And he’d wanted her with him forever. He’d wanted to watch the gray hairs thread through her pretty hair. He’d wanted to fill her belly with the children she said she wanted. He wanted to turn into a wrinkled, horny old man right next to her and pinch her butt for the next seventy years and laugh about it. He wanted to have a life with her, damn it.

And she flat out refused.

“You think it’s dead yet?” Jack drawled from behind him, voice flat.

Hank turned, the pitchfork in his hands. He glared at his brother. “What?”

“That hay you’re stabbin’. You think it’s dead yet?”

He just rolled his eyes at his sarcastic little brother. “I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Just wanted to tell you that I was in town.”

Hank stiffened, waiting. Both Caleb and Jack had taken it upon themselves to spy on Becca while Hank moped at the ranch. They said it was their brotherly duty, and he hated that he was so eager for them to report back, but he was. He wanted to know what Becca looked like every day, if she looked sad, if her shop was busy, if she was taking care of the puppy . . . if she missed him. If she felt as destroyed as he did. So far, the reports had not been encouraging. Caleb had said that every time he saw her, she was always helping a client, her hands in someone’s hair or slapping foil on their head—women and their beauty treatments, he’d never understand them. He’d also said she was super smiley and happy, and that made Hank want to stab even more hay. Couldn’t she look the littlest bit sad that she’d stomped all over his damned heart? He was dying by inches and she was having the time of her life, it seemed.

Jack was silent, which irked Hank’s already bad mood.

“Well?” he prompted when his brother kept watching him.

“You’re not gonna like it.”

His entire body tensed. Was she hurt? Sick? Did she need him? “Is she okay?”

“I looked in on that salon of hers and saw that blond guy was all over her, squeezing her ass and trying to cop a feel. You know, her ex? Didn’t take him long to move in on her again.”

Hank saw red. The entire barn was suddenly covered in a red haze. That creep was touching Becca? Trying to get into her pants? He knew Becca—she’d never indicated anything but anger and frustration at her ex. She’d told him plenty of times that the guy always came wheedling his way back, looking for another chance. “He was grabbing her? You’re sure?” When Jack nodded, he clutched the pitchfork so hard that he could feel splinters digging into his calluses. “You think she’s still up there at the salon?”