Montana Cowboy

by Debra Salonen

  Thinking about him, naked, in her shower, made her panties damp. If she were male, she’d be a horny-as-hell man with an itch that needed scratching. Badly.

  She grabbed the top rail of the fence, poised to vault over and dash across the staging area between house and barn. So what if she’d never done anything as impulsive and out of character? She lived in freaking Montana now. She was reinventing herself. Maybe the new Serena James was going to be easy.

  “Yep. Crazy,” she muttered, turning to grab both handles of the loaded wheelbarrow, instead.

  The man was gorgeous. He undoubtedly had the best butt she’d ever seen. But she’d never initiated a seduction in her life. She’d probably show up naked in the shower and find him jacking off.

  Not that she blamed him. She could picture his long, lean torso. Wet and soapy. Chest hair? Yes. Some, but not a rug. An arrow of hair from his bellybutton pointing downward? Yes. She loved those arrows.

  And where the arrow hit the bull’s eye…

  Her breath caught in throat and she closed her eyes. His phallus would be magnificent. Bigger than either Patrick or Todd, her two previous lovers. Long. Thick. Unapologetic.

  She licked her lips and opened her eyes.

  Five alpacas were staring at her.

  She wiped the bead of sweat from her upper lip using the back of her glove then pushed the wheelbarrow. “Don’t mind me, girls. I’m a horny, non-boy with a vivid imagination. Stupid hormones.”

  She’d just finished dumping her load in the distant compost pile when her phone buzzed in her hip pocket. Her heart rate spiked and her armpits tingled until she spotted the caller ID.

  “Peyton. This is a surprise. Mom said you and Macklin were going to Majorca.”

  “Next week. We just got back for interviewing a new dog-sitter. Hildie is very picky about who looks after her when we’re gone. Her auntie Serena has spoiled her for other sitters.”

  Hildie—short for Brunhilda—was an apricot standard poodle-slash-diva, who undoubtedly deserved the title ‘Most Spoiled Dog on the Planet’. But Hildie and Beau were madly in love, despite the fact they were both fixed, and when Serena lived in Shasta, and her brother lived in Medford, Oregon, pet-sitting was a given.

  “Give Hildie a hug for me. Beau moped for a week after your cruise.” She clamped the phone under her ear and pushed the empty wheelbarrow back toward the barn. “Sorry we can’t help you out.”

  A short but telling pause made her brace for the inquisition. Thankfully, she was down to one call a week from her well-meaning family who worried that she’d jumped out of the proverbial frying pan into an old west cauldron of boiling body parts.

  “So… how’s it going? Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’re in God-awful Montana, for one thing. Alone. With a flock of fuzzies and no support system.”

  She chuckled. “Well, there’s that. But, you know me—I roll with the punches. It was a bit disconcerting—” Her euphemism for total gut-punched disappointment. “When the house loan fell through, but this rental isn’t bad. I still have a boatload more fencing to do and a couple of shelters to build before winter, but the ’pacas are adjusting.” Better than me, actually. “I have Beau to keep me from being too lonely. I’ll make friends once I start work.”

  “And no more blogging, right? Picturing you in the middle of nowhere with a stalker on your heels keeps me up at night.”

  She was touched. “Lucky Macklin.”

  His laugh made her miss him all the more. Growing up, they hadn’t been as close as she would have liked—especially given the fact they were only eight months apart in age.

  Her parents admitted they hadn’t planned a second adoption so quickly after their first, but Peyton had been special. His junkie mother used right up to the minute she went into labor—a fact that probably factored into her stroke. Her heart didn’t stop but her brain function did.

  Doctors successfully delivered Peyton, a premature addict who struggled with challenges—both physical and emotional—his entire life. Until he met Macklin, a man nine years his senior who embodied love, acceptance, and compassion.

  Mack’s grounded nature had worked magic with Peyton. Ironically, Pey’s personal growth couldn’t have come at a worse time for Serena. As he came out of his shell, she was diving for cover to avoid an online stalker.

