Home for a Cowboy (Windsor, Wyoming Book 1)

by Amy Aislin

  “That’s… That’s not even…”

  Next to him, his dad said, “Aww.”

  Las stared at him. His dad grinned back. There was broccoli in his teeth.

  “I look forward to meeting this boy,” his mom said.

  “What? No. I’m not in love with him. He’s just a friend.”

  Alice pointed her fork at him. “Why do you say in love like maggot face?”

  His mom side-eyed her. “Maggot face?”

  “I think it’s sweet,” his dad said.

  Las sighed and stuck a fork in his steak. “I hate all of you.”

  “Tell us about him,” his mom said.

  “He’s…” Las shifted on his chair, the old wood groaning under his weight. “I don’t know. Nice. Sweet.” He poked at his steak some more, avoiding three pairs of eyes. “Kind of lost though. He’s not sure what he wants to do with the rest of his life.”

  “Is that why you invited him here for the summer?”

  He shrugged. “He didn’t have a job lined up and we always need extra help. Seemed like a good idea.”

  “Or maybe,” Alice whisper-shouted again, “he wanted Marco here because he’s in love with him.”

  Las dropped his fork; it made a loud clatter against his plate. “Would you stop?”

  “Fine,” she said at normal volume. “You have a huge crush.”

  “If anything, it’s a mild one,” he muttered. Alice snorted. “And even if it was something else—which it isn’t—it wouldn’t matter anyway. He’ll be gone in three months.”

  “So will you,” his mom reminded him.

  “But I’ll only be six hours away.” Still within driving distance to home, giving him more opportunities during his studies to make the trip back for short visits when he could. Doing his undergrad so far away in Vermont had meant his trips home were limited to Christmas and summer vacations. “And I’ll be back before the end of May.”

  “You never know,” his dad said, serving himself a second helping of chicken-fried steak. “Maybe he’ll stick around.”

  Las resumed eating. “The seasonal workers never stick around.”

  “I did,” his dad said proudly. “Once upon a time.” He winked at his wife.

  Las’s mom widened her eyes and stuck her tongue out at her husband, making his dad chuckle.

  Yeah, his dad had stayed. It was how Las knew it was possible, that someone could fall as in love with the ranch, with western Wyoming, with the mountains, as the Windsors. But his dad was the only person Las knew who’d stayed. Like he’d said, the seasonal workers always left at the end of their contracts. Some of them, mostly the college students, came back several summers in a row, but once they graduated, that was it.

  Even Ben had left and Ben was from Windsor. If even Ben could leave, why should Las expect anyone to want to stay?

  MARCO’S NEW ROOMMATE WAS THE saddest person he’d ever met.

  Reid Somerset was tall, brown-haired, and blue-eyed, and he had the toned physique of an athlete, the confident swagger of a jock.

  “I played baseball in college,” Reid had said on his first night, which was Marco’s sixth. They’d sat on their cabin’s porch steps after dinner, nursing beers as the sun had slipped behind the mountains, casting shadows everywhere.

  “So what brings you here?”

  Beer held between his knees, Reid pursed his lips, shoulders sinking. “Needed a change of scenery.”

  Trying to get him to talk was like interrogating an uncooperative suspect. By the time Marco awoke the next morning, all he knew was that Reid was from Orlando; like Marco, he’d recently graduated from college; he’d played baseball his first three years before injuring his shoulder; he had a sister in California he wasn’t close to and parents who traveled; was Windsor Ranch’s newest shuttle driver, ferrying guests to and from nearby national parks, the Jackson Hole Airport, and the Windsor train station; and he tossed and turned in his sleep. He seemed like a nice enough guy, just . . . sad. For reasons Marco wasn’t comfortable prying into.

  A week into his stay, Marco walked out of breakfast with Reid and back to their cabin to grab his hiking pack and found Las sitting on the front steps.

  His grin was instantaneous and instinctive. “Hi.”

  Las stood and brushed off the seat of his pants. There was a hiking pack, similar to Marco’s, at his feet. “Hey.” He pushed up the brim of his baseball hat and looked past Marco.

