Mustang_A Mountain Man Romance

by S. Cook

  I was convinced that staying at the ranch was the best option for me. I thought avoiding my feelings would be better than facing them, but instead it turned me into an isolated hermit. A man who had no idea how to communicate properly with anyone from the outside world.

  Not that I was ever great at it to begin with.

  Ever since Leah arrived here, I felt those strange emotions building up inside me.

  There was real life on the ranch again, if you could call screaming at the bats, rats and possums that infested the main house life.

  It felt weird having real human contact again.

  I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not.

  Chapter 9: Leah

  Mustang had walked away, not even cracking a smile at my joke.

  He spoke to the foreman in charge of the dig for just a few minutes, then started running back to his mysterious place in the woods.

  God! He’s the oddest person I’ve ever met in my life.

  I watched the crew work for a little while longer, then went into the house to clean. It took me a moment to realize what had just happened. Then the absurd reality of it hit me. I dropped my cleaning rag and stood frozen in place.

  Holy shit, I have a date tonight.

  This hadn’t happened in the longest time.

  If I’d been back in Seattle, I would’ve called on Anne for her advice.

  She would’ve come over and brought me outfit ideas, helped me fix my hair, maybe even done something about my makeup.

  We would’ve had a few laughs over wine...the works.

  Out here, I was all on my own.

  I might could call Tina, but the girl was busy working. On top of that, she was practically a kid herself, and besides, I wasn’t ready to go announcing that I was having dinner with the crazy caretaker, no matter how gorgeous and ripped he might be.

  In a small rural area like this, I had a feeling gossip would go around fast.

  The rest of the day passed far too quickly. The noise coming from the giant drill left me with a splitting headache. By the time they stopped, and the foreman knocked on my door to get the payment, I was exhausted.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. We’re all done,” the foreman said with a smile.

  “Great.”

  “Let me show you what we did,” he said.

  I stepped outside, following him to the newly dug well.

  “We led a pipe system all the way down, and by pulling this lever, you can access it here,” he motioned to the faucet thing on the right of the large pipe coming out from the ground, “or it just goes straight to the faucets in the main house. We also hooked it up to the existing pipe systems that are already there.”

  “How long will I have water now?”

  “A good while. If it rains obviously there will be more, but if the rain is scarce, like it was last year, you can also make use of the water in the tanks that are around the property. It looks like you have quite a few to use so that’s good.”

  “Water tanks?” I asked in surprise.

  “Yeah, you have four water tanks around the property.”

  “How do you know about the tanks?”

  “We put them in about three years ago. The previous owner, Jeb had them installed before he got sick. He was planning on living here a good, long while. It’s too bad the cancer took him. Jeb was a decent fellow.”

  I was speechless.

  There had been water all this time without me being aware of it. I can’t believe Mustang didn’t tell me about the water tanks. He had every opportunity to do so and yet he said nothing.

  Not one word about there being water in the holding tanks.

  When he shows up for dinner, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully. “I appreciate your hard work today.”

  “If there is ever anything wrong with the well, or the water dries up, don’t hesitate to call us.”

  “I won’t,” I said, handing him the check.

  I watched as they left and then went back inside. Quickly, I recorded the amount I had given him in my checkbook. The expenses were going up and my available cash balance was going down.

  When I glanced up, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the table. Was that really me? I looked terrible. Another month here and I wouldn’t be recognizable.

  I hurriedly changed clothes, brushed my tangled mess of brown hair and tied it up into a high ponytail. I lightly applied a bit of makeup, nothing too serious, as I didn't want Mustang to think I had gone to too much trouble for him.

  There was a loud knock on the door as I finished applying a nude shade of lipstick and I nearly dropped it in the sink from fright.

  “Who is it?” I called out, not even thinking.

  Who the hell else would it be out here on a lonely ranch?

  “Mustang,” he answered gruffly in that deep voice of his. “Who else were you expecting?”

  He probably thought I was the biggest idiot on the planet.

  I went to the front door and opened it.

  “Hey,” I said, looking at him. “You’re right on time.”

  “Always,” he said, fidgeting in the doorway.

  I watched in surprise as he twitched uncomfortably and moved his neck ever so slightly, almost like he was bracing for the old overhanging wooden awning to come crashing down on him.

  I instantly felt bad for my previous thoughts about Mustang.

  He was obviously uncomfortable standing there, way outside his comfort zone. And if what Tina had said was true about him not coming inside the house, standing this close under the porch eaves was taking a big effort.

  “I thought we could eat in the yard. Kind of picnic style. Sound good?” I asked, pointing Mustang to the safety of the open sky.

  He didn’t speak, and only nodded.

  It was so out of character for him to not have something confidently irritating to say that my heart broke a little.

  I smiled, and said, “Let me grab some dishes and I’ll be right out.”