  “I changed my email. Stopped my blog. I’m not on any social media sites. I still need to use the Internet to do alpaca business, but I took out a business license in Crawford County using Mom’s maiden name. And my new website once I get it set up won’t have any photos of me or this place—only alpacas.”

  He sighed weightily. “I guess that will work. But you’ll call me or Mack if you feel the least bit uneasy, right?”

  Macklin had been an MP in the Marines and was the most well-armed gay man she’d ever met.

  “Yes. I promise. Go. Travel. Live my dream life while I scoop ’paca poop and give my neighbor a ride home.”

  “Your neighbor? A grizzled cowboy with leathery skin and a permanent squint?”

  She pictured Austen Zabrinski. “Not even close.” The distinctive banging sound of her back door made her drop the wheelbarrow handles and start toward the house. “Speaking of the devil… I have to go. Thanks for calling and thinking of me. Love you.”

  She pocketed her phone and jogged across the open turn-around, her boots making a shish-shish sound on the hard ground. Her truck was parked under the sprawling cottonwood.

  Three things struck her straight off. Ugly green wasn’t ugly on him. Borrowed jeans couldn’t hide his great butt. And he’d left his filthy jeans and shirt on the table as she’d asked. The small concession made her happy—even if it meant washing stinky, ’paca poop pants.

  She might have claimed environmental responsibility but the best part of washing Austen Zabrinski’s pants was being able to return them in person at some later date.

  “Ready to go?”

  He nodded. The cloudless sunshine made what she’d assumed were artful highlights in his hair look like the real deal. Damn, the man got more gorgeous every time she looked.

  “My foreman should be getting back from Livingston any minute. When he sees my horse, he’ll call my cell. When I don’t answer, he’ll probably send out a search party.”

  She motioned for him to follow. “Not memorizing phone numbers has to be the worst part of becoming dependent on cell phones.”

  “Agreed. That and spending way too much time staring at a tiny screen. Believe me, it’s tempting not to replace the damn thing.”

  She thought she detected an odd hint of defeat in his statement. What’s his story?

  Since they’d practically had sex—in her mind—she decided to ask.

  Once he was seated with his safety belt snug across his flat belly, she turned the key in the ignition and put the truck in gear.

  “So, fill me in. You own a ranch your brother called a tax write-off. You’ve as much as admitted you’re nobody’s cowboy. You wear three-hundred-dollar jeans. I don’t see a wedding ring. Your nose is sunburned. So I take that to mean you don’t have a wife or live-in girlfriend to remind you to put on sunscreen.”

  He let out a gruff cough. “Very observant. The jeans are two years old.”

  “But look brand new.”

  “I don’t—didn’t—come to the ranch very often in the past.”

  She waited.

  “No wife. Never married. My last… friend-with-benefits wanted more than I’m in a position to give at the moment. I’m not sure we’re still friends. But I’m positive the benefits have been canceled.”

  She’d always been a sucker for smart men with a sense of humor. The leftover dewy feeling in her crotch—and the fact she was a stranger in a stranger land—made her bold. “So, if someone new to the area was interested in that sort of position—friends-with-benefits-no-strings-attached—how would one apply? Online? Or in person?”

 
He tossed back his head and gave a deep, masculine laugh that sent a stream of shivers down her spine, pooling conveniently in her already primed lady parts. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  Since they’d reached the end of her driveway and had no traffic behind her, she threw the shifter into park and turned to face him.

  Before she could offer any slightly embarrassed disclaimer for such an obvious come on, he released the latch on his safety belt and moved closer.

  “In person. I go with my gut. Usually one kiss will do. Either there’s chemistry or there’s not.”

  “Chemistry. Crap. My least favorite subject in school. But I do like kissing.”

  She leaned in, too.

  * * *

  Austen could have come up with a dozen—make that a trillion—reasons not to kiss this beautiful stranger. But, for all his reputed logic and claims he was a rule maker, not a rule breaker, he was lonely. And… as much as it killed him to admit the fact, he’d had reached a point where he was unsure of what to do next. Him. Rudderless. Now, living in the moment seemed like the only rational choice he had.

