Wyoming Cowboy Sniper. Nicole Helm
Chapter Twelve
Dylan Delaney considered the scene around him an atrocity: Carsons and Delaneys of Bent, Wyoming, not just mingling in the same yard but celebrating.
Celebrating the marriage of his sister—an upstanding, rule-following sheriff’s deputy with too good of a heart—to a no-good, lying, cheating, saloon-owning Carson.
The fact his sister looked so happy as she danced with her newly pronounced husband was the only reason Dylan was keeping his mouth shut. That and a well-stocked makeshift bar in the Carson barn that had been transformed into a wedding venue for Laurel and Grady.
Dylan had been bred to hate Carsons and what they represented his whole life. Delaneys were better than thieving, low-class, lying Carsons—and had been since the town had been founded back in the eighteen hundreds.
Dylan’s siblings had always been too soft. Though Jen had held strong with him, Cam and Laurel were growing even softer in adulthood as they mixed themselves up with Carsons.
Romantically of all things.
Dylan had prided himself on being hard. On being better. Half his siblings had been happy to ignore the calling of the Delaney name, but he’d used everything he had in him to live up to it.
If it felt hollow in the face of his sister happily marrying Grady Carson, he’d ignore it.
“Worried about your precious bloodline, Delaney?”
Dylan sneered. Normally, he wouldn’t. Normally, he’d be cool, collected and cuttingly disdainful of Vanessa Carson even breathing the same air as him, let alone addressing him. But the liquor was smoothing out just enough of his senses for him to forget he never engaged with the Carson he hated the most.
“Aren’t you worried about catching a little law and order? Ruining that bad-girl reputation of yours?” Dylan smiled, the way he would have smiled at a dirty child who’d just smeared mud over his freshly dry-cleaned suit.
She wore the same shade of black as his suit, but not in a sedate cocktail dress that might have befit a wedding. He’d have even given a pass to a funeralesque sundress, because it was a rather casual affair all in all, and it felt like a funeral on his end.
But no. Vanessa wore tight leather pants and some kind of contraption on top that flowed behind her like a cape down to her knees. It knotted in the front above her belly button. A little gold hoop dangled there, mocking him.
He was so attracted to her, it hurt. He hated himself for that purely animalistic reaction that he’d always, always refused to act on. He’d dealt with cosmic jokes his whole life. This was just another one to be put away and ignored. He was stronger than the cosmos. Had to be.
She flashed a grin meant to peel the skin off his face. “My bad-girl reputation is rock-hard solid, babe.” She sauntered around Dylan and the makeshift bar, then started looking through the collection of bottles and cans.
The hired bartender blinked at her, clearly caught off guard and having no idea what to do despite making a living from serving drunk and rowdy wedding guests. “I can get you what you—”
“No worries.” She nudged the bartender away and rummaged around, then poured herself an impressive and possibly lethal combination of alcohol. She lifted her cup in Dylan’s direction, which was when he realized he’d been watching her. She drank deeply.
“If that was for my benefit, color me unimpressed,” he muttered, looking away from that long slender neck and the way long wisps of midnight-black hair danced around her face.
“Baby, I wouldn’t do anything for your benefit, even if you were on fire,” Vanessa said, her voice a smooth purr.
He refused to let his body react. “Someone’s going to be carrying you out of here if you drink all that.”
She laughed, low and smoky. It slithered through him like—
Like nothing.
“I could shoot you under the table, sweetheart.”
“Wanna bet?” he muttered, forcing himself to stare ahead even though he could feel her come to stand next to him.
She laughed again, the sound so arousing he wanted to bash his own head in.
“I know you didn’t just say that to me, Delaney. You’re not that stupid.”
Which poked at all the reactions he kept locked far, far away. Apparently the rather potent drinks he’d been downing in swift succession were the key to unlocking them. “I’ll repeat it, then. Want to bet?” He enunciated each word with exaggerated precision as he turned to look at her.
She smirked, somehow a few inches shorter than him even though she always seemed to take up so much space. “Oh, I’ll take that bet. How much?”
He named a sum he knew she couldn’t possibly afford.
She rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand that glinted silver and gold with an impressive array of rings, including more than one in the shape of a skull or dagger.
He despised her. Every inch of her. Which he drank in against his will.
“Delaneys love to flaunt their money.”
He flashed a wolfish grin, enjoying far too much the way her eyes narrowed as if preparing to ward him off. Good luck, little girl. “Chicken?”
Some little voice in the back of his head reminded him of propriety. Reminded him of his place in Bent and the fact that getting in a drinking competition with Vanessa would only end in embarrassment and trouble. It went against everything he believed and stood for, and he should just walk away.
He stood where he was and ignored that voice.
When he woke up the next morning, definitely not in his own bed, ignoring that voice was the last thing he remembered.
* * *
VANESSA WAS DYING. From the inside out. So, so many bad decisions made last night. But it was her brother’s fault for marrying a Delaney. That she was sure of.
She groaned, rolling over in bed as her stomach roiled in protest. She’d had her fair share of hangovers, but this one was truly something.
And