  “Oh.” Shit, he’d forgotten Reid was there. Recouping, he made quick introductions. “Reid just arrived yesterday morning.”

  “I think I met your sister when I arrived,” Reid said as they shook hands. “Alice?”

  “That’s right,” Las said. Marco had moved closer to him. When had that happened? “Alice works the guest services side; I work the ranching side.”

  “Cool.” Reid’s eyes bounced from Las to Marco and back. “I’m job shadowing today, so—” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Windsor Ranch House. “I’ll see you tonight, Marco.”

  Marco ripped his gaze off Las’s face. “Oh. Yes, you too.”

  They both stared at him like he was crazy.

  “Me too, what?” Reid asked.

  Huh? “Huh?”

  With a soft chuckle—the first true smile Marco had seen on Reid’s lips—Reid turned and headed up the hill with a wave over his shoulder.

  “So.” Las looked like he was trying to keep from laughing. “You ready?”

  “For?”

  “We’re hiking the final expert-level trail.”

  Marco stilled. “We?”

  “I asked Cherie if I could take you on your last one. If that’s okay?” He winced. “I should’ve checked with you first. I can get Cherie if—”

  “No.” Marco eliminated the distance between them, ignoring how his proximity to Las made his pulse jump. “I’m happy to go with you. I’d love to see the land from your perspective.”

  “Cool.” Las hefted his bag. “Ready to go?”

  The entrance to the trail was farther north on the property, past Windsor Ranch House. Las drove them there in a golf cart-looking thing he’d parked next to Marco’s cabin.

  “Golf cart,” Las said with a snort when Marco commented on its spaciousness. “It’s a Gater, city boy.”

  That clarified absolutely nothing.

  At the trailhead, Marco made sure his compass was clipped to a belt loop on his camo-green pants, the pocket field guide on plant life was in his back pocket, and his water bottle was conveniently placed in one of the outside pockets of his pack. As they entered the trail, the temperature dropped, the tall trees providing cover and shade from the high morning sun.

  Like Marco, Las was dressed in cargo pants, hiking shoes, a T-shirt, and a flannel shirt. His baseball hat was tied to his pack; Marco’s hat—branded with his college hockey team’s logo—was in his pack.

  Las seemed so at home in the mountains, in the forest, his steps landing quietly on the dirt path. He belonged here; it was obvious in the way he sucked in a deep breath of fresh air as they walked, in the way he held his shoulders square and loose, in the small uplift of his lips, in the way he ran his fingertips over gnarled tree trunks and yellowed tall grasses and low flowering shrubs. Almost like he was reacquainting himself with nature.

  Marco didn’t blame him. It was stunning. Only a week into his job, into spending almost all of his free time outdoors, and he had no idea how he’d return to concrete and steel at the end of the summer. Everywhere Marco had gone on the ranch smelled like horses—even the inside of Windsor Ranch House, possibly due to its proximity to the barn, possibly due to the guests coming and going from guided horseback tours or riding lessons. The hiking trails, though, all smelled like upturned earth after a crisp night; he could taste the meadow-sweetness on his tongue.

  When he said so to Las, Las turned to him with soft eyes. “Didn’t know you’re a poet.”

  A surprised laugh escaped Marco. “Please. I just call it like I see it.”r />
  They walked another few minutes in silence. Finally, Marco broke it with, “You know, for an expert-level trail, it’s pretty flat.”

  Las smirked. “Just wait.”

  “Just wait,” Marco muttered. “You’re saying it’s lulling me into a false sense of complacency?”

  “More like giving you a reprieve.”

  “From what?” Marco had spent all week on the hiking trails, learning their paths, their nuances, where they bordered the Little Wyoming River, where the best spots were to view wildlife, and the best overlooks. He’d walked the beginner-, intermediate-, and advanced-level trails. How different could the expert-level trail be compared to the steep hikes of the advanced ones?

  They turned north on the trail, emerging onto an uncovered area where the trail ran along the river. The river itself was calm, glass-like in the still morning, reflecting the cotton candy-like clouds in the sky. Compared to how wide the river was farther south, here it was narrow, maybe a couple hundred feet. Marco could swim to the other side in a few minutes.