  Besides… she offered. It wouldn’t be neighborly to turn her down. Right?

  He caught her lips, which were softer than he’d imagined. A perfect match to his. Her eyes remained opened… for their initial contact, then her lids lowered in a sultry, utterly into it way that made him give a low, unplanned growl. What was it about that moment of surrender that brought out the beast in him?

  When her perfect lips parted to invite him in, he closed his eyes, too. She tasted good. Mint gum? Maybe just leftover toothpaste. But there was sweetness, as well. A hint of honey. And he wanted more.

  While his mouth plundered, his hands moved down her back to pull her closer.

  “Um, oh… no. Seatbelt,” she murmured.

  He pulled back and looked down. “Oh. Duh.”

  He stabbed the release button so she could slip free of it.

  They stalled… for half a second before she grinned and plastered herself against him. “Um. You kiss good. Very good. But I want you to be sure. No doubts.”

  She wasn’t aggressive, just methodical. As if she were hitting all the bullet points in a textbook called Rules of Kissing. Austen could have stopped her at any point and said, “You’re hired.” But a part of him couldn’t wait to be taken to school.

  She nibbled and teased. Her tongue engaged his in a clever, nonverbal debate. A first for him. Kissing had always been a mere step on the road to the big show. With Serena, a stranger, the playful exploration was fun.

  What would sex be like with her?

  Would? Hell, no. Will. What will sex with Serena be like?

  He wrapped his arms around her possessively. He had to find out. Now. Right now.

  Honk. Honk.

  The rumble of an engine outside the purr of Serena’s truck burst the bubble of sexual euphoria that enveloped them. Serena gave a peep not unlike the sound the little alpaca made when she realized a strange man was holding her much too closely. Like Betty, Serena reared back. “Oh, shit. It’s Jason.”

  Flustered and red-faced, she backed up, swerving to the side like a real pro, to give the lifted four-wheel drive truck space to pull in. She lowered the driver’s side window.

  “You’re late.”

  The kid, who looked vaguely familiar to Austen, tried to fake a sheepish expression. “My truck wouldn’t start.”

  “Not my problem. I told you ten. It’s nearly noon. If that’s your idea of a work ethic, you won’t work for me.”

  Serena’s fierce reprimand wiped the smirk off the kid’s face. “Sorry, Ms. James. I didn’t know you meant early. You just said Saturday morning.”

  Lazy try, at best, kid.

  Jason. Jason. Oh, crap, Jason Briggs. His foreman’s nephew. Linebacker. Son of Molly Briggs, one of Marietta’s biggest gossips.

  “Morning is gone. And so is your chance to earn some money. I will give you one more chance next Saturday. Be here by nine or I’ll find somebody else permanently.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  His cocky manner turned to whipped pup. Austen felt for the kid. If he was anything like Austen in high school, his plate was filled to the brim with sports, classes, girls, and extra-curricular activities. Austen had been required to put in a certain number of hours at his family’s hardware store. Those always got pushed to the far back of the line.

  “Don’t you still need help with the breeding today?” he asked her.

  “Yes, but my parents were both school teachers. They didn’t believe in rewarding inconsiderate behavior.” Her perfect lips pressed together and her brow crinkled. “But I can’t do it alone.”

  She lowered the window again and caught Jason before he could back up. “I’m going to run my neighbor home. If you still want to work today, you can start with a shovel, the rake and the wheelbarrow. The dumpsite is on the far side of the barn. That should keep you busy until I get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get right on it.” Jason looked at Austen and nodded.

  And so a new rumor is born, Austen thought fatalistically.

  He yanked on his seat belt and shoved the latch hard. Fuck.

  Serena glanced sideways but didn’t say anything. Obviously, the mood had been trashed. And maybe the interruption was for the best. He was too damn old to be caught in flagrante delicto in his hometown with an alpaca wrangler.

  She stepped on the gas but hesitated once they reached the main road. “Left or right? I’ve never been to your place.”

