the air-borne ambulance out to the remote Willow Springs Ranch.

The door to the chopper slid closed and as the blade speed increased, the steady whop, whop, whop reverberated through him and threatened to take him places his mind didn’t want to go. Shouldn’t go. Pushing the memories away, Ty squinted against the bright Arizona sunshine and tried to make out the figure of his friend, Frank Gibby Gibson among the cowboys. Gibby would be the short, overweight one, if he could find him.

Not sure what you’re selling, but this isn’t a good time. The voice came from behind him and was right out of a wet dream. It was an intoxicating mixture of whisky and smoke, a deep baritone that settled somewhere low in his belly.

What happened? Ty asked, shielding his eyes and trying to get a good look at the man standing in the shade of the courtyard arch.

The cowboy nailed him with a steely dark gaze that seemed to blaze from his handsome face. His voice vibrated with barely controlled anger. I can’t see any reason it should concern you. Now state your business or get the fuck off my ranch.

The long, rangy cowboy was at least four inches taller than Ty’s own six-foot frame. He wore a tight pair of jeans and a white tee shirt that stretched across his lean, muscled chest. A white straw cowboy hat and dusty, worn boots completed the perfect picture. While the cowboy waited for an answer, Ty stepped forward and peered beyond the shadow cast by the brim of the big man’s hat. Ty could make out a strong, chiseled face, deep cleft chin, and dark eyebrows raised high in apparent disbelief that his question hadn’t been immediately answered.

The Willow Springs is your ranch? That makes you Cass Cartwright. Sorry. Should have introduced myself right away. My name’s Ty. Tyler Hardin. I’m here to visit Frank Gibson. Gibby? Look, I didn’t mean to impose, I can stay back in Kingman… he trailed off as a spasm tightened Cartwright’s face into a grimace.

Fuck. You’re his friend from the Navy.

Ty did a slow blink at the brusque tone and bought himself a moment of time before he answered. "I used to be his friend from the Navy. Medical retirement," he said pointing to the fresh scar that creased from his eyebrow to jaw line. It had taken the field surgeons sixteen hours, plus two more surgeries stateside to put him back together. A regular Humpty Dumpty. After six months in rehab, the doctors declared him well enough to discharge and cut him loose from the only life he’d ever wanted.

Gibby was the closest thing to family Ty had. The old man had invited him to stay at the ranch while Ty figured out what to do with his life. He wasn’t about to explain their relationship to Cartwright, not until he knew what was happening.

This way, Cartwright said with a stiff jerk of his head. Then he turned on his heel and led the way into the cool interior of the adobe ranch house.

What was going on? Had his old friend been wrong about his boss? Gibby said when he’d talked to Cartwright that the rancher welcomed another pair of hands and he could stay as long as he wanted. Now it looked like he was about to get the unwelcome mat, instead. Shit. He should have called Gibby from Flagstaff, given him a little notice that he was almost here.

He watched silently as Cartwright moved to what looked like an entertainment center. When Cass opened the doors, however, Ty realized the cabinet was a minibar, complete with a small refrigerator. Beer or whisky? Cass asked, taking a glass from the shelf. His gravelly voice slid over Ty, as comfortable as an old pair of faded jeans.

Drawing on an icy control that had served him well in the Navy, Ty pushed the flutter of attraction back into his mental lockbox. God knows a working ranch wasn’t the place for that part of him any more than the Navy had been.

Neither. I don’t drink. Too many meds. What’s going on? Where’s Gibby? Tension tightened his stomach and he shot out the words, no longer interested in manners.

Cartwright’s jaw clenched and his knuckles tightened around the glass he was holding. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he growled. Turning quickly he threw his glass, shattering it against the fireplace. Without looking at Ty, Cass said in a low voice that vibrated with emotion, Gibby was in that helicopter. I’m sorry, Hardin. He had a heart attack and died an hour ago.

The cowboy’s words slammed into Ty and sent his thoughts and the blood in his brain into the all-too-familiar swirl. The light began to dim, then a roaring in his head that wiped out all other noise in the room. Ty stumbled backward and had only a moment to position himself closer to the couch before everything shut down and the world went black.

*

Cassidy Cartwright looked down at the hunk of manflesh on the couch. Nothing like his usual long, lean type.

Tyler had to be at least six feet tall, well over two hundred pounds of sculpted muscle, with broad shoulders that tapered to a flat stomach and tight ass. His well-muscled thighs were showcased in dark blue denim.

Down boy, he told his cock, with no small amount of disgust. Here he was lusting after the man Gibby thought of as the son he never had. Gibs’ body wouldn’t even be cold yet. God forgive me, but I can be a right bastard, sometimes.

Despite the self-recrimination, his fingers itched to stroke the scar that marked Tyler’s face, to brush the hair back from the pale forehead. His hair was short, but not military short. Soft black curls framed the most angelic face he’d ever seen on a man. His long, dark lashes fanned below his closed eyes, but Cass wouldn’t forget the vivid shade of blue that had looked at him and demanded answers. The shadow of a beard and square jaw prevented him from being too pretty, but still, Tyler Hardin was a beautiful man. Shit.

Cass had heard a lot about Tyler from Gibby over the last few years. The old cook certainly enjoyed telling stories over a drink or two. Hardin was one of his favorite topics. He’d learned they’d known each other since the younger man had joined the Navy and had stayed in touch even after his retirement. They’d been stationed together three times, once on a ship and two tours in Afghanistan. Cass wasn’t exactly clear on how that worked, but he knew they’d been in some dangerous spots together.

Last year, Gibs had been beside himself when Tyler called to tell his friend he was returning to Afghanistan for a third tour. Listed as next of kin, it had been Gibby the Navy notified when Tyler was injured. The old man had traveled back to Walter Reed twice over the last six months and when he’d returned from the second trip he’d made a request of Cass.

"D’ya mind if I bring the boy back here for a while? He needs a place where someone can keep an eye on him. He gets bad headaches. Plus… he added, but looked away, I think it’s about time the boy faced a thing or two about himself."

It hadn’t taken a mental genius to figure out that remark. Tyler Hardin was still in the closet. He’d supposed Gibby thought it would open Tyler up if he lived for a while on the ranch where half the cowboys were gay or bisexual and the other half couldn’t care less.

He shook himself from his thoughts when he realized a pair of bright blue eyes were blinking rapidly, as Tyler struggled toward consciousness. Then the man was fighting to gain his balance, as he pushed himself off the couch. Bathroom, he muttered urgently.

Cass grabbed him by the arm and half carried him into the bathroom. He held Tyler’s head as the younger man emptied his stomach until he was wracked by spasms. When there was nothing left to come up, Cass helped Tyler rinse his mouth and wash his face with a cool splash of water. Without any ulterior motive, Cass wrapped a strong arm around Tyler’s waist and guided him to the back of the house, to his own bedroom. He lowered the other man to the bed, helped him remove the soiled clothes, and ease back to the pillows. Tyler covered his eyes with his forearm while Cass hurried to turn off the lights and draw the blinds. Then he sat on the bed with a damp cloth and gently wiped the light sheen of sweat from Tyler’s face.

How can I help, Tyler? he asked softly.

Sorry. Migraine, need pill...and rest. Then I’ll get out of your hair, Tyler said softly, as if each word might cost him his momentary control over the pain in his head.

A shocking wave of possessiveness washed over Cass, so strong it threatened to overwhelm him. He simply knew that he wanted Tyler Hardin with every fiber of his being. He wanted to take care of him, to