If Chance thinks he’s steering me away, he’s dead wrong. “Is Carly taken? She yours?”

I don’t poach, but I also don’t want to get shot either. If she is Chance’s woman, she’s out of play. I don’t blame him for his protective stance. If she were mine, I’d shoot first and ask questions later if a guy came sniffing around.

“Taken? You could say that.” He sets his beer down with a clatter. “She’s off limits. For both of you.”

Taken by whom? If she’s not Chance’s, whose is she?

Chance darts his gaze between us. “Hell, I’ve got two brothers and I don’t even know who’s who.”

“Austin,” I say.

“Miles.” He doesn’t look fazed by Chance’s anger. Maybe it’s the New Yorker in him, or maybe he’s just chill. He holds up his hands. “As for this Carly woman, I don’t even know who you’re talking about, but it’s nice to know there’s pretty scenery.”

Miles is clearly single.

“I understand you don’t want us here, Chance, but this wasn’t our first choice either.” He looks to me. “I assume I can speak for you and say we have lives that aren’t here.”

I nod. “Pull out your dick and pee on everything,” I tell Chance. “It’s all yours.”

Miles laughs, and Shankle looks—well, a little horrified.

“You can keep the house and the furniture,” Miles continues. “Even the horses. The only thing I like to ride—besides a pretty woman or two—is a motorcycle. But I earned my third.”

“Earned?” Chance shakes his head and lifts his gaze to the ceiling. The really high vaulted ceiling. “You didn’t earn shit, either one of you. I’m the one who’s worked this land all my fucking life. I knew you two existed, but he never talked about you. Neither of you. Not once.”

He turns his blue gaze my way. It’s ice-cold and full of anger—anger I recognize.

I can relate to his frustration. I don’t want to be here any more than he wants two strangers invading his space. And taking a share.

Still, I bristle at the fact that my—our—father cut us so completely from his life.

“Mention?” I say. “I never met the asshole. He ditched my mother when she was pregnant.”

Miles nods. “Same. Seems like Daddy didn’t like to wear a condom or commit to wives or kids.”

“Gentlemen, I think—” Shankle begins.

Chance cuts him off, waving his beer in the air. “You think I liked the man?” He curls his lip and takes a big swig. “He kept my mother around for a few years and then divorced her ass, too. She’s living it up in Boca Raton. Now the two of you are living it up here.”

Seriously? What a fucking dickhead.

I shake my head. “Living it up? I’m a fucking sea pilot with bills to pay. I might be a billionaire, but I’m pretty fucking poor for another fifty weeks or so.”

“That’s true,” Shankle says. “The will stipulates the entire estate will be held in trust until one year after your father’s death. If you remain at Bridger Ranch for that duration, it will be split evenly between the three of you.”