  When I came out of the house with plates and utensils, I saw that Mustang had already arranged the heavy stumps from around the yard into a rustic dining area.

  I sat directly across from him and put a plate on each of our tree-stump tables. I waited while Mustang rooted around in his bag and produced two pieces of raw meat with a cooking spit running through them.

  I turned away slightly to keep from wincing at the thought of salmonella poisoning. Where on Earth did he get that meat and what animal was it from? Did I really want to know?

  I couldn’t help also wondering how long the meat had sat out in the hot sun since the only refrigerator on the ranch was in the house.

  Am I going to die tonight?

  I forced a polite smile at Mustang when he went to work building a small fire in the ring of stones set out in my yard for that purpose.

  He worked in silence while I watched him, noticing the very purposeful way he moved, as if every tiny decision had been weighed and calculated.

  Everything he did was intentional and planned.

  I watched the sun start to touch the horizon while Mustang turned our dinner over the low flames. When the coals were red hot, I tucked foil-wrapped boiled potatoes and carrots into them.

  After several long minutes of silence, he declared the meat was done and began slicing the meat off with an oversized knife. He placed the meat first on my plate, then on his, then added the vegetables to each plate.

  I began to eat and was pleasantly surprised at the flavor. I was enjoying the meal instead of just having to be polite as I’d feared.

  I nearly choked, though, when Mustang finally spoke.

  “How old are you?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he was filling out a customs form.

  “Um, well...honesty’s the best policy, so I’m twenty,” I answered in a dead pan voice.

  Mustang didn’t smile.

  “No, you’re not. You’re older than that. How old are you?”
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  “Fine, I’m twenty-six.” I shot him a perturbed look that clearly said we were on the edge of an off-limits conversation. I wondered how fast he would tuck his tail between his legs and run this time.

  “Why would you say you’re twenty?” he asked before slicing off another large strip of meat and putting it on his plate.

  “It was a joke,” I said with a shrug. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman how old she is.”

  “Why not?” he asked in a serious tone.

  I let out a long sigh.

  “I don’t know. You just don’t. It’s like asking her how much she weighs,” I added before taking another bite of my dinner.

  “How much do you weigh?” he asked, but somehow this time I knew to expect a crazy question and managed not to choke.

  I finished chewing and waited, kind of hoping he would tell me he was only kidding. He didn’t.

  “I’m not telling you how much I weigh. That’s rude.”

  “Why not? It’s a simple fact. It’s just a number. Besides, I could find out by lifting you up. You look light. So why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not something people talk about,” I said, laughing nervously at having to explain to a grown man what the social niceties of a pleasant dinner were all about.

  He put down his knife and fork and looked down at his hands, placing them on either side of his plate and pressing them flat against the wood.

  “What do people talk about at dinner then?” he asked in a subdued way. “Tell me.”

  I looked to see if he was kidding or not, and decided he was more serious than he ever had been. A little piece of my heart softened, watching him struggle to have a normal conversation with a woman.

  “They talk about each other. They ask each other questions—not about their age or weight, or how much money they have in the bank, or anything like that—and then they talk about themselves a little bit. They get to know each other a little better, maybe share a little bit of personal stuff. For instance,” I said and hesitated, not wanting to upset Mustang but deciding I wanted to know, “why don’t you ever go inside the house?”

  I waited through Mustang’s long pause.

  Several times I thought about telling him to forget it, that he didn’t have to talk about it. I finally opened my mouth to say something then he spoke before I got the chance.

  “I was in the Army,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That explains how you know so much about guns.”

  “I guess.”

  “How long were you in the Army for? Where were you stationed? In the Middle East?”

  “You ask a lot of questions. I thought you said asking questions was impolite.”

  Maybe he’s right.

  “I’m sorry. We’re trying to have a polite dinner conversation. That’s all.”

  “I served three tours in Afghanistan,” he finally said.

  “Was it scary?”

  “Very. I saw men who had become like my brothers in a very short time, get blown apart, not only physically but emotionally as well.”

  “Is that why you won’t come inside? Did something happen inside?”

  “I just don’t like being inside buildings,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug.

  “You don’t have to go on talking about it if you don’t want to,” I said apologetically. “I shouldn't have pressed. I’m sorry. I’m being rude and making you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Maybe it’s time that I talk about it. I haven’t done so since I came back to the states.”

  “You never went for therapy or anything?”

  “I thought I could handle it by myself.”

  “No offense, but no one is that strong,” I said.

  “I know, least of all me it seems.”

  “You can talk here with me. You can stop any time.”

  He nodded and took a deep breath.

  “When you see enough buildings get hit by rockets with innocent people still inside, and when you know that sniper fire comes from the roofs and the open windows, you start to realize that being outside in the open is far safer.”

  “Safer out in the open? I would think it would be the other way.”

  “Yeah, because then you can see them coming.”

  “But so would they. They’d be able to see you from afar if they’re snipers. Wouldn’t you be an open target outside?”