  Dead ahead, less than a mile away, were the mountains, grizzled and jagged like shark teeth, jutting into the sky.

  Las gestured to them. “From that. This is the only one of our trails that goes deep into the mountains.” A pause, then, “An out-of-state hiker died on this trail a few years ago.”

  “Thanks so much for telling me that as we’re on it.”

  Las shot him an unapologetic grin. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Is this still Windsor land?”

  “Yup.”

  “Your family has a lot of it.”

  “Almost three thousand acres,” Las confirmed.

  “Jesus.” Cherie had mentioned it during their training the past week, but three thousand acres was a number Marco couldn’t wrap his brain around. Was there that much wide-open space anywhere in Philadelphia? What did three thousand acres look like anyway? A small island?

  “Listen.” Las slowed. “I wanted to apologize for not being around much. Or at all, really.”

  “What?” Marco slipped his thumbs under the straps of his backpack. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re busy, I know that. I mean, you’ve probably got a lot to do before you leave for grad school, right?”

  Las side-eyed him. “You remember that?”

  I remember everything we talked about that night. “Yup,” he said simply. “Agriculture and applied economics, right?”

  No side-eye this time; Las looked at him head-on, a slight furrow between his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

  “Seems like a practical subject. Something that will benefit the ranch.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” Las scoffed. “Even Ben didn’t get that,” he muttered, to himself it seemed.

  Who was Ben? Las’s shoulders were now up to his ears, so Marco dropped that line of questioning before giving voice to it. “Have you always known you want to work on your family’s ranch?”

  The grin that graced Las’s face was brighter than the sun shining in Marco’s eyes. “Yeah. I’ve always known this is my place. I grew up trailing my mom around before I was able to really work. I’d do anything. Muck stalls, clean pens, gather eggs from the damn chickens, clean equipment. Anything to feel useful.”

  “You’ve got chickens?”

  “We used to. But to answer your question, yes, I always knew this was where I’d end up. It was always where I wanted to be.” His voice took on the gentle tone of someone talking about a loved one. “In the shadow of these mountains, under this sky. This is my place.”

  “I envy you that,” Marco said. “I’ve never known where my place is.” Even among his own family in Philly, he felt out of place. They were loud and boisterous and Italian. More often than not, Marco craved distance and quiet. Not from them, but from the noise and chaos that they brought with them.

  Las reached back to pull out the water bottle from the left side pocket of his pack and took a swig. “It’s not in the hockey rink?”

  Marco sighed and glanced upward. The sun blinded him for a moment, and when he blinked at Las, red spots danced in his vision. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like…” He breathed out fully, trying to put into words what hockey was and wasn’t for him. “I fucking love hockey. Being in the rink is one of the best feelings in the world. The smell of the ice, the camaraderie with my teammates, the roar of the fans, the thrill of stopping the puck. It’s what I imagine being a rockstar on stage in front of thousands feels like.”

  “But?” Las accurately said.

  “But,” Marco repeated on a small, unhappy chuckle. “It’s everything that comes with it that I don’t like. The pressure to win, to succeed, to be the best. Pushing through pain and injury. The recognition outside of the hockey rink. The limitations on diet and extracurricular activities. The press and reporters. And that was just my experience with college hockey. I can’t imagine what it’d be like in the majors, or even the minors. That’s not what I want for my life. The constant scrutiny, the spotlight, the packed schedules. I’ve known since high school that hockey was a hobby for me. Anything else sucks the fun out of it.”

  “So…” The furrow was back between Las’s brows. “Why’d you play at GH then?” GH—the short form of Glen Hill College, where they’d gone to school in Vermont.

  “Full-ride hockey scholarship,” Marco said. “It was the only way I could attend college.” He shrugged, not as uncomfortable with the topic as he would’ve expected given Las’s family’s wealth. “It’s the way it is in my family. My sisters and I all went to college on scholarships. Three kids, my mom’s a hairdresser, my dad’s a manager at a sporting goods store. There was never a lot of money to go around.”