  “Right.”

  She put on the blinker, which made him smile. He took a breath and let it out. He hated the new, even-more-cynical-than-the-old Austen Zabrinski. So a kid caught him necking with his neighbor. Big deal. The paparazzi had documented a whole lot worse back in the day. Z Playboy, they’d deemed him. His older sister, Meg, was Z Wolf Whisperer.

  Paul, business promoter that he was, proudly embraced the Big Z nomenclature—even adapting the symbol to resemble Superman’s logo… with a Z, instead of an S. Mia might be the only one to avoid the Zabrinski branding.

  “That was awkward.”

  She shrugged. “No harm, no foul.”

  “Marietta is a small town. People talk.”

  She slowed as they approached the next corner. He didn’t have to tell her to turn. “Are you the Justin Beiber of Marietta?”

  “No, but I have a certain amount of notoriety because I played sports, was class president and went to Harvard.”

  She looked impressed. “And you live elsewhere, right? You’re just here visiting?”

  Did her tone sound hopeful? “I’m… on hiatus. Decompressing.” Licking my wounds.

  He pointed to a rock column with the street address in wrought iron.

  “Nice mailbox. Will you get the gate?”

  He hopped out and walked to the matching column with the electronic security pad. He pushed in the code and waited.

  “I was just about to send out the troops,” a voice said on the intercom. “And drones. How’d you get on that side of the fence?”

  Stuart Briggs had been an LA set wrangler for a film studio until he met and married a woman from Montana. The marriage fizzled and she went back to California, but Stu stayed. “Long story. I got a ride from our neighbor. Open up.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been wanting to meet the Llama Lady.”

  “They’re alpaca.”

  “What?”

  Austen rolled his eyes. “Open up. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

  He walked to the driver’s side door and waited for Serena to lower her window.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The gate gave a shudder and slowly, noisily began to swing inward. “The only problem is we were interrupted. I need to make sure that kiss was as good as I think it was.”

  He stepped onto the truck’s running board and leaned in.

  Her laugh told him she was game. Her kiss… well, yup. That good. He ju
mped back before his knees gave in. “I’ll walk the rest of the way—need a little down time,” he said, glancing at the bulge in the jeans he’d borrowed from a dead man. “What are you doing tonight? Are you free for dinner?”

  She threw the gearshift into reverse. “Beau will miss me, but… sure. Where and when?”

  “Six. I’ll pick you up.”

  Chapter Four

  Serena tossed the third try on her bed, shoved her hands on her bare hips and let out a growl of frustration. “What the heck? It’s only dinner.”

  With a gorgeous man who kissed like liquid sex. If she could bottle that, she’d make a fortune. But she couldn’t. So dinner, polite conversation, a little give and take of history, and maybe, just maybe, the sizzle she’d felt earlier in the day would trigger an invitation to do the twiddly delicious, as Macklin might say.

  Her brother-in-law was the cleverest, naughty-minded man she’d ever met. Nobody could make her blush quicker, which, of course, was his stated goal.

  She looked from her closet to Beau and back. “One more try.”

  The little black dress. “Too common.”

  The red halter dress. “Too summery. It’s almost fall. And it gets cold here at night.”

  Beau let out a low groan and plopped to the floor.

  Maybe the black pencil skirt with the Forever 21 sweater her mother tucked in her suitcase before she left. Boots. Tights… No runs. Good.

  She posed before the freestanding mirror that had been in her parent’s bedroom for as long as she could remember. The cherry wood matched their antique set, but this was the only piece that remained in the family. A double bed didn’t fit her needs or her brother’s lifestyle. The dresser and wardrobe were too heavy and dark for Serena’s taste.

  Sad, she thought. Their history broken up because people wanted more elbowroom at night and more Ikea lightness during the day.

  “All right. This will work. Don’t you agree, Beau?”

  The dog lifted his big head and blinked, waiting for more instructions. She walked to him and knelt on one knee. “I’ll kiss you good-bye now so you don’t get white hair all over my skirt.”