  “Not when I’m hidden and out of their sight.”

  “Why would you be hidden?”

  “Because I did exactly the same thing.”

  “I don't understand what you mean,” I said.

  “I was a sniper. One of the best. My team...”

  His voice trailed off and I saw him floating down a river of painful nostalgia.

  “Those guys were like my brothers. Closer to me than my brothers really.”

  “Were?”

  “War is brutal, and it doesn't care who you are. Nobody gets a free pass. The bullets and rockets can take anyone.”

  I impulsively reached over and squeezed his hand. He didn’t pull away which surprised me.

  “I’m sorry, Mustang.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  I felt hot tears stinging my eyes and I blinked them away. I think Mustang had seen me crying enough times already, even though these were an entirely different kind of tears.

  “Were you scared of dying?” I asked, then felt like slapping myself.

  Who wouldn’t be terrified of dying?

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I was scared of letting people down. People who counted on me to keep them safe. To protect them.”

  “And did you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “We all let someone down sooner or later, Leah. No matter how hard we try not to.”

  This was the first time he’d ever said my name. Even though he was in a bad place right now, all I wanted was to hold him tight and console him.

  I wondered if I held him tight enough if all his broken pieces would stick back together. I hoped they would, but I knew that I might get cut instead.

  Deeply.

  Possibly as deeply as the look of regret and pain etched onto his face.

  He was tormented and broken.

  All I wanted to do was fix him.

  “I wouldn't want to go inside either then,” I said, nodding in understanding.

  “I figured that if someone’s going to get me, let them. Just do it right the first time. I don’t want to get crushed when the building collapses or bleed out slowly from a bullet. Let them get me with a clean shot, the very first time.”

  He speared some more meat and ate it slowly, effectively ending the conversation. His square jaw moved back and forth while he chewed. Stubble darkened the lower half of his face and my fingers itched to reach over to touch it with my knuckles.

  I leaned forward and touched his forearm.

  “Don’t move,” I said slowly. “I’m coming over there on your side.”

  He stared at my hand, then lifted his gaze to mine.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Just don’t fight me on this.”

  “Okay,” he said hesitantly.

  Getting up, I moved closer to Mustang. I sat down on the ground and wrapped both arms around him, leaning my head against his broad shoulder.

  He instinctively flinched from the initial contact. After a moment, he turned his head slightly and breathed in the scent of my hair. I felt the tension begin to leave his body, causing him to loosen up a tiny bit more.

  Then, after an eternity, he placed one hand on my forearm and held it there, slowly sliding his other hand up my back to return my embrace.

  He leaned back slightly and looked into my eyes, seeing his own reflection in their surface. It relaxed him, and for the first time since I had arrived the solid gaze of his protective shell erased a little.

  As he started to lean closer, I nodded slightly, urging him forward to meet my mouth with his own.


  The feeling of his lips on mine could have been aggressive, but instead Mustang’s kiss was tentative, like he knew he could hurt me with one wrong move.

  Everything about Mustang touching me was delicate and hesitant, leaving me to take the reins.

  I moved alongside him until I faced him, straddling his lap and running my hands up his strong arms until they came together behind his neck. I pulled him closer and deepened our kiss, thrilling when his lips parted and his tongue thrust against my own.

  I felt his hands reach for me, wrapping around the small of my back and holding me against him. It wasn’t long before I could feel his excitement and knew that he wanted me too.

  This time his lips didn’t hesitate. He pressed them against mine.

  Strong, firm and sure.

  My tongue darted out and swept across his lower lip. His lips swirled over the top, tasting and teasing. I moaned, and he deepened the kiss, his large hand moving higher to span my entire back.

  His touch was more than I could’ve imagined.

  I pushed him backwards until he was lying on the grass, the last light of dusk falling around us and the light from the glowing fire throwing shadows on our bodies.

  As I stretched out on top of Mustang and kissed him, my curly shoulder-length hair falling around both of us, he pressed my hips into his. My arousal slicked my panties and I wanted to grind harder against him.

  I could feel every ridge of Mustang’s body beneath his tight black shirt. I held on, gripping his neck and sliding my fingers through the short hair beneath his cowboy hat.

  He drew in a sharp breath and trailed kisses along my jaw.

  Soon, his hands found the hem of my shirt and he slid his fingers underneath the fabric, trailing them lightly on the soft skin of my back.

  My mind splintered into a million directions, even as I tried in vain to hold onto a single thought. Thinking was nearly impossible with the feeling of Mustang’s lips pressed against mine. My brain became completely incoherent when he moved to kiss my neck, supporting my cheek softly in one hand and pulling my hair to the side with the other.

  The light raking of his teeth against my neck drove me wild, to the point that I moved my hands to the edge of Mustang’s t-shirt and began to slide it upward, craving the feeling of his heated skin.