  They were silent for a few minutes as they walked. Las appeared lost in thought, so Marco left him to it, taking the opportunity to study the stillness of the river, the lone duck sunbathing in the short grass on the bank, the buds of what he suspected were wildflowers shooting up gently along the edge of the trail, the pine trees that stood tall on their right.

  When he paused to pull out his pocket plant book to compare against the tiny yellow wildflowers just starting to bloom all around him, Las smirked at him. “Really?”

  Marco ignored him.

  “You do know that you’re not required to know what all of the plant life is?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to look like an idiot if someone asks. ‘Uh, um, er, let me google that for you.’” He folded the top corner of the page so that he’d remember to read up more about Black-eyed Susans later and put his book away.

  Las was still smirking at him.

  “I bet you know what all the plant life is,” Marco grumbled.

  “Some of it, but I was never much interested in plants. More in how the whole ecosystem works together as a unit.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not doing your masters in environmental science. That was one of your undergrad majors, wasn’t it?” Wasn’t it? Marco rolled his eyes at himself. As if he didn’t remember that Las was ambitious to the nth degree, double majoring in environmental science and business with a minor in history at GH.

  “I thought about it,” Las admitted. He stepped around a pothole. “Agriculture and applied economics made more sense given my line of work.”

  “Wish I had your conviction. About anything.”

  “You really don’t know what you want to do? Where you’ll end up once you leave here?”

  Leave. There was a word Marco didn’t want to think about, at least not until it was time to actually do so. “Nope.”

  “It doesn’t worry you? The not knowing?”

  “Not really. I’m twenty-two. I’ll figure it out eventually. And really, name me one recent grad who knows what the hell they want.”

  Las lifted a hand.

  “Aside from you. I’m not convinced you’re a real recent grad. You’re way too confident about yourself and your place in the world.”

  Las’s laughter pulled at the nerves deep in Marco’
s belly. “Come on,” Las said, mirth still in his voice as the trail curved northeast, back into the shelter of trees. “Now comes the fun part.”

  “God,” Marco said, a groan in his voice.

  Las turned and found him several steps behind him on the hill. They’d both removed their flannels over an hour ago as the day had warmed. Marco’s dark gray T-shirt hugged his chest and shoulders so tightly that Las could see the muscle definition of his stomach. Ignoring it, and the flare of attraction in his own stomach, he focused on Marco’s face instead.

  Except that wasn’t any better. He’d tied his hair back, exposing his neck, his prominent Adam’s apple, highlighting his flushed cheekbones and the scruffy beard on his angular jaw. A lock of hair had escaped his ponytail. Marco pushed it back behind his ear, little tufts at his temple clinging to his sweaty forehead.

  “Jesus,” Las muttered under his breath, pausing at the top of the incline to wait for Marco. Turning his back, he adjusted himself quickly in his underwear. Was it too hot for mid-June, or what? He ran the back of his wrist over his own sweaty forehead.

  “I think you and I,” Marco said on a gasp when he reached Las, “have different definitions of fun. And here I thought I was in shape. How many guests sign up for the expert-level trail?”

  Las cleared his throat. “Hardly anyone.”

  Marco’s brows lowered. “Huh?”

  “The expert hikers—even the advanced hikers—don’t often need a guide. They usually set out on their own.”

  “What? What the hell are we doing then?”

  “You’ve got to know the trail, just in case.”

  Hands on his hips—don’t look at his biceps!—Marco sucked in a breath through his nose, let it out slowly through his mouth. “I hate you a little.”

  “Do you though?” Las said before he could think twice about it, his voice gone to gravel.

  Their gazes met, held. Marco’s entire body went on alert, his eyes dipping to the base of Las’s throat, bright with perspiration, no doubt.

  What would it be like to throw caution away, just for a little while? To let Marco kiss and bite his throat like he so clearly wanted? To find out what Marco’s lips tasted like? How hard those muscles really were? To run his fingers through Marco’s hair, clutch the strands in his fist, and guide Marco’s mouth to where he really wanted it?